Longer Stories

Buffalo Hunter, by Doug Bartlett

20/5/2022

Many years ago an anonymous young man with thousands of others poured out across the Great Plains of the United States, leaving a trail of havoc and death as they went westward, nearly eliminating the entire population of the buffalo.

With no thought or heart with what he was doing or how it affected the Native Americans, who used every part of the animal for things such as food, shelter, tools and weapons. The Native Americans needed the mighty buffalo in order to survive.

He sat in comfort in his railroad car and everyday he would begin shooting out his window at sunrise and wouldn’t stop shooting until sundown.

Everyday he would lose count of how many were dead because of him.

On May 14th of this year (2022) another Buffalo hunter arose from anonymity. This time Buffalo was not the animal he massacred but the name of the city in which he did his evil deed.

Once again, how sad, how senseless.

“Well, listen everybody to what I have to say . There’s hope for tomorrow, if we wake up today.” — Ted Nugent (Great White Buffalo).

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Wild Ivy, by Angela Carlton

20/5/2022

4 Comments

The Poet’s mother, Ivy, was off, her mind was warped. The witch doctor had tried several remedies but nothing stuck. Mostly, she wandered through the town, over yonder, and into the woods while, the poet, Alice, clung to the sheets in a small bedroom for comfort. The village folks, in Vickery Creek, watched her roam and spoke about how the ivy vine is always growing on sidewalks, fences, and up walls. It’s unstoppable, wild.

Over time, the mother fell into the name, “Wild Ivy.”

“Wild Ivy, that poor woman,” they said, “she’s roaming the streets again,” the whispers carried on through the thick, sycamore trees until they reached Ivy’s ears. Sometimes, she cocked her head and tried to remember, think of something, anything. Wild Ivy tried-tried to find a path, this way back home to her daughter, the girl who could spin words, language that could take you anywhere and everywhere, tales that gave you a sense of hope, a bit of promise until the end.

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Fifty Seven, by Malvina Perova

20/5/2022

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Cold and misty December morning needles Olena’s face with icy drizzle. Two garbage bags in grips, a coat over pajamas, she minces to the waste bins outside as stingy foreboding chases her flip-flops over socks like a hungry cur. It hangs thick in the air: the smell of pending war.

The cat lady salutes her across the lane. “Did you hear about the new law?” she asks. “They want to conscript women! Women, my goodness.” Her cellophane sacks with empty cans tremble as she speaks.

“Me? A soldier?” Olena gasps, “I’m fifty seven for heaven’s sake!”

Grey February dawn shakes her off her sleep with blasts and sirens, shattering her dreams to pieces. The President forgot his tie as he announces Russians invaded Ukraine and, pale but determined, urges everyone to keep calm.

“Bloody hell,” Olena snatches her passport and dials the draft board, “I’m fifty seven. Where can I get a gun?”

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Extended Warranty, by Robert P. Bishop

20/5/2022

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Ten years had elapsed since Fred last coated the roof with the white rubberized material that reflected sunlight and helped reduce air conditioning costs in the brutally hot Arizona summers. “It’s going to be a scorcher this year, what with climate change out of control and temps rising,” Fred said that morning to Nadine, his wife. “Time to give the roof a fresh coat. I’m going to the hardware store.”

Fred looked at one brand offering a twelve-year warranty on its product. The clerk pointed to another brand and said, “This product has a lifetime warranty.”
Fred checked the price of the competing brand. The brand with the lifetime warranty was twice as expensive as the twelve-year.
“I’m eighty-six years old,” Fred said to the clerk. “You think I’m going to out-live a twelve-year warranty?”
“Hmm,” the clerk replied. “You have a point.”
Fred bought the twelve-year coating.

The next morning, Fred got on the roof and began applying the thick gooey material with a roller. Nadine stood in the yard, cell phone in one hand and Fred’s do-not-resuscitate directive in the other, keeping vigil, ready to call emergency services if Fred fell off the roof.
Maxine came out of her house, crossed the street and stood next to Nadine. “What’s he doing now?”
“Coating the roof, but not to worry, Maxine, I have things under control if he does.” Nadine flourished her cell phone and the do-not-resuscitate directive.
Maxine stepped back, looked up at Fred and shouted, “You’re an old man. What do you think you are doing up there? If you fall off don’t expect me to send you a get-well card.” Maxine crossed the street and went into her house.

