Longer Stories

A Meeting, by Brian Taylor

22/5/2019

Two old friends, who haven't seen each other in a while, meet one day at a local store. They hug and chat for a brief moment. This is what they say.

Him: Wow, you still look the same, pretty as ever! How are you?

Her: I'm great! How are you?

Him: I'm good, I'm good. So, how are Joel and the kids?

Her: Good! You know Joel, he's the same old guy he ever was. And the kids are still growing and going!

Him: Yeah, I bet...I bet. Great, that's really great.

Her: Well, I'm sorry, but I better get going. I gotta get home and start supper. You take care!

Him: Yeah...you too.

***

This is what they think while they talk and when they walk away from each other.

Her: I'm not pretty, you liar! You can probably guess that Joel gets drunk and hits me sometimes, and that's why I'm wearing sunglasses. But I love him, and it's no one's business but ours. The way people gossip in this town, you've probably heard shit all about us and our kids; how we're trashy, and how he's mean like his dad and how she's too wild. But you know what? I've accepted my life for what it is. It's mine, and I don't care what you or anyone else might think! And why the hell did you hug me? Ugh! Surely, you don't still have that dumb little crush on me! That time we fucked, it was one and done! I've never felt anything for you but pity. You're so wimpy. I wouldn't have even talked to you if you hadn't talked to me first!

Him: I probably shouldn't have hugged you, but I couldn't help myself. My heart was overwhelmed. It's all I can do not to cry or scream my lungs out right in this store. Joel is a bastard and has ruined you! Why can't you see that? God, I hate him! I wish I could give him the beating he deserves! I still love you so much, even after all these years. I've never been with anyone else. Can't you see that in my eyes? But I have a great job and so much to offer. I would take you and your kids and give you a better life, no matter how hard it might be. I would love them because I love you. I would give anything for just a chance! But it will never happen, will it? No... I see it won't.

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The Evilness, by Sankar Chatterjee

18/5/2019

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“Damn it”, screamed trauma surgeon Dr. Timothy Ryan, in frustration. After leading a team of five expert surgeons over past eight hours, Dr. Ryan had just pulled out the 6-inch bullet (fired from a high-powered military-style assault weapon AK15), lodged next to the heart of the teenager Jose Lopez. But Jose couldn’t survive the huge amount of blood-loss from the surgery. A brilliant math-whiz, Jose was about to graduate in two days from his high school, subsequently heading to MIT. But in a selfless act of bravery, he lunged towards a gun-trotting classmate who was about to open fire at the entire class, thus staging an unimaginable horror. Before coming out of the operation theatre, exhausted Dr. Ryan took a last look at Lopez’s lifeless body.

He began walking down the corridor, murmuring “Oh, how we, even as a civilized nation, normalized the school-shooting? It all began with the massacre of those thirty little kindergarteners two years ago.” And that’s when he looked at the screen of a mounted flat-screen wall-TV. The live scene was streaming the loaded aircraft-carrier USS Horizon (recently built at a staggering cost of $12 billion of taxpayers’ money) embarking on a mission to flex its muscle to a smaller country. Soon, several B-52 bombers filled up the sky, completing the flotilla.

Dr. Ryan whispered to himself: “No wonder, our young generation has been taking up arms, following adults’ examples. Now, who’ll stop that forthcoming evilness?”

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The Executive, by Bex Gooding

17/5/2019

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‘Have a seat.’ Bethany Wilkes said gesturing towards the vacant chair. ‘What can I do for you?’
‘I’m here to evaluate you.’ Mr Fredricks said sitting down.
‘The Law Accreditation Board, how could I forget.’

Mr Fredricks looked at Bethany Wilkes for a few seconds, then opened his notebook.

‘Tell me about yourself?’
‘My background is this.’ Bethany began in a self importance tone. ‘I’ve been a Solicitor for thirty years, starting as an intern with Haversham Solicitors in London.’
‘Really?’ Mr Fredricks asked skeptically.
‘Yes, the biggest law firm in London.’

Bethany paused.

‘I was there for twenty years making my way up to partner. They were sorry to see me go, the department imploded without me.’
‘Why did you leave?’
‘Stress. I had a breakdown and took a six month sabbatical.’
‘Why didn’t you return?’
‘I needed a change. I moved to the City Council as their Legal Advisor.’
‘I see.’ Mr Fredricks replied making notes. ‘That sounds like another stressful job.’

Bethany said nothing.

‘Ms Wilkes? The Council?’
‘Right! After the Council I set up my own Practice and I’ve been successfully running the business for ten years.’

‘I think I have all I need.’ Mr Fredricks said closing his notebook. ‘Thank you for your time.’

They both stood up and shook hands.

‘Here’s my card.’ Bethany said. ‘If you want to know anything else, call me.’
‘I will.’ Mr Fredicks replied looking at the card and frowning.

Nurse Watson waited in the corridor and noticed Mr Fredricks’ expression as he exited the room. She waited until the security lock clicked into place.

‘She’s had a complete psychotic break.’ Mr Fredicks said. ‘She’s totally immersed in a fantasy world.’
‘Did she ever work in a law firm?’ Nurse Watson asked.
‘Yes. According to her file she was a cleaner in the evenings. She was caught sitting in the Partner’s office talking to herself.’
‘Pretending to be a Solicitor?’
‘Probably. She was also stealing office supplies, that’s why they fired her. Her Solicitor said she had mental health issues and the company dropped the charges. She spent six months unemployed.’
‘The sabbatical.’
‘Yes. Then she got another cleaning job in the Council offices where she was caught by Security going through files. She attacked a Security Guard with a letter opener.’

Nurse Watson gasped.

