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Memory Launch, by Heather Parker

23/7/2021

3 Comments

 
There was only one launch left for the day.

The bird was cupped in my hands, a small wren. “You’re about to go on a flight, little one,” I cooed, “but you’ll be flying on different wings.”

I began to hurry as I saw the sun, the golden sky-egg yolk, slide closer to the horizon. I could see the hot air balloons, amassed, waiting on the cliff edge. Mine would be there waiting too.

It was a great service, the hot air balloons. The Dearly Departed Flight Company sponsored these Memory Launches. Only two a day, once at dawn, once at sunset. I had never missed one since I’d been here.

The Living only remember you for so long...launch them a memory, and they’ll remember your heart-song.

Sunshine spilled all around me, aureate and silent. Light was a memory too, touching us all with forgotten nostalgia.

I ran up to my balloon. It waited for me wordlessly. Hopefully.
I kissed the top of the bird’s head, placing it gently in a small nest in the basket of the balloon. “You need different wings where you’re going.”

The bird knew. Knew its purpose.

We, the Dearly Departed, all stood silently, waiting for the last of the light to extinguish, the first breath of night giving soft flight to the awaiting balloons and their heart-songs, nestled in safely for their journey.

*****************************************
The earth cradled his feet on the forest path. Sunlight spilled onto his shoulders, the memory of light. He heard a wren call in the tree above him. He stopped and looked skyward. Old eyes, old sky.

She always did love wrens, he thought, smiling continuing on his journey. He thought of her daily.
​
3 Comments

If Rocks Could Talk, by Kim Favors

23/7/2021

6 Comments

 
It was the cadaver dogs that found Jennifer. Alive.

The whimpering toddler was clinging to a board jammed between two boulders.

Her parents were found yards away down the hill, buried under mud.

The dam break and its devastation killed five people that day. A community mourned, then rebuilt.

Now nine years old, Jennifer lives with Grandma and Grandpa in a ranch-style home nearby.

Grandma Laurel is troubled by the girl’s backyard interest in rocks, water — and mud. Jennifer had been told how her parents died.

“We could have a party and you could make some new friends,” she suggests.

“The rocks are my friends, Gramma.”

Jennifer’s outdoor play doesn’t worry Grandpa Tom. He remembers a childhood exploring creeks, catching crawdads and building rock dams. “No harm done. Leave the child be.”

But Laurel continues watching from the kitchen window. One afternoon, Jennifer tugs on her sleeve. “Gramma, come meet my rocks.”

She’d lined them up, all different shapes. Laurel recognizes some: granite, shale, pumice. Others seem, well, unusual to find in a backyard.

“See Gramma, these are my friends. They talk to me.”

“Sweetie, rocks can’t talk.”

“Mine do. And they have names. This is Luella and Horace and Eb…e…ne…zer,” Jennifer stumbles with pronunciation as she pats her friends.

“Those are old people names, Jennifer. Where did you hear them?”

“The rocks told me. They have old names because they’re old rocks.”

Jennifer shows Grandma a small stream she’d made. And the dam she’d created with rocks and branches.

Worried Laurel talks Tom into buying a backyard playset and invites the neighborhood children for a party. Jennifer enjoys herself, but the following day is back to her stream and rocks.

When she asks for a doll family of two small-size adults and a child, Grandma and Grandpa take her shopping. Finally, Laurel relaxes.

Until she sees the dolls atop the small dam Jennifer built. And is horrified.

“Jennifer, I want to talk with you about what happened to your Mommy and Daddy.”

“I know what happened, Gramma. The dam broke and the water turned into mud and killed them. But it won’t happen again. My friends will protect us.”

Laurel sits Jennifer on her lap. “How will they do that?

“They'll tell us when it’s going to rain next. And when the dam breaks again, and we have to leave.

“First, they’ll go ‘whoosh.’ Then they begin to rumble. After that the mud comes down.”

“Oh,” Laurel says, holding Jennifer tight as she tries not to tremble.

That evening Grandma goes online. After finding a structural engineer’s report on dam safety, she again checks the weather. Rain is forecast in a few days.

The next afternoon, a neighbor strolling by sees Laurel packing the family SUV and stops to chat.

“Are you folks going on a trip?”

“Probably. It’s up to Jennifer and our rocks.”
6 Comments

Man of Irony, by Daniel Hybner

23/7/2021

2 Comments

 
Neighbors can either be the worst part of life or the best, never both, because you never know who they really are or how you will get along with them. My new one, well, I wasn’t sure where he fit at first.

When I introduced myself to him, after a brief exchange of pleasantries, he ended our conversation by telling me that he was, “a man of irony.” Having absolutely no idea what he meant by that, I left him with a firm handshake and assurances that, if he needed anything, I’d be right next door. I’d also be confused, but still willing to lend a hand.

His first order of business was erecting an eight foot privacy fence around the perimeter of his property. It, naturally, dwarfed the four foot picket fences that were the norm here.

A locksmith came by to install the bulkiest door handle and deadbolt I’d ever seen. I’m assuming that he didn’t leave a spare key under the doormat.

Next came the motion lights and security cameras on each visible corner of the front of the house. A fancy doorbell with another camera completed the front door setup.

I am also almost positive that I saw him ushering two large dogs into his backyard about a week ago. Massive dogs, I should say. Dobermans or Rottweilers, from the looks of them. My suspicions were affirmed when the “Beware of Dog” sign was tacked to the fence.

Another sign, a shiny “No Trespassing” one, landed in the front flower bed. I thought it was surely the final piece of the puzzle because it really finished off and sold the transformation.

It was apparent that my new neighbor wanted no part of any visitors on his property, and he was willing to go to great lengths to make sure everyone kept their distance. I certainly had no intentions of going over. Probably ever. Not after witnessing all of the security measures he’d put in place.

Anytime anything even breathes in the vicinity of his lawn, he will probably know about it and see it before his would-be visitor even has time to think about stepping foot on his property.

And I was wrong about the “No Trespassing” sign being the finishing touch. That came in the form of a garden flag planted directly next to the “No Trespassing” sign. On the flag was the word “WELCOME” in big, brilliant, bold letters.