Fred finished coating the roof, climbed down the ladder and sat in a rocking chair on the shaded patio. Nadine brought a pitcher of iced tea, poured two glasses and handed one to Fred.
Fred took a drink. “Mm, good.”
They sat quietly for a few moments, enjoying the refreshingly cool liquid and the quiet of a summer afternoon. Finally, Nadine spoke. “You know Maxine is never going to forgive you for not falling off the roof. You deprived her of the opportunity to jeer and say, See, I told you!”
Fred smiled. “Maybe I’ll fall off the roof the next time I’m up there, but she’s got a long wait. I just got a twelve-year warranty on life today.” Fred took another drink and sighed contentedly.

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Pandemic’s Hidden Toll, by Sankar Chatterjee

20/5/2022

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Rick Scott was born in Boston to well-educated parents; his mother earned her PhD in English Literature, while his father’s PhD was in Physics. Growing up, Rick was a smart brilliant student. He also developed an eclectic taste for international cuisines; thus making trips to various ethnic restaurants. In middle school, while helping his mother in the kitchen, he began to prepare various dishes, following recipes from cookbooks. At age 14, Rick announced to his parents of his life goal of becoming a world famous chef. Unbeknownst to them, he had already approached Mr. Paul Beck, city’s top chef, to be his understudy. For next four years, every Saturday he would show up in Mr. Beck’s kitchen, learning how to prepare exquisite dishes. His weekly online blog “Foodie at 14” started to get thousands of “hits” and he was profiled in various national newspapers and magazines.

However after high school graduation and sensing his parents’ inherent disappointment about his career choice, Rick changed his mind and decided to enroll in a prestigious business school instead of a culinary institute. Upon graduation, he received several lucrative job offers from various financial farms in New York’s Wall Street. Over next few years, he steadily climbed up the corporate ladder. Due to the very nature of his job, many nights he would take his prospective clients to various fancy expensive restaurants. While there, he would take short breaks to visit the kitchens and meet the famous chefs preparing their dishes. Soon, he began to miss his teen-age days of a chef’s intern.

This was also the time when a lethal virus brought on an international pandemic, requiring employees to work from home, while limiting outdoor activities. Such social isolation would bring on mental health issues worldwide. Rick himself became the victim. His high-paying financial job demanded his 24/7 presence on the job via modern technologies of computers and smartphones, creating a lone stressful existence. This in turn forced him to criticize himself for not following through his original passion of becoming a chef. Soon this dual crisis began to drown him in a state of mental upheaval. However, Rick kept it secret not only from his parents, but also from his girlfriend. Instead, he began to use and soon got addicted to potent street drugs, thus entering into a perpetual cycle of depression and addiction.

On a Sunday afternoon, Rick would decide to take a subway to visit his girlfriend living in another part of the city. Once inside the station, he suddenly entered into a “mental dark tunnel of hopelessness” from which he couldn’t pull himself out. At the sound of an incoming train, he took out his smartphone, sent a text message “I love you” to his girlfriend and jumped in front of the fast approaching train.

Next day, Rick’s hometown newspaper carried his obituary, written by his grieved mother, under the title “Death by Suicide”. He was only 29 years old.

[Author’s Note: If you are having thoughts of suicide (or know of someone having similar thought), please dial the following country-specific help lines:

In USA, National Suicide Prevention Lifeline: 1-800-273-8255
In Canada, Suicide Prevention Helpline: 1-833-456-4566
In UK, National Suicide Prevention Lifeline: 0800 689 5652
In Australia, Lifeline: 13 11 14]

1 Comment

The River's Treasure, Deborah Shrimplin

20/5/2022

2 Comments

As Luke steered the wooden raft down the river, he could see the Countess standing beneath the west tower of Willowmede Castle waiting for him to pass by. He prayed the raft, laden with clay pots, baskets and sacks full of supplies for the Count's army, could withstand the treacherous journey ahead. Clutching his cloak against the rain and wind, he looked at the distant clouds and thought the oncoming storm was not a good omen.

Luke's journey was uneventful until, after his midafternoon respite, a torrential rain erupted. The blinding rain and wind battered Luke's face and tunic. His legs ached from maintaining his balance as the raft tossed and buffeted. The precious army supplies jostled. The river current grew stronger creating whirlpools and dangerous rapids.