‘She was arrested and sent to a secure facility.’ Mr Fredricks said. ‘She’s been in and out of various institutions ever since.’
‘What do you think caused the breakdown?’
‘Most likely, she can’t cope with the world and retreated into a fantasy where she feels important and in control.’
‘What’s that?’ Nurse Watson pointed to the white card.

Mr Fredricks handed her the card. Neatly written in orange crayon read;

“Bethany Wilkes - Solicitor”

‘I’m recommending evaluations and an increase in medication.’

Mr Fredricks looked through the window as Bethany Wilkes talked to someone only she could see.

‘Let me tell you a little bit about my background. I’ve been a Solicitor for thirty years…..’

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Dumb Luck, by Dan Cardoza

15/5/2019

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Charlie feels unaccomplished, after all, he is 32 years old, and barely situated in his first apartment, but the upside, $750.00 per month. Speaking of upside, he is his parent's upside, now they can travel more. Charlie has traveled a lot, mostly without compass, through doors that open then shut, each new door leading to different hues of failure. Charlie is good at blaming everyone else for his situation, even tea leaf reader Tiffany, who texted their break-up, can you believe it’s been two years?

In his confession booth shower, Charlie mouths, Luck has never been a lady to me.

Later that evening, in a spark of empowerment Charlie triggers his Xfinity remote, turns off his Animal Planet series, I Was Prey. Then like one of the shows killer mountain lions, he pounces then kills his badger shaped backpack. With the feral game over his shoulder, he heads out the door.
***
Tomorrow is Saturday. Charlie is meeting Natasha from Tinder at ten. If all goes well, they’ll exchange contacts. But first, he needs cash from the pockets of his big-boy pants at the Levi

Bank ATM. This is where he deposited his first pay check from his new employer over at The Verizon Call Center, just seven blocks from his emancipation digs. Charlie barely clears $1,800.00 per month, but to him, he’s a #boss.

***

William and Jonathon beat Charlie to his ATM. The two are servicing it, utilizing all the high tech pilfering finesse money can’t buy, to extract funds from the R2 D2 vault. Jonathon is the brain, William the muscle. William epitomizes Sigmund Freud’s Id, a certifiable knuckle dragger, but great at following orders.

As Jon applies his electronic movie-magic, William has his back, his sweaty testosterone infused finger cocked, loaded, craving the trigger. His orders this foggy cold night, to put a .40 caliber slug through the temple of anyone who turns eternities dark corner. William blows smoke rings of acrid breath, then silently mouths, “fuck luck, never been a friend of mine.”

***

As Charlie approaches, he hears ghost like electronic squeaks and chirps, the signature work of two-bit thugs. Charlie readies his shiny new debit card. The near silence reminds him of his loop of doors. His thoughts swirl black, twisted shiny ribbons of out of control, until he is lost again, in circles of doors.

Twenty feet to the corner.

William foxes his ears toward the footfalls of deadpans’ approach. Jon unhooks his stolen Radio Shack E-kit, begins sacking money. William bites his tongue, fashions a hard-on, and points at the darkness.

Ten feet away.

Jon says let’s…

Three feet from eternity.

Charlie’s pocket vibrates him dead in his tracks, he questions himself, Damn––is she canceling? He frantically thumbs his iPhone for his message of dread, and stares at the Levi Bank auto text ––‘Alert, You Are Overdrawn.’

A car burns rubber toward Karma, Charlie looks up, and cursing his assumed bad luck.

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Leaves, by Brian Taylor

15/5/2019

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The old man comes in from outside and goes into his wife's sewing room, where she was working on a scarf.

"Maggie, I wish you'd let me smoke inside tonight," he said.

"What for?" She asked, not looking at him.

"Well...I just wish you would," he said.

"There must be a reason."

He hesitated, then goes on. "Well, I think somebody's stalkin' me. I can't see 'em, but I can hear 'em gettin' closer all the time."

She laughed. "Oh, Honey, I didn't think you watched them scary movies."

Annoyed, he said, "Damn it, woman, I ain't talkin' 'bout movies. Somebody's stalkin' my ass out there and no matter where I look, even with a flashlight, I can't see 'em.

"It's kinda making me nervous," he added, more quietly.

She turned to look at him sternly, and said, "Bob, quit your cussing. And you know good and well that's just the wind blowing leaves around. Silly man. You've heard it your whole life. I ain't gonna have the house smelling like smoke again just 'cause you finally got spooked in your old age."

He turned and went into the kitchen for a drink before he could say something that started a real fight. Almost fifty years of marriage had taught him that.

He went without smoking for as long as he can, but finally at 11 after the news and Maggie had gone to bed, he couldn't wait anymore, so he stepped out onto the porch.

He lit his cigarette and tried to look around the yard. Even with his glasses on, his vision seemed to get worse every day. They live down in a wooded holler, so at night, it's almost pitch black, and the closest neighbors are five miles away. He used to have a good dog named Bruce, but he died last Summer. Maggie never liked him, but Bob sure missed him.

The wind was blowing, and the leaves were rustling. He knew he heard that. Maybe that is all he heard. He thought about opening the door and switching on the porch light, although he didn't like to because of the bugs. But hell, that noise was so damn creepy. Getting louder and closer, louder and closer.

Although it's early Spring, and getting warm even at night, he shivered. Even at 70, Bob didn't like to admit he was scared, but there it was.

Then, all of a sudden, the sound stopped. He tried looking around again...nothing. He grinned, confused.

Bullshit, he thought, as he tossed the finished butt. The old woman's probably right, and I'm just getting crazier. It's nothing but the damned old--

Before he finished his thought, the knife was thrust deep in his chest. He was too stunned to even cry out, and he never saw his attacker. He gasped and staggered and fell off the porch, breaking his hip. He was dead within just a few minutes.

The last sound he heard was a woman laughing.

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Dancing Albert, by Phyllis Souza

14/5/2019

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"I’m a wanna squeeza da girls; I'm tired of squeezin da box," Albert said in a heavy Italian accent.