Once I saw it, I laughed because I realized that my neighbor was exactly who he said he was. I think we will get along just fine.
2 Comments

The Sunlight from One Window, by Angela Carlton

23/7/2021

9 Comments

 
Sometimes I remember you, not you completely, but the way you made me laugh. We’d drive down dusty roads as jokes rolled off your tongue. Windows down, the sun warming us all over and the wind in our faces, it felt like love. Your humor was my drug for my own father was always busy, a workaholic while my Ex was sly, a damn playboy. My life was one of those lousy sitcoms minus the pause button, until you. I remember my daughter liked your shiny motorcycle and your blue truck. We had picnics in the grass and you always roasted the delicious meats and the smores, with heavy gooey marshmallows, gushing everywhere.

Once, you used your gifts to sketch her in that polka dot sundress, and she loved how you added the band-aid on her nose from her ant bite. She looked like a cartoon character, the ones that make her giddy and me smile. Yes, I was dizzy, caught up in you, thinking of greener pastures, a world full of promise, I suppose.

The thing is, I do remember those moments, but everything shifted when you went away, didn’t it? I forgot to take the little blue pills, and the sunlight from one window was all I had. Then, the rain came hard falling-falling on the roof as I slouch in a bathrobe. My daughter giggles while she watches loud cartoons. It’s our music. Later, I’ll make her special pancakes with extra butter and cinnamon. I’ll float about like Casper in a mood until I remember to take the pills and that extra one to numb it, swallow it down and try to forget you. ​
9 Comments

A Hummingbird Perched on the Sea, by Jennifer Kim

23/7/2021

10 Comments

 
For some, the rain falls too fast to be soothing. I’m fine, so long as there is no thunder. I sit beside the window, and I wait for my ears to fill with that soft, but incessant nocturne of raindrops clinking across our metallic world.

The rain falls steadily. I find that the thrumming sound escaping from its silvery curtains is not unlike the sound a hummingbird’s wings make when it crafts flight from thin air. Watching the rain try desperately to coax some saturation back into the manmade world, I find myself wondering: Are we all so desperate to live, as to beat our wings faster than our hearts can ultimately survive?

I immediately hear my father’s voice go off in my head, berating me. “You ask such useless questions! Make yourself useful, and go find work.” My father was a metal-worker, and the rust of everyday life lay thick on both his body and his beliefs. He had the soul of a champion, but the body of a corpse. I never learned how to speak to such a man. Even in my dreams, when I stand before him, I am silent, mute.

On days like these, where absence molds presence, and not the other way around, the rain-wrought haze bleeds up into a rust-colored sky. I know what that sky is made of. It’s tragically comprised of the melting souls of ghosts, for we have all left someone behind. There are no strangers in the rain.

Opening my mouth, I can taste on my tongue the lost confessions left behind by the twice-dying ghosts. It tastes like the sea. Through the turquoise haze all around me, my father’s voice rises up, all shattered and mosaic-like, and I remember that as he left the house years ago, he’d kept murmuring under his breath: She drowned. She drowned. She drowned.

As always, my father was right. My sister did drown, and of her own volition. By then, my father’s bones had rusted well over, and though he’d reached for her, she had already gone. And where had I been? Honestly, I don’t remember. I can’t even remember if I was born by then. Was she my older sister, or my younger sister? I can’t recall. Was she my twin sister, or was she me? At this point, does it matter? All things are equal before the rain.

No longer caring about the dignity of the world’s axis or of my own exhausted spine, which at this point are the same, for all I have in this world (or any world) is myself, I succumbed to the feeling of laziness before a rain-veiled world. I laid my head down on the windowsill and gazed outside. Losing myself to this blurred world, where all things are indistinguishable in their melancholic shapes, I found myself praying to the blue angels: Give me something softer. Give me something the light can catch for a little bit longer than this quick, thrumming thing called life.
​
10 Comments

Circles, by David Milner

23/7/2021

2 Comments

 
So, he is staring at the tiny Asian woman, mesmerised by her ability to draw the perfect circle. He didn’t know a thing about her. Had, somehow, forgotten to read her case notes. Until quite recently, he thought Petra was blind.

“Why are circles so hard to get right?” Joyce Cheadle was addressing him directly.

“I… dunno, Joyce” he absently replied.

“Petra’s are perfect.” Joyce continued, “Look, Johnny Ray. Perfect.”

Johnny Ray – people called him – was in a place where old stuff ended up; a storeroom in the basement, full of broken chairs, bits of tables, cracked consoles, plastic items, and shit gotten old and forgotten. And he no longer told people, like friends, or acquaintances, faces, eyes and breasts over drinks (if he was lucky!) while otherwise socialising, no longer did he say to people that it was a privilege to work in the public sector with (or, sometimes adding “looking after”), the under-privileged, the vulnerable, damaged. Coz it was never true. And it was no privilege.

A job, that was all Johnny Ray did.

A resident had died. He had been asked to look after a small bunch of problem clients. He’d cleared out the storeroom. Set up a trestle table. Laid on sheets of paper, crayons, pencils, felt tip pens.

“What are we doin’, Johnny Ray?” Came a chorus-line type cry.

Circles…. Circles… and more Circles.

To keep the restless natives occupied.
​
2 Comments

Big Boys and Girls, by MIchael Mitchell

23/7/2021

3 Comments

 
The grapevine thought very little of him. He tricked people into working with him; he put the squeeze on them; in a crisis he always came out on top. The world would manage fine without Matt Waldron, and everyone in Joe’s bar knew it.

“Good evening, Mr. Waldron.”

Magically, Waldron’s favourite table became free. Heads turned; conversation hushed. He had changed the weather by walking down the stairs.

“Sure, Joe,” Waldron gulped the beer Joe thrust into his hand. He paused and sucked his teeth. “Joe, tell me, what’s the word on that Paul character?”

“ The boy’s quiet, but they say he’s reliable – honest as the day is long and picks up a guy’s way of working real quick.”

“And his girl?”

“Sassy, determined. They say she had a guy beaten up for messing with her. But she’s popular, sociable. Drinks whisky.”

“I need Paul, Joe. Jewelers in Greenwich.” And what Waldron needed usually came to pass.

………………

It started as a straightforward job. Easy locks. No alarms. Dark, narrow alley. Then a cop came home late and interrupted them. Waldron panicked and shot him. Paul was arrested and charged. Waldron was seen a few times at the station house but was soon back on the street. Don’t ask.