A sudden, strong surge of water attacked the wooden raft tossing Luke and the supplies overboard. After letting out a scream, Luke's head smashed onto a rock. He lost consciousness and his limp body rode the current further downstream. The supplies scattered, sank and released their contents into the moving water.

Four hundred years later, Maggie, a climatologist, drove her jeep down the dirt road alongside a shallow river. She shook her head for two reasons. The shoreline told the river's geological history. At one time, the river was five feet higher. The second reason was the pain behind her eyes. It was coming more often.

Maggie parked the jeep at a designated observation point where every ten years a scientist documented the changes in this remote section of the river due to global warming. She grabbed her laptop and set off on foot.

After fifteen minutes, she came across something that made her heart beat a little faster. She checked the previous report. There were no remarks pertaining to what she saw. The river had been high enough to cover it.

Maggie cursed the pain behind her eyes, ignored it and stepped into the water's edge. She took several pictures and sent them on to the university. She knew she shouldn't touch anything. But, the sparkle and color barely perceptible through a thin layer of mud was too curious for her to resist.

Maggie splashed water over the objects and, with a gentle touch, wiped the thin layer of mud off the objects. When she saw the large collection of amethyst, rose quartz and agate and sensed their energy, she thought, "It's a cache of healing crystals!" Then, feeling guilty for having touched them, she stood up. Her head spun and she almost lost her balance. When she recovered, she documented her find and continued on her walk.

A week later, while reviewing her assignment, one of her co-workers asked, "How is the pain behind your eyes? Are you going to a doctor soon?"

"I'm not going to bother with a doctor. I haven't had the pain in a week."

"Hmmm....And, you touched the healing crystals last week?"

"Yes. You don't think?"

2 Comments

The Saddest Man I Ever Met, by David Dumouriez

20/5/2022

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We had some problems with the TV aerial. It was complicated by the higgledy-piggledy nature of the apartment blocks. Ours was so old and rickety that each flat still had Constantinople over the door frame. The neighbouring building was taller and more modern. It was suggested that we pay a visit next door to discuss some kind of cable sharing arrangement. This was duly achieved. In fact, the elderly couple were extremely friendly, and I was surprised to find that the man spoke English of a more than passable standard. It turned out that he was a retired doctor and my impression was that this adjustment in his circumstances had sent him into a state of utter boredom. After decades of being consulted and respected, he was just another old man in a rooftop apartment, counting down the days of sunshine that still remained. He was pleased to welcome a stranger into his home, and was keen to keep the conversation going beyond the banalities of cables and satellite dishes. ‘Come and visit me anytime,’ he said to me as we left. And I could tell that this was more than just a pleasantry. More, in fact, like disguised desperation. Usually I take up these kinds of offers, when I can see it might be beneficial to another person or, from a more selfish angle, when he or she might promise to be particularly interesting. I can’t deny that he probably qualified in both categories, but for some reason I never went back. I do regret that. But, if it means anything at all, I’ve never been able to forget him.

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The Witch's Elixir, by Angela Carlton

13/5/2022

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You had to take the first sip, didn’t you?

It slid down your throat until a quick jolt moved through your bones. When you woke up later on the floor, she peered over you, this woman with a fat nose and squinty eyes. She looked familiar, one of those nosey coworkers. What the hell was her name? Your throat was sore and your head pounded.

“Where am I? Where is my wife?” your voice sounded, puny, hoarse.

“You mean that sweet, little thing with the doll eyes? Well, she fell for one of my tricks! She drank from the wrong cup, my love, tsk-tsk, such a pity, really, the doll was gullible but nothing you can do now!” Her laughter was nauseating, sharp.

You gritted your teeth and wished you could punch her but you couldn’t move your arms.

“And, you thought I was just another “boring girl” at work behind the computer in my cubicle but ahh, I studied black magic at night. That golden elixir you drank at the bar made you see what I wanted you to see.”

Your lips were so damn dry now. You were thirsty and her voice kept droning on-on-on.

“Remember dear, my magic worked at happy hour. Wasn’t my glossy, blonde hair and cleavage stunning? Oh yes, you fell for it so fast, and now you're here at my feet.”

“Where is my damn wife? Where?” you were spitting now, groaning.

“Oh, that, well,” she sighed. “It’s such a shame the doll made a stupid choice. She’s gone. But everyone knows there are no real happy endings,” her laughter filled the tiny room, rising higher-higher-higher.