His body was fat. Curly dark hair fell down on his forehead. Off-centered on his face, a big nose with a hump on its bridge. And his mouth, well, it was wide and turned down at the corners. Except when he danced then it turned up. Albert always smiled when he danced.

He played the accordion at the Italian Athletic Club every Saturday night that is until he didn't. One night, he put down his bellows-driven box and jumped off the stage and danced. Sometimes, Albert danced with his eyes open and sometimes, when he got lost in the music he danced with them closed.

Like a corkscrew twisted into the neck of a bottle, Albert wound down toward the dance floor and spiraled up again. Keeping up with the music, he maneuvered a pretty girl under his outstretched arm. She twirled around and around. "I'm getting dizzy," she cried out. He smiled. He laughed. He danced.

On one Saturday night, there was too much wax on the floor and too much vino in his stomach, which went to his head. When the band started to play the Chicken Dance, he laughed. With his arms akimbo, he leaned back. Flapping his elbows, he looked up and high stepped towards the dance floor. He was going to follow the line dancers, then it happened, he slipped and he fell.

The back of his head hit hard on the floor. His eyes closed tight. His mouth drew down. Albert didn't dance anymore.

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Who Wants To Be Normal? by Jim Bartlett

10/5/2019

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Today the doctor said that everything is just fine. That I’m COMPLETELY normal.
What? How can that be? I mean, he’s a DOCTOR, right? Of all the people in the world, surely HE’D notice!
Yet, he didn’t even wink when he said it.
No goofy little smiles or raised eyebrows like he knows a secret.
So...I wonder...
What went wrong?
I mean, there has to be SOOOME-thing...
Right?
WAIT!
I think I know!
I wasn’t wearing the cape!
Of course! You have to have the cape on! I bet Clark Kent is just plain ol’ Clark Kent when he’s doing that reporter thing. But when he puts on the cape...
BAMM!
Superman!
That’s gotta be it!
Next year, when I turn 7, and Mom takes me in for that fistical or whatever it is I do at the doctor’s office, I’m wearing my cape! THEN he’ll see!
I bet he even makes one of those faces like my dad does when he watches those politic people on television. You know, the wrinkled up nose. Eyes about to pop out. All those lines up on his forehead.
Yup, that doctor will know alright.
It’s the cape.
Next year I’m gonna wear the cape.

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Been Through Too Much, by John M. Carlson

4/5/2019

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A dog named Daisy lies on a dog bed. The dog bed is comfortable. Much more comfortable than the cold, hard concrete floor Daisy had to sleep on at one time. But, somehow, she can’t fully relax. She has moved too much in the last year, and moving again seems inevitable. It’s not if. It’s when.

Nearby, Susan and Amy sit at a table having coffee. Susan is the woman who brought Daisy here from the cold animal shelter.

“Daisy seems like a really nice dog,” Amy says. “But it’s a strange name. She really doesn’t seem like a ‘Daisy’ to me.”

“I would have chosen a different name,” Susan says. “But that was the name her former owner gave her.”

Actually, Daisy’s name came from her original owner. Susan is Daisy’s fourth owner. Or is Susan the fifth owner? Who can keep count? Daisy certainly can’t. People come and people go. Today’s human is tomorrow’s memory.

“Of course,” Susan says, “people give all sorts of odd names to puppies. I sometimes wonder if they ever think that the tiny puppy will eventually be a fifty pound dog.”

Indeed, Daisy’s original owner thought Daisy was “the cutest little puppy ever!” She gave Daisy away once Daisy got “too big!”

“Do you wonder why Daisy’s last owner gave her up?” Amy asks.

“In this case, I know. The animal rescue said the last owner was seven months pregnant. She was worried that Daisy was too big to have around a baby. Or else Daisy was just a temporary ‘child’ while she was waiting to have a baby. Either is possible.” Susan sighs. “I can’t understand it, myself. I grew up with animals in the house. My parents had at least three dogs when I was born, and there was no question that they were staying!”

“Well, at least Daisy has a permanent home now.”

“Yes,” Susan says. “Unfortunately, I don’t think she believes that yet. She’s been through too much in the past.”

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The Regatta, by Tessa Edgecombe

4/5/2019

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As a skinny eleven year old I was too young and green to carry the fate and weight of the flashboat team on my narrow shoulders. It was the last race of the regatta, the four man randan. The tide was high and the river was running fast and strong. The ten light-as-a-feather racing boats bobbed on the river’s surface, sleek wooden thoroughbreds. The tension bounced around the Antony Passage crew. Fingers were cracked, jokes as well, some swearing. The tide turned, and the current wrestled with the rudder, almost wrenching my arms out of their sockets. Confidence was a stranger to me, determination a mere acquaintance. I was full of dread.
Training had comprised a mere hour or so the evening before, in our lone craft, on a quieter tributary. Now it was the big race of the day and the boats did not just jostle their way towards the starting line, they positively thrashed their way forward trying to secure the best position. After a false start, the race commenced, with the crowd’s shouts and cheers crashing like waves over us. Desperately, I took a bead and headed as sure and straight as I could for the first buoy marking the turning point. But that’s where the other nine boats were headed as well. Terrified of ramming any of the other teams and being disqualified, I took too wide a turn only to be met by groans from the crew when they saw the ground they had to make up. All muscle and slog, they had no idea of the battle I was fighting with the rudder and the tide. Soon though, we were making up ground with the captain repeatedly asked me to hold a steady line. This I tried to do, but the melee of oars and craft was confusing and next minute we had careered into the nearest boat with the whipcrack of breaking wood filling my ears and bringing tears of misery. Both sets of men took to swearing at each other but it was obvious we were not going to finish the race, and I sat huddled at the back of the boat, cold and wet, the sun now behind clouds and my hands welted with blisters.
On reaching the shore, the young men clambered out of the racing boat, their shoulders sloped in disappointment, barely looking at me, their backs broad and unforgiving. I felt my failure keenly, sharp and raw, but sharper still was the bitter blame I laid at my uncle’s door. Shrugging off his help, I too clambered out onto dry land, remembering how he had suggested me as a coxswain for my cousins’ boat. I turned my back to him, less broad but just as unforgiving.