……………..


“It’s fate, Joe. You win some, you lose some.” Waldron’s attempt at a philosophical smile came out as a smirk.

…………………..


The bar is empty, Joe is clearing up. She comes to Waldron’s table, red-eyed, her face grey and drawn.

“Bring the bottle, Joe. Two glasses.” Waldron pours two whiskies.

“Gee, Ruby, what can I say? Fifteen years…”

Ruby shudders. She takes a hefty pull at her drink and leans towards him, her stare fierce, unswerving. “You could say you’re sorry.”

“Sure, I’m sorry. But we’re big boys and girls…”

He pauses, as if he just revealed some great universal truth. “If there’s anything …”

She’s already on her feet. “I’ll call you.” Her words fade as she runs up the stairs.


………………………….


They meet on West 11th Street. The streetlights are lost in a fine drizzle. The diner’s brightness floods into the gloom beyond the huge windows. Ruby arrives early and orders cappuccino and a sandwich. A man in a black Homburg sits reading a newspaper.

Waldron is late. Breathing heavily, he orders whisky and takes the place next to her.
A tear rolls down her cheek. She stares at the floor.

“I need the bathroom.”

Dabbing her eyes with a tissue, she stands tall and walks out in slow time, like a pallbearer.

Homburg man finishes his coffee, folds his paper, and turns to go. As if it’s an afterthought he pulls a gun; shoots Waldron twice in the head; and follows Ruby into the night.
3 Comments

Paper Chase, by Steven Holding

23/7/2021

10 Comments

 
A pedestrianised parade; an insignificant town. The first Saturday in January.
Grumpy consumers, their stretched patience mirroring the mile-long length of stores, jostle for space amongst buskers and Big Issue sellers. As a street preacher attempts to save souls, bargain seekers strive to save pence, each so engrossed that they neglect to notice the pulsating storm cloud developing overhead.
A belligerent mother slaps a whining child, bickering lovers trade low blows, a sneaky thief pockets a wallet; all events simultaneous, all actions inexplicably paused as a subtle shift within the atmosphere makes hairs bristle upon backs of necks.
An ominous rumbling signifies a downpour; the rolling boom causing startled folk to aim their gaze at the heavens. The canopy above appears to split into two, unleashing a ferocious blizzard. As the swirling flakes descend, gasps of confusion switch to sighs of amazement as a singular truth is revealed.
It appears to be raining paper.
Thousands of fluttering pieces, all sizes and colours, drifting down towards the earth. As the first page lands, an elderly pensioner, crumpled note dancing near the end of her nose, snatches at the air. Squinting at the sheet, tightly held in her arthritic grip, her tired eyes realise that there is writing waiting to be read.
The familiar scribble raises a tear. The letter, from her father, lost in a house fire years ago, ends with a sentence made up of three simple words. It is more than enough.
The teasing breeze delivers post to all the bewildered crowd. Shopping is soon forgotten as people madly grab for the scraps, mesmerized by what they discover.
The perpetually drunk rough sleeper clamps a shaking hand across his mouth, scanning the birth certificate that states his real mother’s name.
An angry middle-aged man falls to his knees weeping, his daughters undiscovered suicide note clamped tightly to his chest.
The broken-hearted widow giggles at the long forgotten naughty polaroid; her husband, striking a pose, weeks before the cancer was diagnosed.
People begin to cry hysterically, others simply laugh out loud; some lean on the shoulders of absolute strangers, too dumbstruck to stand upright, each bewitched by their own personal miracle.
Somewhere in the centre of the chaos, a grubby faced toddler shrugs off her older brother’s hand, slipping from the loose grip of his fingers to wander in amongst the rabble. Lost in the confusion, she weaves her way to the very edge of the riot.
Stooping down close to the buckled tarmac, she scoops up some paper from the dirty gutter, frowning slightly as she scans first one side then the other.
With a puzzled shrug, she screws up the sheet, tossing it away as she retrieves another, then another.
All of them are totally blank.
Squatting by the kerb, she pulls out a cracked purple crayon from her jeans pocket, making her first bold mark on the empty expanse of the page.
Then smiles to herself, as she begins to draw a dream of an unknown future.
​
10 Comments

Assumptions, by Shona Lawson

23/7/2021

5 Comments

 
If anyone was ever to bother to listen they would realise that Joan had more stories to tell than you would ever imagine. Widowed, lonely, standing by her window watching the neighbours ignore her with their laughing children and partners poking barbecues in summer or digging the snow from their paths in winter.

In her younger days she had wondered if it was true that women become invisible after 50...and she felt at least for her that had been true. Her neighbours never came to check on her in the cold weather, during the lockdowns or invited her to their garden parties. To them she was just some old lady who may as well not have existed. Some rich old lady, as she was away much of the time enjoying her cruises.

Cruise ships were when Joan’s world came to life. Lunch at the captain's table, crew that always made sure she was happy and her drink of choice by her side, and entertainers who always made her feel included. Joan’s world grew as she left her front door to the gangway of the ship from a tiny pinprick to the whole world. The friends she made each trip would laugh with her late into the evening.

Joan watched the new neighbour next door pull up in his car with his coiffed stubble and well groomed man bun. “Stupid vegan hippy type” she muttered, then checked herself for making assumptions based on appearances. After all, she hated it when people did it to her. Nobody would assume she had used these long lonely evenings after her silver surfers course to learn computer hacking, coding and all the other high tech skills.

If the neighbours had taken the time to get to know her they would know the truth was she wasn't a rich old lady. It had never been easy to make ends meet even to pay the bills let alone afford fancy holidays until she had stumbled upon the idea of turning her invisibility to her advantage. All the nuisance callers, with their inane questions about whether she wanted her roof repaired, to join their religion or change her electricity supplier were happy to come in for a cup of tea. A tea laced with drowsy poison that made them succumb to sleepiness and confusion. Stealing their bank details and hacking into their bank accounts meant they money was often moved from their account to hers before they had even had their lifeless bodies thrown in the old bathtub of acid. Granted it took a while for the bodies to dissolve but she preferred to use her shower room now anyway.