“Maybe it’s a terrible, black dream?” It’s just a pathetic dream,” you mumbled.

You forced your eyes shut again and slipped away into a sweaty, blurry sleep but the witch, she was still there, laughing.

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Out of Luck, by Robert P. Bishop

13/5/2022

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The man sat on the sidewalk with his back against the shop’s brick wall, his head down, eyes closed, knees tucked under his chin, arms wrapped around his legs. A faded and worn backpack, likely containing everything he owned, lay next to him. The man didn’t look up as I neared. Perhaps he was asleep or praying to a god only he knew. The hand-lettered cardboard sign at his feet asked for money and ended with God Bless.

A black dog lying next to the man lifted its head and looked at me. I saw reproach in those eyes and a feeling of dread swept over me. I knew if that dog somehow gained the power of speech it would say, “You can ease the suffering of one of your tribe. You can be a better human being. It is not a difficult thing to do.”

But the dog didn’t speak. It dismissed me and rested its head on outstretched legs, closed its eyes and became still. The dog knew I was not going to help another of my kind down on his luck. As I walked away from the sleeping man I wondered which of us was the one whose luck had run out.

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13 Men, by Doug Bartlett

13/5/2022

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The sun was beginning to set and it would soon be Friday. The bedraggled men slowly made their way up the dilapidated stairs. They entered the room one by one and properly placed themselves at the dining room table, totalling thirteen in all. They all looked forward to this special meal, not just for its ceremonial significance but also that it would include meat, which was a luxury they could rarely afford.This would be their last meal they would enjoy together for quite some time.

Little did they know they were establishing the origination of a custom that would last for millenia.

Friday was nearly upon them, the number thirteen was hanging over them and death’s shadow was appearing upon the horizon. It was truly an eerie combination.

In a short period of time the leader of this motley crew would be dead.

He would experience an excruciating death that was beyond imagination.

Was the leader unlucky as we have come to associate Friday the thirteenth to be?

Or was He in complete control, voluntarily giving up His life for our benefit and later would return back to life?

Each one of us will make our own decision of which one it is.

It is a decision of tremendous magnitude.

Decide well my friend.

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Intelligent Design, by Jim Bartlett

6/5/2022

28 Comments

Malcolm tugs off his boots, stretches his arms across the back of the couch, and plants his socked – and sore – feet on the coffee table.

“I’m not sure how much longer I can take these twelve-hour shifts.” His words come out in a long sigh.

“Aren’t they going to hire more people?”

He gazes over at his wife, Ellen, just as she kicks her high heels in the general direction of their bedroom and plops onto the barstool. With her elbows propped on the counter and her hair still dripping wet from the rain, she looks as if she melted onto the chair rather than sat there.

“Fat chance. Rumor has it they’re planning to add robotics and AI. At this rate I’ll be sitting at some desk selling insurance next year instead of stacking boxes at the warehouse.” Straightening, he reaches down to the coffee table and flips open his laptop. “Or I’ll become a YouTuber.”

Ellen smiles, then spins around and picks up her phone. “I seem to remember reading something about AI and robotics.”

As she thumbs through her screen, Malcolm has a peek at the day’s depressing news. There are updates on the war. Articles on how the price of gas, along with everything else, continues to climb. But when his display fills with the image of Marjorie Taylor Greene, her picture much clearer than her memory, he shakes his head and shifts to things happening locally.

But it’s not any better. Another shooting, this one at a shopping mall. A man was crushed under a car trying to steal a catalytic converter. Parents in an outlying suburb have pulled their kids from school in protest of critical race theory.

“Enough,” he says, a little too loud.

Ellen looks up from her phone. “Enough?”

“Sorry. I just think we’re slowly going insane.”

“Slowly?” she asks with a sly smile.

Appalled by the news, he clicks on Facebook. But only a moment passes before he’s waving a dismissing hand at the screen. To the Keystone Kops theme music, a video plays showing “workers” setting one long ladder atop another, the bottom one balanced on a bucket, in the pretense of painting the upper part of a staircase. He knows exactly where this is headed. “I hate these reels and short videos. They’re worse than TikTok and Mark won’t let you permanently hide the damn things.”