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Into the Light, by Kim Favors

3/5/2019

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Securing the trash cans for pickup is what Evelyn will tell them if discovered. But at dusk, with kitchens bustling and televisions blaring, few people are looking out their back windows.

If they do, it’s unlikely they’ll see the shabbily dressed woman walking the far side of the alley in the near dark.

Watching.

The low-rent housing owned by Evelyn and her brother was a motel before a new highway rerouted travelers.

For years, nightly strolls sent them following the aromas of chicken frying and spaghetti and cookies just out of the oven.

No longer.

Huddling near kitchen windows brought up fragments of flashbacks from a tragedy Evelyn has tried to forget.

And with her brother gone, she now keeps her distance.

Besides, “my babies,” as Evelyn calls the children, are the real reason the landlady spies on her tenants. So she tells herself.

Pony-tailed girls clutching dolls and their mothers’ aprons. Helping set the table. Their brothers in play coonskin caps watching Davey Crockett on TV with their fathers.

Images from the 1950s that Evelyn imagines she sees through those windows.

This Christmas she’s planning to visit “my babies,” hoping to be welcomed to the families’ festivities.

Perhaps she can help out in the kitchen. If Mommy lets her.

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Going Down, by NT Franklin

3/5/2019

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Roger ran to the elevator as the door closed. “Crap, shut out and going down, just like my career.”

Seven years an accounts manager, and today, passed over for a fifth time for a supervisor position, Roger was finally questioning his future with Allied Industries.

“Got problems, buddy?”

“What?” Roger didn’t know anyone was behind him.

“Sounds like you’re going nowhere, and not even heading there very fast. I’m Charlie, by the way. I don’t work here anymore.”

“Uh, okay, Charlie, glad to meet you. Roger here. Sorry, but I’m not having the best day.”

“I gathered that. I quit here three years ago.”

Roger ran a hand through his thinning hair. Then what are you doing here?”

Charlie dug a business card from his pocket. “Yes, better pay and benefits, even time to visit old friends. Here’s my card. Give me a call, maybe we can work something out.”

“Uh, thanks. I just might do that.”

“Your elevator is here. Going down.”

When the elevator doors closed, Charlie dug out his cellphone and dialed.
“Hooked one.”

After forty minutes, Charlie left the building and was walking across the parking lot when his phone rang.

Roger was on the line. “You have any openings?”

Charlie smiled. “I like you, Roger, and yes, there is an opening for an Accounts Supervisor, but we need to know what you are working on and the extent of your clients. This is a pretty big job and we have to be certain you are up for it.”

“I can email a file of my client list and current projects to the address on your card later today.”

“That would be excellent, Roger. I like a man that is confident and decisive.”

Roger gave a little half smile. I’ll send the complete company client list and projects. That should demonstrate my value.

Charlie looked at the file that arrived on his phone, saved it, then dialed.

“Gold mine.”

The voice on the other end asked, “How many client names did you get?”

“All of them, and the current projects. I need five times the money we agreed on.”

“Take four times the money?”

“Done. Burn the website. I’ll ditch the burner phone. Good doing business with you.”

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The Museum of Broken Relationships, by David Croll

1/5/2019

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They met at the Museum of Broken Relationships.
“What are you leaving behind?” he asked her.
“A cast-iron skillet,”
He looked quizzical.
“He gave it to me for our first anniversary. So many times, I wanted to smash it over his head. Never give a practical gift as an anniversary present,” she offered.
“I’ll remember that,” he said laughing.

“What are you leaving?”
“A mix tape. Music is so important to me, and I wanted to share it with her.”
“So, you gave her a mix tape?”
“No, I gave you mp3s but deleting them did not feel cathartic, so I made…”
“So, you made a mix tape to throw away. Seems like an awful lot of work.”
“I suppose you’re right.”

“I’m Mackenzie,” she said offering her hand.
“I’m Morgan,” he replied taking her hand.
He held it longer than customary, but she didn’t mind.
“Would you like to go to a place where someone else is using a skillet?”
She laughed.
“As long as they don’t play any of the songs from your mix tape.”

They shared a bottle of wine and laughs as they began building new memories together. Memories that in a few months’ time, will bring them both back, individually, to the museum to discard.

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You Boys Stop It, by Brian Taylor

1/5/2019

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Ray's job and hometown made him feel tired these days, so on one early Saturday morning, he decided to take a long road trip to get away from things and try to clear his mind. So with just himself and his old pickup, he hit the road. After about five hours of driving, he needed gas. He stopped at the first convenience store he came to, in a little town that he already forgot the name of.

After he pumped thirty dollars worth in his truck, he went inside to pay. Two young boys were hanging around the store entrance, scuffling, laughing and calling each other names such as "chicken" and "turd."

Ray cleared his throat loudly, so they'd get out of his way. They moved a little but kept playing. Damn boys, he thought, annoyed.

After paying for his gas and a cup of coffee, he came back outside. The boys were still by the door, horsing around. His temper flared.

He growled at them, angrily, "You boys stop it!"

He hadn't meant to say it exactly like that, or so loud.

"You're just in people's way," he added, more quietly.

He briefly wonders if the woman cashier was the boys' mother and if she'd come out to scold him for yelling at them. But if she was, she didn't.

They stopped playing and looked startled and guilty, making their faces look even younger. The oldest looked like he was about twelve and the youngest looked eight or nine. They both had on baseball caps and dirty t-shirts, dirty jeans, and sneakers.