The police smiled sweetly at her when making their door to door enquiries. Their forensic psychologist had told them to look for a young male, perhaps with a computer degree feeling disengaged from the world as their profile suspect so she never hit their radar. Oh the assumptions people make.
5 Comments

Noah and the Angel, by Mary Wallace

16/7/2021

14 Comments

 
Noah was a quiet boy who rarely initiated conversation. His parents worried, but he was polite, always replying to questions and the many doctors they had consulted over his five years of life, had given him a clean bill of health. His Grandma called him a "thinker, in touch with a different world."
When his sister was born Noah surprised everyone. He approached the crib with tears in his eyes.
"She's an angel," he murmured.
Indeed, with her gorgeous chubby face, she did resemble the cherubs on the ceiling of the local church. They called her Angela, Noah called her Angel.
It was as if Noah had been saving his words for just this occasion. His parents were delighted, a new baby daughter and a now vocal son who spent hours gazing at her. Noah would ask Angela questions, pretending the baby could answer.
One day Noah's mother heard him ask,"Where are your wings little Angel?"
"Angela won't need wings on earth," she smiled gently; "she'll get them when she goes to heaven."
"I don't want her to go to heaven," Noah sobbed, "who will I talk to?"
"You have a lifetime to talk with your sister Noah, and you can always talk to me."
"You don't know the answers like Angel does," he replied. "Angel says she is leaving, she wasn't supposed to come."
"You're being silly, Angela isn't going anywhere, she's part of our family."
Noah bought his sister a present, ready for her first birthday and carefully hid it in his room.
Two weeks before Angela was one year old, she cried out suddenly and stopped breathing. Noah stood dry eyed as he watched his parents and the paramedics attempt to revive her.
"She couldn't grow her wings," he whispered. "She should have waited; I said I would help."
At the funeral, Noah placed Angela's birthday present on the coffin, a beautiful pair of iridescent fairy wings.
"You should have stayed little Angel," he admonished sadly. "I told you that you could have wings and still stay."
​
14 Comments

Lighting Beyond the Skies, by Jennifer Kim

16/7/2021

4 Comments

 
Standing at the edge of the world, with her hands clasped tightly at her chest, the young woman listened to the wind whispering to her. It asked her, “Could you do it all again? Could you live the way you have a second time, knowing all that you know now? Could you offer yourself up to the world once more, believing and searching for a purity that you never found?”

The young woman stared out at the immense landscape before her, a vast expanse of opalescent, milky-white cloud, lit up by soft and silent lightning. The fluctuating light reflected in her blurred, feather-covered eyes, healing them. She had never seen such scintillating flashes of opalescent gold, tamed fire caught on endless cloud, and she watched the quick tongues of flame diving in and out of the vast iridescent sky – or was it the sea? It was difficult to put a metaphor to the very pulse of dreams.

Still, all rhythm shared some common numerical heartbeat, and just as the waves of the sea washed up repeatedly against your bare ankles, returning pieces of yourself to you, so the wind’s whispering question crested once again in her mind: Could she live again, exactly the way she had? It was not the first time she had ever considered this question, of course, but she had never considered it as seriously as she did now. She thought back over the many years of her life for, though she looked young, she had actually lived many years on this earth. It was only when she began walking to this singular cliff, the very edge of the world, where all souls come to pass, that the years began to drop off of her body, the way one naturally sheds layer after layer of winter clothing when the glittering frost begins to thaw.

She was growing younger yet – or was she simply being healed? It was difficult to tell whether it was landscape of time or the soul inhabiting that landscape which was the constant reality. Now, with trembling fingers, the young girl removed the glasses on her face. For the first time in many years, she saw better without them. With her glasses off, she suddenly realized that it was not the wind that was speaking to her, but a pearl-silver, nearly translucent swallowtail butterfly, batting its gauzy wings mere inches from her face. She stared at the butterfly, pretending to think over its question, but the answer was already clear on her bright and hopeful face.

Hope – but for what? A future, always a future.

“Yes, so I thought,” the butterfly sighed softly. “That’s why human beings only live once in this world.” The butterfly began to say, “Step off - ” but she was already gone, nothing more than a startling flash of gold lightning, running jagged, wild, and free, along the endless dreamscape of the beyond. ​
4 Comments

Oedipus Complex, by Swati Moheet Agrawal

16/7/2021

2 Comments

 
He was not home until a quarter to twelve. His mother was seated in her rocking chair, withdrawn into herself. He stood next to her, tremulous, half ashamed. He knew his mother wanted to reprimand him.

“I like to meet her and talk to her, but I want to come home to you mother,” he said rather wearily.

“But you still go trapesing up there, miles and miles, only to get home at midnight. Is there no one else to talk to?”

“You don’t care about Sartre and Descartes,” he retorted bidding her a very abrupt goodnight.

There was a terse silence. The clock ticked loudly.

He woke up groggy and disoriented. Something was stifling him. He went straight up to the sink where his mother was washing up.

“Why don’t you like her?” he groaned in despair.

“I don’t know my son. I am sure I have tried to like her. I have made attempts, but I can’t – I just can’t! She delights – she delights as she whisks you off from me. She is not a simple girl, she wants to absorb you until there is nothing left of you, not for me, not even for yourself,” she wept tears of agony and distress, “she leaves me no room, she leaves you no room,” she howled piteously.

And he immediately hated his betrothed. When he believed she had wounded his mother, he loathed her, he loathed her enough to abandon her.
2 Comments

The Gloom of a Funny Man, by Sankar Chatterjee

16/7/2021

3 Comments

 
In a late February afternoon four years ago, John Stewart from the US was strolling through the streets of the modern urban section of Marrakech, Morocco. Rounding a corner, he spotted Ahmed, a young Moroccan. Colorfully dressed in costumes, Ahmed was sitting on a cement block underneath an equally colorful wall painted with the thematic seal of the local authority. Ahmed’s pose reminded John of French sculptor Rodin’s famous “Thinking Man” statue. What attracted John most was Ahmed’s unique multi-colored funny brimmed hat, totally in contrast to the gloom displayed on his face. John approached him to strike up a conversation. Ahmed was from a nearby village, but came to town every day dressed up in historic traditional costumes, so that the western tourists could snap a few pictures with him to post on their social media portals. In return, he expected a couple of bills of valuable western currencies to consider them to be his daily wage. Thanks to recent global technological revolution, he also had access to a cheap smartphone bringing the world news to him that affect his livelihood.