“Mark? Oh, the Facebook guy.” She sits up in her chair. “I found it. There are some new advances on teaching AI how to reason. For us it’s intuitive, but in the world of bits and bytes, it’s much harder to master. They say if it takes, it won’t be long before robots and their AI minds will be more intelligent than us.”

Malcolm lets his stare fall to the laptop. A video is playing in which a woman is trying to dress a raccoon in a fairy costume. Wings and all.

“Hate to say this, but I think they already are.”

28 Comments

Sprite, by David Berger

6/5/2022

3 Comments

I can’t stand these freakin’ Sprites! I put up with ’em in the pantry and places like that, although I can do with without them in the bathroom. (They’re females after all, and a guy needs his privacy.) But this was too much. I come in from outside, make myself a cup of hot chocolate, check my messages, and there she is. And that hat! Where did she get that stupid hat?

“Out!” I said, “Before I get the swatter!”

“If you do, I’ll pee in your cocoa,” she said.

“It’s not cocoa. It’s hot chocolate.”

“Then I’ll pee in your hot chocolate.”

"Whatever.”

“What d’you mean, ‘Whatever’?” she said.

I reached down and picked up a marshmallow.

“Where’d you get that hat?” I asked.

“I knitted it myself. I make all my stuff.”

“Where’s the rest of your clothes?”

“Behind the cup. Turn around and I’ll get dressed.”

“First you bathe in my hot chocolate. Then you threaten to pee in it. Now you’re telling me what to do in my own kitchen!”

“Just turn around. I’m gonna get dressed and become human-sized.”

“You can do that?” I asked.

“Sure,” she said. “Turn around!”

I dutifully turned around and loudly whistled “Daisy, Daisy.”

“You can turn around,” she said.

She stood there, human sized, about five feet tall, wearing a onesie.”

“You look nice,” I said. “You wanna drink that hot chocolate?”

“Sure, she said. “Wait a minute, though. I gotta go pee.”

3 Comments

Hush and Shh, by Angela Carlton

6/5/2022

6 Comments

I didn’t know I could escape.

I didn’t know lipstick and heels could save me from your destruction. My first memory was you, being UP all day and night, for four days straight as a kid. There my mama was, sputtering, mumbling to a cheap floor lamp as if it were God above.

In the beginning, I sat in my pajamas with a plastic baby doll. Her eyes were a shiny copper color. It brought me warmth, as I whispered, “Hush and Shh, we don’t bother Mama,” until I passed out on the floor with no blankets.

Later, I watched them tie you to a gurney as I stood with my Grandmother hand in hand. I slept with my doll for eight more years until I found blue jean mini skirts, rock music, and boys.

By then you had been in and out of the hospital six times. Still, I was used to it, the way a gambler or a druggie can never seem to find their way. I found my power with make-up those glossy, sleek gowns. I walked stages under bright lights as the others judged me on articulation and poise.

And, then, wa-la, like that, there you were, with Grandmother looking all doe-eyed and feeble in the audience as I took a bow and made the final three.

One tear fell, then there were a few, rolling, slipping, quietly from your empty eyes.

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Mrs Job, by Myram Huey

6/5/2022

1 Comment

My dear husband, It grieves me to hear you lament so. That you should do so among those who call themselves your 'friends' is not more than I can bear, but it IS pretty galling. It's not that I begrudge their being privy to your innermost thoughts, nor that you allow these friends ample time to respond to your woes; it's that you do so and remain unmoved by the sheer guff that issues from their mouths! The man I married would have winced on hearing such cant! The man I married would not have taken counsel from a mere stripling who has, by his own account, been there, worn the tunic. There's many a thing the man I married would not have tolerated. But there you sit tolerating it! While all around you matters worsen. Your loved ones suffer; your house is broken. And these friends of yours gather round, solemn as owls, their voices stinking of print, their silences hopeless, as they sit there not listening to you but hearing you out! Husband, your lament is mine.

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Last Call, by Robert P. Bishop

6/5/2022

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It’s hot outside, 119 degrees and it is only mid-morning. The sun, blindingly white, uncaring and hanging in a pale blue sky, scorches a helpless earth drying and dying under its relentless blaze.

It’s too hot to sweat. It’s too hot to move, to breathe. I call the suicide hotline.
Can you hold?
No, I can’t hold.
I’m sorry sir. We have a backlog of callers.
Please don’t put me on hold.
Remain on the line, sir. The next available counselor will take your call.