They both muttered "Sorry, sir" and shuffled away.

He walked to and got in his truck, put his coffee in the dash cup holder, and sighed. He put his seatbelt on and looked down at the floorboard. His mind taunted him, as it often does these days.

You know why those boys really upset you, don't you?

He did.

They reminded him of his own boys. Both grown now, and probably forever estranged from him because of his own pride and stupidity, with them and their mother. He has his excuses, but excuses don't mean anything when no one wants to hear them anymore, and you're all alone.

But damn, the memories of the good times with his boys; the wrestling, the fishing, the swimming, the joking around, the riding around with them in his truck, those hurt him worse than the bad ones for some reason.

He shook his head and looked up, and saw the two boys peeking around the side of the store at him.

He blushed and started his truck and left the station faster than he should have, but thankfully, there were no cops around to catch him. As dumb as he knew the thought was, the boys almost seemed like ghosts sent to haunt him.

He waited until many hours later when he took a detour down a dirt road at sundown before he allowed himself to cry.

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A Wrong Turn, by Sankar Chatterjee

30/4/2019

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Scientist Doug Lloyd was already late for evening’s dinner invitation. After earning his PhD degree from a prestigious university in California, Doug accepted a job offer from a start-up biotech company located 20 km outside Philadelphia, his hometown. However, as a young bachelor he decided to stay inside the city to have access to Philly’s burgeoning nightlife. In addition, Doug via social media re-connected with some of his past high-school friends, now living in various parts of the city.

Tonight, one of the friends invited him for a dinner. Not having a car yet, Doug decided to walk to his friend’s place instead of taking public transportation. He was following the GPS-direction on his i-phone when he realized that he had taken a wrong turn at some point, now arriving at a dimly-lit narrow street. From a distant, he noticed a few youths were hustling near a narrower side-alley, while exchanging some objects. That’s when he figured that his mistake might have landed him in an illicit drug trading area.

Like all big cities around the world, Philadelphia also suffers from the modern-day scourge of drug epidemics, especially city’s opioid-crisis headlines national news. However, Doug maintained his common sense, gently pulled out a ten dollar bill from his denim’s pocket, and exchanged it for a small package from the seller, while also getting the direction for the street of his interest. Embarking on a lighted avenue on the other side, he opened the package and found a lollipop on a stick. Looking back, Doug noticed that the next buyer, who had followed him, already started sucking on his lollipop.

Now, for his PhD thesis, Doug had worked on a novel method of delivering medicine to severely sickened patients, especially those in cancer treatments. For reasons still unknown to medical professionals, some of these patients would suddenly experience severe breakthrough pain making them even unable to swallow a pill. Four years of hard work in the laboratory allowed Doug to invent a unique method of formulation of pain medicine in a lozenge form for the patients to suck on it, thus alleviating pain. His scientific work was well-recognized by the scientific communities as well as the medical professionals.

But, the “miracle-turned-Genie” had come out of the bottle. The entrepreneur drug dealers must have found some rogue scientists to work in clandestine facilities to formulate the illicit drug substances into the similar lozenge form on a stick, giving it a lollipop look.

*

Under bright city lights and surrounded by high skyscrapers, Doug kept on walking towards his destination. At the same time, he wondered how many more lives would now be ruined with new drug-epidemics exploiting his invention that was intended for the welfare of the society.

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Please Hold, by Marjan Sierhuis

25/4/2019

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1:00 p.m.
Lottie’s flash fiction story is nearly complete. But she suddenly loses her internet connection. This can’t be happening she says while she stares at her computer screen, willing it to connect. Poppycock, I still need access to an online database. [Lottie calls her company’s service line.
[Ring ring]
[Click]
Lottie: “Hello, I would like to speak with...
Robot: “I’m sorry our agents are currently busy helping other callers, but your call is important to us. Please hold. We will be with you shortly.”
Lottie: “Yes, but…
[Music starts to blare from her phone’s speakers]
1:30 p.m.
Robot. “Thank you for waiting. We will be with you shortly.” “Have you checked our website?” “It may be able to answer your questions.”
Lottie: “You have got to be kidding,” she says in a frustrated tone.
3:00 p.m.
Robot: “Thank you for continuing to hold.”
Lottie now has a headache and rubs her forehead. She runs into the kitchen, grabs a bottle of water, holds it against her forehead and returns to her computer screen. Still no connection. She curls up in a chair, balances the phone against one ear and falls asleep.
4:00 p.m.
Robot: “Your call is important to us.” “Please continue to hold.”
Lottie wakes up as soon as she hears the recorded message.
Robot: “If you would like to leave a call back number where you can be reached, please do so now.”
Lottie shakes her head in disbelief. She yearns for a live voice.
6:00 p.m.
Robot: “Please try again tomorrow.” “We are open for business at 8:00 a.m.” “Goodbye.”
[line disconnects]
Lottie swears and goes in search of a dictionary.

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Pebble, by David Berger

23/4/2019

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The Holy Man walked barefoot down a path. Suddenly, he felt a flash of pain. He looked down and stuck between his big toe and the one next to it was a pebble. He bent over and saw that the pebble had cut him slightly, and there was blood on it. He saw that the cut was superficial. In fact, the bleeding had already stopped. So, the Holy Man tossed the pebble over his shoulder and continued on his way.

“All existence is one!” he heard a voice say, just before he heard the clink of the pebble hitting the ground.

The Holy Man turned and looked behind him. He could see nothing, so he turned back and went on his way.

“All existence is one!”

He heard again. This time, the Holy Man turned and tried to find the pebble with his blood on it that he had tossed behind him. After ten minutes of fruitless searching, he abandoned his search and gave up to continue on his way. However, before he could take a single step, again he heard from behind him.

“All existence is one!”