And on that day in 2017, it finally hit him. America just elected a new President at the end of a most divisive political process in its history when hate, insult and mockery of fellow human beings made up the platform of the winning candidate. From the well-heeled British tourists, he heard about the certainty of that country’s pulling away from the union that other European countries had been working so hardly to keep it together. He became aware of the moral failure of the German executives of a top car maker of that country, with their intention to cheat the fellow human beings in exchange of more profit. John asked Ahmed about his own country’s future outlook. He referred to John to the construction of the spectacular modern Hasan II Mosque in Casablanca (that John visited just a few days ago), for the legacy of the current ruler at a cost of more than half a billion Euros, the money which could have easily been utilized for betterment of healthcare, education and job creations for ordinary people like him. So, he was deeply pondering “Where our world was heading to?” instead of posing with the tourists.

John had no reasonable answer to Ahmed’s query to take away his gloom and make him funny again. In a world, where one percent of current population, amounting to 72 million had been living in tents as the refugees due to war, poverty and displacement, juxtaposed with the fact that only three richest people inside his own country owned more wealth than the poorest 50% of population amounting to 170 million people, John himself pondered “May be utopia has just been a concept, but isn’t human equality also about human dignity?”

Two gentlemen sat together for a while with no intention of posing for a picture for the virtual world.
​
3 Comments

Clouds, by Heather Robinson

16/7/2021

4 Comments

 
In the stone church, she glanced towards the tall windows where bright milky clouds floated by. But these billowy wafts did not bring her peace but rather a heaviness in her breast. And, as the pastor spoke fervently about charity, she stopped listening. All she could feel was the loss, the loss of the man, the only one she had truly loved. He would never again see those puffs of purity scudding across the sky. Nor would he see their children playing, tumbling, and giggling on the lawn below them. He would not witness her tears falling unhindered from her lids as she pinned their matrimonial sheet to the line and searched the white wisps for some acknowledgment, some reassurance. And then, then, through the stained-glass window, she saw the sky change. The wind rose, a gray pall swiftly crossed the sky, and she heard it, a spring rain, unexpected, gentle, soothing to her soul. Yes, she thought, yes. You are still here.
4 Comments

A Gap Through the Generations, by Jim Bartlett

9/7/2021

30 Comments

 
October, 1964
Hands covering his ears, Charlie flings open his 16-year-old daughter Lucy’s door. She’s sprawled out on the floor, her head rocking back and forth, her swooning eyes glued to the transistor radio.

“What in blazes is that confounded racket?”

She turns and smiles. “It’s the Beatles, Daddy. Don’t they sound keen-o?”

“Keen-o? If you ask me, they sound like some poor animal caught in a trap...”
Picture
November, 1991

Arriving home from work, Lucy steps into the living room, only to be driven back by a surge of sound roaring from the television. Mark, her 16-year-old son, stands atop the couch cushions, playing air guitar and slinging his long hair to the blasting beat.
Picture
“What in the world is that?”

“MTV,” he shouts, head still swaying.

“Yeah, I know that. But what is that, uh, noise?”

“Nirvana. They’re so bitc...uh, awesome. And they’re playing here in Honolulu next month. Pink’s Garage. I so have to go, Mom. I just have to.”

“Pink’s what? Oh, Nevermind. Will they provide ear plugs?” She cringes as she says it, both her age and inner Mom showing. “We’ll see...”
July, 2022

“Hey, third and final call. Time for dinner.” Mark shakes his head. Cameron, his 15-year-old son, lays sprawled on his bed, eyes glued to his iPhone, head bobbing to his Air Buds, not having heard a word. He steps to the teen’s side and taps him on the shoulder. “What’cha listening to?”

Cameron pulls the right side Bud from his ear. “Huh?”

“What are you listening to?”

“Oh...Tonal Tonic.”

“And what exactly is Tonal Tonic?”

“They’re a Hip-Hop/Rap/Electronic fusion. They’re pretty rad.”

“Fusion?”

“Yeah, fusion, Dad. You do know there is other music out there besides The Doors and Led Zeppelin, right?”

“I probably do, but choose to ignore.” Smiling, he tousles Cameron’s hair, then gestures toward the door. “Come on...let’s fusion with Mom at the dinner table.”
April 2053

Like Ulysses’ sirens, the call of unfamiliar, yet mystical music drifting down the hall grabs ahold of Cameron, and he finds himself standing outside his daughter Heather’s room. He gives the door a light tap, then pops in. The 15-year-old sits on her bed gently swaying to a haunting melody about some horse with no name.
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“What is that?” he asks.

“Remember Great-Grams Lucy left me those boxes?”

“Yeah, I guess...”

“They were stuffed with these, uh, records. And a stereo and speakers and this...” She stops for a moment, as if off in thought, then jumps up, moving to her dresser. There she stares at a device, its arm laying on a black plastic pancake that spins atop. “Turntable. It’s a turntable.”

Cameron nods, then meanders across to the line of boxes. “Great-Grams' old vinyl collection! I wondered what happened to those. Looks like she’s passed the torch to you.”

“Yeah. I’ve been listening to them, one after the other.” She reaches into the closest box, smiling as she grabs the top album – “Meet the Beatles.” “She called this one, ‘keen-o’.”
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(Mine, from 1976, looks like this. Still works I think – ed)
Note for Beatle nerds in the UK: The story refers to the American album 'Meet the Beatles' as opposed to the earlier UK version 'With the Beatles'. 'I Wanna Hold Your Hand' is only on the US album. Jim's got this right – editor.
30 Comments

The Making of a Man, by Krystyna Fedosejevs

9/7/2021

8 Comments

 
Jake was a devoted high school teacher. Passionate about science, in and out of the classroom.

Unfortunate for him, attendance at lectures dwindled as the school year progressed. Students recognized his extensive knowledge, but he failed miserably in presentation.

One day at the chalkboard he glided past formulae he had written, and stumbled. Students sitting in the front row raced to assist him. School day over, he drove home baffled. How could he be so clumsy?

Entering his home, with an unintended pirouette on the rug, he realized his problem. The sole of one shoe was partially loose, flapping underneath. He knew what had to be done. The basement repair shop was waiting for the return of his shoes.