After an hour I hang up, open a beer and press the cold bottle against my temple. I drink the beer then call the suicide hotline again. The line is busy. I hang up and look out the window. The streets are empty. There are no cars, no people, no dogs running loose over the hot pavements. Birds sitting on electric wires collapse and fall to the asphalt below, briefly flutter their wings then die in the ferocious heat.

I call again. The line is still busy. Everybody is inside calling the suicide hotline. I open another beer and press the cold bottle to my forehead. Tomorrow I will be the only one left alive.

How bad can that be?

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Home at Last, by Janice Siderius

29/4/2022

1 Comment

The car pulls into the rock-strewn parking lot. Lisa yanks on the parking brake and opens the door. She has finally made it. The long flight and the hair-raising drive south from Athens were all worth it.

She could smell the rosemary as she walked up the dirt path. Ahead the Mediterranean Sea glitters in the bright sunshine. And there it is, the ancient temple of Sounion.

Lisa remembers all the legends surrounding this ancient building. How Aegeus threw himself off the cliff and into the sea when he thought his son had died in Crete. Now the sea is named after him.

Lisa walks to the cliff and looks down. Yes, she thinks, no one would survive that fall. It makes her nervous just to stand and look over.

She turns to admire the temple itself. Ancient Athenian mariners, when they sailed past Sounion, knew they were almost home. Lisa feels the same as she walks up the steps and into cella of the ruins. Looking out at the legendary sea, she can visualize the triremes and other trading ships traveling to and from Piraeus.

What was it about this place that seemed so familiar, yet so disconcerting? Lisa has an eerie feeling that she lived here once before. As she begins to walk towards her parked car, she notices that the walkway is not dirt, it has paving stones. She looks down and realizes she is wearing sandals and her dress has become a chiton. Whatever or however this change has happened, she knows she is home at last.

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Dawn's Curiosity, by Deborah Shrimplin

29/4/2022

1 Comment

Twelve-year-old Dawn knew she was in trouble. She knew her mother had found out what she and her best friend, Muriel, had done. When she opened the front door, her mother was waiting for her.

"Muriel's mother called me and told me everything. I won't have you trying to sneak into the theater without paying. You're grounded! And, Muriel's mom said she saw you walking near the wall. Don't you even think of climbing over it."

"Mother, I can't even see over a twenty foot high wall. How would I climb over it? From the attic window, I can't see anything but darkness."

"Good. That wall was put up so long ago that no one knows if Time has been kind or not to the people living on the other side. No one wants to find out. It's better to leave it be."

At times like this when Dawn wanted to escape, she would sit among her Grandmother's collections and antiques stored in the attic. She liked slipping into a distant past. Today was one of those days when the past was brighter than any future.

Dawn climbed up to the attic and after sitting on the old couch for a few minutes, she paced the room. Then, she opened a small cabinet underneath the window. Inside she found an old box with a glass covering. There were a dozen butterflies mounted inside. She placed the box on the windowsill.

"What's this?" Dawn thought. "These butterflies are beautiful."

"Dawn, come down for dinner." her mother called.

"Coming."
*****
"This isn't fair. Grounded on New Year's Eve. I can't see any friends tonight." Dawn groused as she plopped down on the couch in the attic. She grabbed her smartphone and texted Muriel.

While texting her friend, the clock in her smartphone flashed the date and time. It was midnight.

"Happy New Year, my friend."

At that very moment, flickering lights appeared on the windowpane.

"What's that?" Dawn thought as she walked over to the window. "Oh, my. It's the reflection."

Inside the wooden box, the butterflies were wiggling and breaking free. They glistened with an inner light like fireflies.

Dawn lifted the lid. The butterflies fluttered in front of the pane.

"Oh, my God. They want out." Dawn thought. She opened the window and watched the butterflies fly beyond the backyard to the wall. When they flew over the wall, the small specks of light spread out in all directions.

Then, ever so slowly, the wall began to fade.

"It's disappearing!" Dawn exclaimed.

She ran to the attic door, raced down the stairs and out the front door. The sky beyond the wall was turning orange, pink and yellow.

Dawn gasped at the beauty, stood still and took a deep breath. With her heart racing and her mind in awe, she wondered, "Was Time kind to the people on that side of the wall?"

She ran to find out.