Again, the Holy Man searched for the bloody pebble, and again he couldn’t find it, and again he turned to go and again,

“All existence is one!”

The cycle of events occurred three more times. It was getting dark, the road was lonely, and a storm was brewing. The Holy Man turned his back, once more, and began to walk.

“All existence is one!” he heard again.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” he said. “I’ve heard that somewhere before,” and he continued on his way.

“All existence is two? Three? Four?” the Holy Man heard from behind him.

“Try five,” he said and continued on his way.

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She, by NT Franklin

20/4/2019

Midge and Helen sat together at the funeral service. There were two houses between them and that’s about as far apart as anyone ever saw the old spinsters.
Midge shuffled uneasily in her seat. “Think she’ll show?”

Helen turned to her, “Not a chance.”

Midge looked straight ahead. “She was at the last one.”

“Yeah, well, that was different. Tim was the fragile sensitive twin. Everyone liked him.”

Midge looked for something in her pocketbook. “But he killed himself. That’s not a Christian thing to do.”

“Stop fidgeting, Midge.”

She closed her pocketbook. “I wish they’d start. First Tim, and now Tom. So sad. We watched those boys grow up.”

Helen let out a long sigh. “Yes, Tim’s death was sad.”

“What about Tom?”

Helen composed herself before she spoke. “Now don’t go telling me it is not Christian to speak ill of the dead, but you watched Tom grow up, same as me. Trouble with a capital T.” Helen paused, waiting for Midge to interrupt her, but it didn’t happen. “You know full well the beatings he gave that poor girl. The whole town looked the other way for years. All because they were the preacher’s sons.”

“Helen!” Midge said, a little too loud. Heads turned around and looked at the pair. “Oops.”

Helen looked straight ahead, staying above the fray. When the heads returned facing forward, Helen continued. “She got even didn’t she? Got tired of the beatings and took up with his twin brother. That had to hurt more than her bruised cheek.”

Midge opened and closed her pocketbook again. “Do you think she could’ve known Tim would kill himself when she left him?”

Helen stared at Midge until she stopped fidgeting. “I don’t see how. Any more than she could have seen Tom taking up heavy drinking when she left him.”

“I guess,” Midge said. “You think maybe he killed himself too, or wanted to? Driving that fast on the swamp road.”

“I don’t know. Bound to happen sooner or later with his behavior.

Midge shifted in her seat. “Think she’ll show?”

Helen shook her head. “Not a chance.”

Predmeditated Fraud, by Bruce Levine

20/4/2019

A deal was a deal. I had accepted it under duress, but it seemed like the easiest way and the end justifies the means – usually…
She owed me the money. She admitted it, in writing, but she wanted to insure that I would show up and sign the papers. If I didn’t sign she didn’t get the one thing she dreamed of obtaining most. And she would lose both money and her dream.
It was a stalemate. If I didn’t agree to sign she wouldn’t send any money.
So I accepted – as I said, under duress.
She’d send me half now and give me the other half at the signing.
I knew that she was trying to insure that I’d show up and that I’d sign.
She sent me the first half and the check cleared and so I waited until the appointed day for both the signing and receiving the second half of the payment.
The day arrived – I showed up at the location and I signed the papers – her dream was coming true. As I was about to leave she handed me a check for the second half of what she owed.
On the way home I deposited her check in my bank and waited for it to clear.
Everything seemed fine and the full amount was credited to my account. Then, a few days later, it hit the fan – a notice from my bank that her check had bounced.
I went to my bank to get a copy of her cancelled check and find out why. My bank gave me the copy, but couldn’t state why her check bounced. They advised going to her bank for the answer.
“She stopped payment,” I was told. “It was stopped the same day it was issued.”
It didn’t take much thought to realize what her plan had been all along. She was determined to get what she wanted by any means.
She felt that part of obtaining her dream included me paying for part of it – obviously I had no intention of paying anything since this wasn’t my dream. She wanted to deduct what she thought was fair and when I’d refused she put her plan into play – fool me into to coming and signing by pretending that she’d pay the component she felt was my share.
As I said, the day arrived, we all arrived, I signed and I went on my way with a check that had already had a Stop Payment attached to it.
When the police read the emails stating that she’d pay the full amount and offering the original deal and then the follow-up email stating that she’d send me a check for the amount minus the amount of my component which she “thought was fair” – SHE thought was fair – they immediately agreed – deliberate, PREMEDITATED FRAUD!

As Dead as if He'd Died, by John M. Carlson

19/4/2019

Bill would never forget the accident. Bill was driving home with Stacy, his wife, that night. They’d been arguing about something or other. Stacy started to say something that she said was important. Suddenly, a large SUV came out of nowhere, and smashed into their car. He could still hear in his head the loud crash as the SUV smashed into them.

Bill nearly died. Stacy, fortunately, had only minor injuries.

The accident had dominated Bill’s life ever since. Surgery. Physical therapy. And the seemingly endless battle as they fought the SUV driver’s insurance company. At one point, the whole ordeal was so awful that Bill gave serious thought to killing himself. He resisted. I can’t do this to Stacy! he thought.

But all that was now over. At least as over as it ever would be. The doctors had done good work piecing him back together. He wasn’t 100% perfect, but he’d be able to have a fairly normal life. He still had nightmares at night, sometimes, but they weren’t as bad as they had been.

On the first Friday of spring, Bill decided he’d cook a special dinner. It would be a surprise for Stacy. It would celebrate the advent of spring, and also celebrate putting the accident behind them.

At six, Bill sat in the living room, waiting for Stacy to come home. A fire crackled in the fireplace. A small table near the fireplace was set with their best china. Dinner waited in the kitchen, along with a bottle of nice wine.

Stacy arrived home. “What on earth?” She stared at the table.

“I just decided it would be fun to do something special. Celebrate spring.”