Word of the incident must’ve spread. Class attendance went up dramatically, likely due to curiosity. Perhaps sympathy. Students didn’t know why he fell and he had no intention of telling.

Another situation arose merely days later. To make room for papers on his desk, Jake pushed pens to the side. Several rolled onto the floor. He tried to reach them while on his chair. He got up and bent down from the waist with his back to the class. The pens were within his grasp.

Laughter spread throughout the classroom. Annoyed at not knowing the cause, Jake threatened the class with a detention. Peace erupted spontaneously.

He was happy to return home and be greeted by his smiling wife.

“You’re finally wearing the Santa boxers I gave you,” she exclaimed.

“How do you know?” he grunted, taking off his glue-glistening shoes.

“I can see them in the slit between your buttocks,” she chortled. “Those pants need to go.”

“But they’re my ONLY better pants!”

“I’m taking you shopping, mister. No buts! New pants, and while we’re at it, new shoes.”
8 Comments

In the Dark, by Angela Carlton

9/7/2021

9 Comments

 
We're miles and miles apart, aren’t we?? But when the rain hits my rooftop in the wee hours. I’m awakened. I remember your smooth humor, that soft, southern voice that hits me like a whisper on my neck. I remember those boyish eyes. It holds me deep in the night for a while until reality sets in. I think about my mother who just stares at the ceiling in a ratty bathrobe like she might find the answers there. I think of my sister who has slipped into a coma, the beauty, sleeping, one you don’t touch, like a forgotten doll in a closet. The rain’s pounding-pounding now and the storm’s setting in, swirling, moving fast like the rhythm of my heart. In the end, I’m just a lost girl in the dark who clings to hope and that one shot at love until I fade into a beautiful colorless dream that may or may not come true.
9 Comments

Call To Account, by Barry O'Farrell

9/7/2021

6 Comments

 
Hear the gleeful giggling? My teenage daughter has her giggly best friend over.
Here they come, running into the living room giggling with excitement. Daughter is clutching something fresh off the printer. Wide eyed with expectation she hands me the piece of paper without saying a word.
The document is a proposition. The popular boy band of the day is coming to town in a couple of months. The girls would like tickets to the show but can’t afford them at the moment.

Unable to contain herself any longer, “They are the best boy band ever,” she shouts. Well, she has probably heard three or four boy bands in her teen life. This means her sample pool is really small, but I hold my tongue.
“And soooo cute,” chimes in girlfriend triggering a duet of chortling.
Their businesslike proposal is this. I pay for the tickets today; repayment will be by instalments per their after-school jobs.

Yes. Of course, my answer will be yes.
A flash of inspiration! Is it an opening? Do I see an opportunity? I am thinking quickly and come up with this strategy.

Donning a serious frown. I pretend to study their proposal. Finally turn the page over. The reverse is blank. Without looking up I ask, “Where is your repayment schedule?”

The girls turn their heads to look at each other for a moment. Slowly it dawns on them. They didn’t hear a NO. They snatch the page, run, and titter all the way back to the computer.

Hear the sound of conspiratorial whispering mixed with the sound of little chuckles? Now the sound of hesitant clicking of the keyboard.
My aim is to teach an important life lesson. How am I doing?
END
6 Comments

All Tied Up, by Michael Mitchell

9/7/2021

3 Comments

 
Peter finished reading the brochure and rang the bookings department. “Is this dress code stuff real? Surely it’s been phased out?”

“Between you and me, Sir, that tradition is quite a selling point. Guests love dressing up. We call it Gala Night. Black tie for men and long dresses for the ladies. If you aren’t properly dressed….”
So Peter bought an evening suit and all the gear, including a double-ended bow tie. And he practiced tying that tie until he was perfect.

On Gala Night the sea was calm with a gentle breeze. Peter sang as he put the studs in his shirt: “I’m puttin’ on my top hat, Tyin’ up my black tie…da di da di da di daa.” Not for him one of those lifeless pre-tied things on elastic. His was a Proper Bow Tie. When you pulled the ends a magician’s knot gracefully unwound to become a silken ribbon.

The maître de seated him by the window. A waiter shimmered up and floated the serviette on to Peter’s lap. He ordered salmon followed by fillet steak. As he waited for the starter Peter watched the moon rise, sipped his aperitif and let his thoughts drift …

The spell was broken when a tall dark man, clearly sailing close to the wind in his choice of jacket, raised his voice to the maître de. The maître de threw his hands in the air and the man pushed past him into the restaurant, leading a small blonde in stilettos and mini skirt. Heads turned to follow the action. The man sneered, scanned the spectators, and berthed himself at the table next to Peter. At close quarters his DJ became a creased, grey, linen creation, with jeans and a t-shirt. No trace of any neckwear.

Peter sat to attention. “Guests love dressing up” ... ”If you aren’t properly dressed” … Dress code? Tradition? The words swirled in Peter’s head. His hands shook as he played with the cutlery and fiddled with his tie. This could not be happening: he went over to the maître de.

“How did that gentleman get in?” he asked, on the point of losing his self-control. “ I rather think he should…not be here. What are you going to…?”

“You’re right, Sir, of course you are. Although I would like to, I can’t really ….”

“But you must,” said Peter. “Tradition…”

“I love tradition, Sir, but sometimes….” He mimed toothache.

“OK. I get the picture.” Peter sighed, loosened his tie, and went up to the buffet on the top deck.

A chef in immaculate whites appeared behind the short-order counter: “How can I help you, Sir?” she beamed.

“What’s your best dish?” Peter hung his jacket on the chair.

“Well, Sir, they say I cook a mean plate of scrambled eggs.”

Peter dined on the creamiest, most exquisitely seasoned scrambled eggs ever eaten on the North Atlantic.