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Beyond the Veil, by Doug Bartlett

29/4/2022

16 Comments

Everywhere I go I am surrounded by the stench of death. It’s in the newspaper and in the news on television. Those are people I don’t even know. I can’t get away from it. I receive texts and phone calls telling me of friends or relatives that have passed. Death seems to be lurking around every corner.

I know it’s just a matter of time and it will be my turn to leave. The older I get the more aware I am of that fact.

My friend Joe has noticed the same thing that I have when it comes to death. However, Joe becomes very uncomfortable discussing the topic of death and usually tries to avoid it at all costs.

Joe asked me, “How do you stay so calm when discussing death? It makes me nervous and anxious.”

“Why do you think it does that??”

“Because of the unknown. Nobody knows for sure what it’s like. Death is like going behind a thick veil and I don’t know what’s on the other side. How do you deal with it?”

“Well even though I don’t know exactly what’s on the other side, I do know Who is on the other side and that makes all the difference.”

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Endless Lives, by D. M. Clarke

29/4/2022

1 Comment

I sit in the bathroom reading while I take care of business.
Reaching the end of the chapter I decide it's time for me to leave the room.
I turn the book over. It's pre-owned and has an old yellowing sticker on its rear. Far broader than it is tall, I peel the sticker off.
As one does, I roll it up between my thumb and forefinger along its longest edge. I do it slightly off-axis to form a spiraling cone that tapers at the end. It looks a little like a rifle bullet in its casing.
I am the only person who will ever see this spiral.
This spiral is made from paper. That paper is from a tree that died.
The glue is partially formed from rubber, from oil, from long-dead creatures.
Endless lives have now culminated into this minuscule new form that I have constructed as a simple, passing enjoyment.
I am the only person who will ever see it.
I consider putting it in the trash. Its life has been lived and is now done.
But I don't.
I keep it.
It is mine alone.

1 Comment

The Gift, by Gabrielle Park

29/4/2022

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Ella sighed, peering into the shop’s window. Being Christmas day, she wanted to buy her older brother, Tim, a new watch chain.

Walking home, Ella passed a hair salon. A hairdresser took one glance at Ella’s long, flowing hair, she said, “You have such beautiful hair. We’ll buy it! Twenty dollars.”

Ella would be losing her hair but receiving money for the gift. It was a small sacrifice.

Ella quickly purchased the watch chain. It was perfect.

She arrived home and waited for her brother. The door opened, and Tim came in.

Tim looked at Ella. “You cut your hair.”

“Sold it.”

“Ella, I don’t mind how you look, but...Merry Christmas”

Tim gave her a package from his pocket. Ella ripped the wrapping and let out an ecstatic scream of joy. On the table lay a pair of combs. Ella hugged them. “Thank you! I have wanted these for years!”

“You must see my present.” She flashed out the watch chain.

“Ella, I sold my watch to get enough money for your combs.” Smiling, Tim added, “It was worth the sacrifice. Let’s use our gifts to remind us of each other.”

The next day, Ella pinned her combs up to her short hair. Walking around, everyone’s eyes were on her. Ella was the center of attention.

That night, Tim smiled. “I wore the watch chain today. Stuck it on and went to work at the newspaper company. I was about to print the paper when a man named Hans Wilsdorf walked in, yelling that I should print his part of the paper too. I was getting curious why he was desperate, so I read his article. He’s going to start a watch company, and he needs some watchmakers.

“I accidentally tripped, and a stack of newspapers fell down. Hans helped me pick it up. He asked about my watch chain, and we talked. He heard my story, offering to teach me how to make watches. He asked me if I wanted to join his business at the watch company. I’ve always wanted to be an engineer, so I took the job on the spot.”

In the morning, Ella went outside with the same hairstyle as the day before. Women were wearing combs in their short hair. Jogging up to a newspaper stand, the first thing Ella saw was the headline in bold: Local Girl Sets Up New Short Trimmed Hair Fashion Trend.

Amazingly, Ella’s misfortune had become a benefit. Everyone wanted Ella’s fashion advice.

Meanwhile, Tim was at the watch shop, talking with Hans.

“I have to tell you, Tim, that your watches are one of a kind, and the best. Right now, our business is small. I was hoping you could stay with us. Our company is going to get big soon, I just know it.”