“I see. I hate to tell you this, after you’ve put all this work in. But...well...I’m going back out for an appointment.” Stacy sighed. “I maybe shouldn’t tell you this now...but maybe it’s better that I tell you. I’ve been meaning to, but I keep putting it off. Our marriage is doomed. I’ve felt this way a long time. That night of the accident—right before that clown plowed into us—I was going to tell you that I thought maybe we’d better separate. Of course, after that accident, while I was still unhappy, I decided I’d better wait. You are better now, and so I think we need to start talking about divorce. Particularly since I met someone.”

“You met someone?” Bill said weakly.

“Yes. While I was waiting for you at the doctor’s office one day. I’m sorry...but that’s the way these things work. Anyway, I need to go out tonight. I’m looking at an apartment. I’ve just got to grab something, and I’ll go.”

Stacy left a couple of minutes later. Bill sat, staring at the fire. He felt dead inside. As dead as if he’d died in the accident.

Sea Change, by Ella Craig

19/4/2019

He puts on the linen suit Wendy said would be so classy and perches a Panama hat on his head at a rakish angle. The mirror reflects a picture of sophisticated elegance, except for his expression. He forces his face into a smile; now he is ready for the Beach Terrace Café reception. This is where we will meet the right people Wendy had assured him. He will do this for her because all he ever cared about was making her happy.

‘How do I look?’ Wendy appears in the bedroom doorway, dressed in lilac, the colour of old age. Her hat resembles the light shade his mother had on the standard lamp in their front parlour. A fusty room for entertaining the guests who merited the best china, and where he would sit in polite formality wishing, he were anywhere else.

‘You look nice.’ What else can he say? He misses her ethnic prints and the bold palette of colours she used to wear. Now she favours the bland tones of safety and respectability.

His smile fades as he escorts her along the greeting line. She simpers and air kisses with the best of them.

He remembers a time when Wendy drew attention with her shine and dazzle, and how she moved among people not caring if she said the wrong thing or wore the wrong clothes.

Now she tries too hard, her smile is brittle, her laugh is too loud, and they brush her off like a fly from honey.

She bows her head, and he moves to her. ‘Don’t cry, Wendy.’

‘I am not crying; I’m angry with them and with me. What are we doing here?’

‘You insisted we come because making new and better friends was one of your conditions for us to start again.’

‘I was wrong.’ The sun disappears behind a cloud and Wendy shivers.

‘Do you want to go home?’ He struggles to contain a burgeoning hope.

‘I want to go back.’

‘Stay here. There’s something I need to do.’

He finds a dark corner in the bar and strips to his underpants, letting his clothes fall to the ground. A waiter approaches him.

‘Sir, are you all right?’

‘Never felt better.’ He takes a drink from the tray and steps outside.

A woman screams and drops her glass. The throng of people stop talking and stare at him in silence, except for two children who giggle and point.

He winks at them and hands his drink to the woman. ‘There you go, enjoy!’

He strolls over to Wendy. ‘Are you ready?’

She nods but does not look at him.

He crooks a finger under her chin and lifts her face to his.

The sun comes out, and Wendy smiles with a radiance that is blinding. His heart bursts with love.

She rips off her hat, takes his hand and they run, laughing, down to the sea.

The Underground Railroad, by Sankar Chatterjee

19/4/2019

Mr. Robert Williams, a prominent African-American civilian judge in the High Court in Phoenix, Arizona was returning home after a long day’s work. While driving past the city’s bus station, he noticed a parked green van, its side-windows reinforced by metal bars. The van belonged to the immigration department. Federal law enforcement officers, in brown uniforms, were busy in pulling out several adults and children of various ages. They were carrying their meager belongings either in backpacks or tiny luggage. As soon as, the last person was dropped off on the sidewalk, the van sped away. The group stood motionless on the sidewalk, while a few ordinary citizens, both men and women started to appear near the crowd and began interacting with the group. Judge Williams’ curiosity forced him to park the car at a distant and walk back to the scene.

Soon, he learned that the original group of people, none spoke English crossed the southern border that morning fleeing poverty; gang-violence, and religious persecution in several neighboring poor countries, while seeking asylum inside his country. They were rounded up by border patrol and throughout the day presented in front of an immigration judge to file their initial petitions. Those applications would now go through byzantine legal processes over many months. But at the end of the day, the trespassers collectively were dropped outside the bus station since the private bus company won’t allow them to enter the building without a valid ticket. In fact, they didn’t even have any money to buy tickets or cell-phones to contact any relative living inside the country. However, the volunteers from local social enterprises and religious institutions created a vast network of similar-minded citizens providing food, temporary shelters, and further assistance to these helpless migrant masses.

Judge Williams ordered a cup of coffee from a nearby café and sat on a chair watching the process unfolding. As the sun began to set behind the distant mountain-range painting the whole sky in a subdued pink hue, he started to remember the pages from a hand-written diary. This was kept by his great-great-grandfather who as a young boy, along with the rest of the family, was able to escape the dragnet of their masters when President Abe Lincoln freed the slaves. Traveling only in the dark of the night, the family had inched out of the southern states over several months. Then they came in contact with the volunteers from the northern states running a vast network of escape route for the newly-freed slaves. The history-books would later term the network as the “Underground Railroad”. Growing up, Judge Williams visited several of these historic hidden escape-shelters, spread out along the north-south corridor.

He looked at the sky, now slowly darkening. As a direct descendent of freed slaves, he couldn’t fathom the fact that even after 150 years later, the country needed a new underground railroad to protect the current vulnerable members of the humanity.

The Stranger, by Avijeet Das

12/4/2019

Life was throwing different problems at her and she had no way of overcoming them. She was increasingly feeling sad and depressed. And the people she had around her were not even able to understand her a wee bit! She felt she had to do something about her life. She loved writing and that was the only thing that made her happy.