With only the moon and stars for company … and a charming short-order chef, properly dressed.
3 Comments

They Got Him Twice, by Susan Fairfax Reid

2/7/2021

6 Comments

 
While watching Vietnam War news on television, my elderly nextdoor neighbor heard a knock on his door. He opened it to face three men. "Where's your money for the Baltimore Evening Sun," one asked? "I paid the paperboy last week," Mr. Hecht insisted. "My son told me you didn't," the man screamed. "Where's the money"?
Mr. Hecht led them to the living room, pointing to money on a television table by his chair. "One of them scooped up the change I had to buy ice cream from the Good Humor truck.
Another man grabbed a $10 bill for the milkman."
"After that," Mr. Hecht said, running a big, rough hand through his white hair, "two of them shoved me into my chair and held me in it, while the third one tied my hands with clothesline rope. Then, he shoved rags in my mouth."
My heart raced. If this could happen to my heavyset neighbor, it could happen to anyone in our working-class neighborhood, including me.
Mr. Hecht had invited me in for iced tea and to tell me this story. He was in his seventies. He told me he rotated his hands until the rope loosened enough for him to free them. Then, he yanked the rags from his mouth.
As we sat in his kitchen talking, a breeze carried the smell of roses his wife had planted through the screen door. Mr. Hecht offered me cookies he had baked and fresh lemon quarters to cut the sweetness of the tea.
A widower, Mr. Hecht cooked his food, vacuumed and polished his Victorian furniture, and washed his clothes. He seemed comfortable living by himself despite the rising crime in our neighborhood. Hardly a night went by without police car sirens wailing through the nearby business district.
Mr. Hecht and I had been neighbors since I was born. That was 20 years ago. Months after our discussion, I heard knocking on Mr. Hecht's door. Pulling the window shade aside to peek out, I saw three men on his porch. They were in their thirties. Mr. Hecht opened the door. Placing my ear up to our adjoining wall, I strained but failed to hear what was said. Then, someone slammed the door.

With shaking hands, I pulled the window shade aside again to look for the men. I didn't see them, so I grabbed my keys, locked the door, and climbed over a railing separating our porches. Pounding my fist on Mr. Hecht's door, I yelled, "It's Mary." Looking through the sheer curtain panel covering the door's glass, I saw Mr. Hecht sauntering towards me.
He opened the door, looking as if nothing unusual had happened. "They got me again," he said. "They snatched the money and rushed out as if their lives were in jeopardy.
Maybe they were.
6 Comments

Date Night, by Michael Roberts

25/6/2021

5 Comments

 
The annoying thing about this neighbourhood is that it’s a mix of the old and the new, Asian, Western and a bunch of stuff in between with no rhyme or reason to the shops here.
Wherever there was an empty space, someone’s put something there.
You have a noodle shop next to a soap store next to a used record slash head shop.
Even the rep theatre we just left seems to have just been dropped there.
How do people live in this?
But like anything, this is my problem, not theirs.


Suddenly we’re there.

“Best Dim Sum Dinner”
Ayesha looks at it a bit sceptically.
“Everyone says they’re the best,” she says, “whom to trust?”
It takes me more than a few seconds to realize that she’s making a joke.

We walk in.

The cashier waves us to a table near the back and another, passing waitress hands us what looks like a scorecard.
I realize now I should have checked this place out before.
However, Ayesha doesn’t seem to mind.
The old ladies seem to know her and I get the feeling this isn’t her first time doing this, which makes me uneasy.
In a way I wish we were both fumbling through this for the first time.

The rain has slackened off by the time we are done and now it’s just a dark, slightly chilly night.
“Want to walk around a bit, just…hang out…?” Ayesha suggests.
“Sure,” I hear myself saying, unsure where to suggest we ‘hang out”.
I hope she doesn’t suggest a club, let alone going dancing.
She looks like she’s a ‘dancer’.

I would suggest that we walk towards her house, but I realize that I don’t even know where she lives.
As well, not exactly the impression I’d want to give, her realizing that I’m walking her home.
Either she’d think I was trying to get rid of her or worse, I assumed that the date would end up at her place.

Stupidly, I really didn’t plan for a ‘third act’ in this date; I thought it’d be the movie, dinner and then I walk her to the subway and we say the usual pleasantries and then the awkward call a couple days later when I call her up and she says she had a great time, but…etc..
That’s what I’m used to, if I ever get this far.

This is new.
Different.
Disturbing.

“Great,” I hear her saying.

And then she does it.
She takes my hand.
I really don’t do hand holding — or intimacy of any kind, really.
But she’s holding my hand and it is kind of nice and reassuring.
And I trust her.
Which is also a strange and new feeling.
For most of my life, classmates and ‘friends’ were nice to me just so that they could make fun of me later or get something from me.
It’s been a learning experience since I left home.
But her hand feels like a door left open.
5 Comments

Merchandising the Merchant, by Michael Mitchell

25/6/2021

3 Comments

 
Dear Madam,

As a valued subscriber to our premium service, Fleamentoes are delighted to bring you details of our latest range of life accessories themed on recent Shakespeare productions in Wivenhoe. We trust you will find this of interest.

1. The “Shylock” knife and matching whetstone set.

A beautifully crafted oriental style knife in the finest Toledo steel, complete with exquisitely carved ivory scabbard. (We are of course elephant-friendly and use only certified, farmed material.) Probably the sharpest available, honed using the latest “hairsbreadth” technology.
Matching Arkansas whetstone custom mounted in the sole of the shoe of your choice. As favoured by Sir Laurence Olivier.

2. The “Belmont” casket stand.

Amaze your Spanish and Moroccan friends! Designed exclusively for Fleamentoes by Michaelangelo Cellini. Finished in 24 carat gold , sterling silver or basest lead. Invaluable for displaying your favourite caskets and scrolls. (Matching hand-written scrolls are of course available to order, with your very own voice of wording.)
Can be adapted to use as a wine cooler, jardiniere, or music stand, or perhaps display your fool’s head of choice.

3. The “Antonio” bond.

Hand written in real blood on finest goatskin vellum. A versatile and sporty wording to suit the most frivolous taste, allowing a wide and eclectic choice of amounts and penalties. Winner of the prestigious Corbière Prize for Law Document of the Year, 2015
Just the thing for that impromptu loan. With this in your pocket you will always be ready to help your best friend get his girl. Certified and approved by the Venice Notaries Guild. A firm favourite with commodity traders everywhere.

4. The “DT” fool’s head.

A doll of rare and special quality, to fit the “Belmont” casket. The design details are a carefully guarded secret, but the doll is widely rumoured to have an uncanny resemblance to a recent US President.
(The designer assures us that this is purely coincidental, but we do not recommend travelling to the USA at the present time with this in your luggage. Fleamentoes cannot be responsible for any resulting difficulties.)