And then she remembered the Stranger. She had met him on an April afternoon. And then in his presence she had felt feelings that she had never felt before. The Stranger had touched the innermost parts of her heart by just his words. And his presence had made her experience something unusual. It was as if being connected to the Stranger put her in a spell.

Today she was feeling restless. She was feeling sad and melancholic. And she wanted to feel that unusual feeling all over again!

She was desperately in need of speaking to the Stranger. But the Stranger was not in touch with her. They both had last spoken to each other since a month ago. And it was she who had tried to have a distance between them. So she had not kept in touch with the Stranger.

But today she felt she had to talk to him again. She needed him. No matter what happened she had to speak to the Stranger. And then she called the Stranger's number.

She: "Hello, how are you?"

The Stranger: "I am okay. How are you?"

She: After a long pause "I am not okay! In fact I am depressed. I can't find anyone who can understand me. Can you help me?"

The Stranger: "How can I help you?"

She: "You understand me so well! You are my balm. You are my medicine. You are the Healer!"

The Stranger: "Why do you feel so!"

She: "You give me strength. Your words make me happy. You make me feel alive!"

The Stranger: "Thank you for feeling so! You understand me well too!"

She: "Thank you for your presence in my life!

The Stranger: "There is a reason why you and I met! We don't meet anyone by chance!"

The Crash, by NT Franklin

6/4/2019

Robert stood on the window ledge of the high-rise building. He looked down at his expensive shoes, bought last Christmas with his huge bonus. Briefly lost in thought, he focused beyond his shoes and the tiny cars way below him came into focus.

He snapped back, keenly aware of how high he was above the sidewalk, and wobbled a bit. Gathering courage, Robert started talking out loud to himself. “Why worry about a wobble? You’re going to jump anyway.”

After a deep breaths, Robert straightened up and pressed his back against his office window. He could hear the newsfeed from the monitor suspended from the ceiling…crude down one dollar per barrel and projected to drop through the month…energy futures are holding steady at this point, although experts expect them to drop in the short term…

Robert started perspiring. “Crude dropping, who cares. The Dow is already down ten percent, on top of yesterday’s twenty percent-drop."

One More Day, by Marjan Sierhuis

5/4/2019

Today he is fifty. He will remember the day well.

Grey hairs creep uninvited into his temples. There is very little energy left to blow out the birthday candles.

Nathanial sits in his favorite leather chair but he is in no mood to celebrate. Instead, he is tormented by feelings of doom as his heart beats rapidly in his chest.

When he tries to take a deep breath, beads of perspiration trickle down his face. A look of concern crosses his wife’s features but disappears in the blink of an eye, fleeting as a wisp of smoke. Emma gently strokes her husband’s arm, kisses his
cheek and whispers in his ear, “I love you.”

Nathanial tells Emma he is fine. He says his pain is fleeting. There is no reason to be alarmed.

“It is probably indigestion and like always will go away,” he says as he grimaces.

But Emma calls 911.

The ambulance siren screams a warning as it races through busy city streets towards an acute care hospital. A whooshing sound accompanies Nathanial’s stretcher through emergency room doors. Hospital staff run to his stretcher. They shout his name, tap him on the shoulder and ask if he can hear them.

He drifts in and out of consciousness and prays for the first time in his life.

Nathanial prays for one more day.

The Red Feather, by Jim Bartlett

5/4/2019

As Owen steps into the room, he’s handed a long soft feather and told to have a seat along the far wall. The feather is bright crimson, causing him to wonder if maybe it came from a cardinal. Or maybe an exotic species of parrot. With a shrug he sits, an impulse driving him to brush the feather against his wrist. But the light touch, which should tickle, instead sends a stab of panic deep inside his heart.
“Red.”
The call comes from a tall but pleasantly plump lady angel who stands at the doorway to the counseling center, and he jumps up, making his way to her side.
“You must be Owen,” she says, a twinkle in her eyes. She takes the feather and points to a door that moments ago wasn’t even there. “Right to the end of the hall. He’s waiting.”
The “hall” is nothing more than a wide slice in the puffy white clouds disappearing into the far horizon. Yet with just a couple of steps he’s standing before a large marble desk cluttered with stacks and stacks of parchments, behind which, in a high-backed chair made from an odd assortment of pillows randomly stitched together, sits an older man with white wings, a white beard, and wild white hair atop his head. He peers down through a pair of wire-rimmed glasses dangling at the end of his nose as his crooked finger traces along the page of a giant book, its ancient edges trimmed in gold. A little placard on the front of the desk reads: CLARENCE.
Owen stands for moment before finally clearing his throat, causing the angel to look up. When he meets Owen’s gaze, a smile breaks across his face, one so deep and sincere, Owen suspects Clarence may have saved it just for him.
“Owen. So good to see you.” He waves a hand toward the side of the desk. “Have a seat.”
As Owen sits, the angel continues. “So I understand you’re having a little trouble adjusting to Heaven?”
Owen nods. “It just doesn’t feel like I’m supposed to be here. I mean everyone is nice enough, but I can’t connect. And there’s no night or day...I don’t even know how long I’ve been here.”
“I see,” says Clarence. He flips a few of the oversized pages, before finding one that catches his eye. Squinting, he leans in for a closer look. “Oh...my...” he says with a gasp. “This is most certainly interesting.” But then he smiles. “No worries!”
Rising slowly from the desk, he places his hands on Owen’s chest and gently presses in. “This’ll fix you right up!”
With a start, Owen - wet, naked, and lying next to the tub in his bathroom - spits out a breath, his eyes popping open to a paramedic pushing down on his chest. Another EMT is wrapping thick gauze around the deep slashes in his wrists.
“We thought we’d lost you,” says the paramedic. “But you’re gonna be okay.”

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