5. The “Nerissa” ring.

Crafted in white gold, this unisex jewellery has a timeless appeal to the connoisseur. Will help the newly-wed wife to know if hubby really is helping himself to a little on the side. Guaranteed never to fail. Should be used only as a last resort.

All items are POA and subject to availability.


Fleamentoes present their compliments and look forward to the favour of your enquiries.
We also undertake commissions to your very own design and specification.

Please feel free to circulate our list to your most discerning friends.


Mr Flea.

(To unsubscribe from our email list is impossible. Don’t even think of it.)
………….

For new readers, Mr Flea (so named for correcting the wardrobe mistress's spelling of puce) provided props for a production of the Merchant of Venice. John Wallett designed the programme and the show was in the garden of a house called “Corbière”.
3 Comments

The Human Disease, by V. L. Draven

25/6/2021

3 Comments

 
Gather around class.  Let us examine the case of the Human Disease.  As you are aware, this illness has been eliminated and the specimens that remain are in high security labs.  The illness is well documented as an example of how one species, when unchecked, can cause severe destruction. 

The human race was a species with great potential, but it was unable to reach beyond its primitive past.  Had it been willing to admit that it was just another animal driven by instincts, it may have fared better.  But instead, it insisted on distancing itself from the other inhabitants on Earth, thinking it was better, and creating god images to confirm its superiority.  It thought itself intelligent, and measured all other intelligence by comparing it to its own. Had it been as intelligent as it thought it was, its extinction may have been unnecessary.  A warlike species it created excuses for conflict and destruction everywhere it went.  It fought over many matters of a trivial nature: god images; resource distribution; even the colour of its skin.   

In its arrogance, it regarded the Earth as its property, to do with as it wished, without any regard for other inhabitants.  It pushed the biological systems of the planet to breaking point.  This one species was the primary cause of the sixth major extinction event, and it was directly responsible for more damage to Earth’s biodiversity than any other species in the 4.5 billion years of the Earth’s existence.  

But as you know, the actions of humanity did not go unnoticed.  The Galactic Community met to decide the fate of this species and came to a decision; until the human race was able to prove that it was worthy, it would not be allowed to leave the planet of its origins. The destruction wrought by humanity could not be allowed to spread into the universe. But, as the Earth approached a tipping point where many more species would suffer, stronger measures had to be taken; the human race was reclassified by the Galactic Community as a disease.  Like any pathogen, it had to be contained, studied, eliminated.

The Sol system was declared a forbidden zone.  Placed under a strict quarantine with penalties for unauthorised access.  Only individuals chosen for their knowledge of dealing with invasive diseases were allowed to visit.  The concerns were real, the danger imminent.  The human race could not be allowed to spread.

Yet still it persisted, launching its primitive craft into space, intending to colonise another planet. Many argued that it was time for further action; containment was not enough. 

The treatment of Earth took place shortly after, and once humanity had been eliminated, the planet began to recover.  A few humans were kept alive in heavily secured laboratories for study.  There is hope that one day, a vaccine may be developed in case of another outbreak of this terrible illness. ​
3 Comments

Grief is That Thing With Five Stages of Disgust, by Shelley Kirton

25/6/2021

5 Comments

 
We are told by the experts that we go through five stages of grief when we experience a loss. I am not qualified to question their authority, numerical or other, but I wonder at their explanation of arithmetically coming to terms with that loss.

Five steps: one, two, three, four, five – not necessarily consecutive and it is apparently possible to become stuck at a stage.

Let's think about each of them for a minute, John…

Denial

Noun. The act of denying something.

Your denial is farcical. The truth is undeniable. I have the evidence. You. Caught.

In flagrante delicto.

Adverb. In the very act of wrongdoing, especially in an act of sexual misconduct.

With Honoria, (ha!) my friend (ha!).

Anger.

Noun. A strong feeling of annoyance, displeasure, or hostility.
A word with five letters that doesn’t come close to describing my incandescent rage and my blistering contempt for you both.

Bargaining.

Verb. The back and forth process of negotiation in order to make an agreement between two parties.

This is a new low even by your despicable standards and non-negotiable, so stop your contemptible grovelling. Just. Go.

Acceptance.

Noun. The action of consenting to receive or undertake something offered.

It won't happen. I will never consent to accept your lies and duplicity.

Depression/Depressed
As in Depressed Fracture

Transitive verb. The type of fracture usually resulting from blunt force trauma, such as getting struck with a hammer, rock or getting kicked in the head.

Thanks for that Merriam-Webster – I’ll bear it in mind.
​​
5 Comments

Ellen, by David Berger

25/6/2021

2 Comments

 
She wasn’t the least attractive girl in the class, but you might have thought so. Jane Welch had that blotchy skin and Patricia Estes never washed her hair and it looked like the color of mud. But Ellen, our Ellen here, was sort of dumpy (her nickname was Humpty), and her clothes were like out of a 1930s Sears Catalog.

And Ellen (God how she hated that name) had to work every afternoon clerking in her folks’ hardware store. (Her Mom and Dad actually called themselves her “folks,” and they actually called her work “clerking.”

So one Friday night there came the fire in the store. (Not set by Ellen.) Not a big one, so her folks figured they could open again by Sunday after church. But no, they didn’t need Ellen for the day. She’d just be in the way, so why didn’t she spend the day at the Library?

So off our Ellen went, but as she approached the Library, her feet unaccountably turned and took her to the backside of the building where a tiny, scraggly little wood lay. A patch of wildflowers grew at the beginning of a path into the woods. Ellen’s hand picked the flowers as her feet took her on the path.

“Weirder and weirder,” Ellen said, half expecting a rabbit with a watch to appear. No such but a strange patch of white clay was what she encountered, steaming and bubbling.

“Even weirder she said. It’s not a rabbit hole, but it’ll do.”
2 Comments
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    Friday Flash Fiction is primarily a site for stories of 100 words or fewer, and our authors are expected to take on that challenge if they possibly can. Most stories of under 150 words can be trimmed and we do not accept submissions of 101-150 words.


    However, in response to demand, the FFF team constructed this forum for significantly longer stories of 151-500 words. Please send submissions for these using the Submissions Page.

    Stories to the 500 word thread will be posted as soon as we can mange.

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    ​Please note that we tend to post longer flash fiction exactly as we find it – wrong spacing, everything.

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