“Now, we need a name. Tim, what’s your family name? I remember hearing it somewhere, thinking that it was onomatopoeic like a watch ticking.”

Tim smiled. “Rolex.”

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Mr Edward and Dr Henry, by Myram Huey

22/4/2022

4 Comments

First of all, it's not true that the good doctor and I are one and the same person. That was a rumour put about by inkshitters with vested interests. That the good doctor and I are acquainted is merely a fact, simple as any other. We don't mix in the same circles. We don't correspond. What he Henry does is his business, what I do is mine. We've kingly names in common, that's about it. Edward and Henry. But I'm no more Henry than Henry is me. He's who he is, I'm who I am. Whatever dealings we have . . .are more in the way of research. Yes, I aid him with his research now and then. He likes to keep these things private. Poor unhappy Henry. The good doctor. Got a doctor's face. Maybe he practices the kind look in a mirror. In fact I know he does. Catch ol' Henry unobserved, you'll hear him muttering to himself. Catch him before a mirror, you'll see quite the production: right profile, left profile, straight ahead; face mid-peroration; or smiling its broadest, or looking pensive or concerned. The Henry everybody knows. - Those who think they know Henry. Henry thinks he knows me. Very unwise. Too clever for his own good. Too much in his own mind, that's Henry. Thinks himself a good judge of character. Has the ease of a man comfortable in his own skin.

Yet he persists in addressing me as MISTER. After all this time. Never Edward. It's always MISTER Hyde.

4 Comments

Caring by Sharing, by Jeremy Leariwala

22/4/2022

3 Comments

On a quiet overcast evening, Dave sat inside La Beer Point. Therein, apart from Carolina, were two stocky, coat-clad old men and a shy-looking lady, seated by the door. He surfed through the internet-thanks to the free Wi-Fi, hunting for knowledge. An enlightened man is a rich man, isn’t it?

“I am almost through…” A voice said forcing Dave to look up.

From his position, Dave saw what the trio was up to.

“Do you think your style is working?” Man-2 asked.

“I have got it already!” His friend declared.

Dave stole a glance at Carolina, but she was paying no attention-busy with her cash register machine. He went back to watching the three strangers, burning with an overwhelming urge to interrupt them. An embarrassing encounter, a few weeks back, when he poked his nose into someone’s argument, was still fresh in his mind.

One of the men was bent over a wine bottle. He was engrossed in a battle he was not willing to lose-removing the cork so as to access its content. As a repeat victim, Dave was aware of the difficulty of uncorking a wine bottle the way the old man was going. Wishing he could intervene, he bid his time, peeking every few seconds. Five minutes later, there was applause. Man-1 had triumphed!

***

Once half the wine was gone, Dave summoned Carolina and sent her over to request for some audience with the group. They had no objection.

“A close friend of mine showed me a trick to open a wine bottle.” Dave said and picked the remaining piece of the cork from the table. Although it was badly mutilated, it could still serve him. He pushed the cork down the bottle’s neck. None of the three spoke. Next he picked the Corkscrew opener.

Carolina watched from the counter. Dave stuck the tip of the worm into the top of the cork and rotated it clockwise, slowly at first.

“This is just one of the ways. The easiest of all…” Dave went on. Once half of the screw was buried in the bottle, he stopped. He propped the hooked boot-lever against the lip of the bottle and gently pulled up the handle. The cork eased its way upwards, and…

POP!

“OH MY GOD!” The woman gasped. Her male companions exchanged glances, sheepish smiles crawling over their faces.

“For very many years, I struggled with opening wine bottles until my friend came to my rescue a couple of days ago.” Dave concluded and placed the opener down on a serviette.

“Wow, that is amazing!”

“Thanks for the audience. Enjoy your night!” Dave walked back to his place feeling so good that he’d just shared some knowledge…

3 Comments

Eternal Bliss, by Doug Bartlett

22/4/2022

16 Comments

He enters the lobby with the pomp and ceremony of a king surrounded by his generals. The clerk approaches him.

“Yes sir, welcome to the Hotel California, how may I help you?”

I am checking in.”

“Yes sir, and the name?”

“Putin, Vladimir Putin.”

“Oh yes, we’ve been expecting you, Mr. Putin. Please follow me. We have reserved a room for you in a very special section of our facility.”

The clerk walks down a long, dimly lit hallway and then pulls out a large skeleton key from his pocket and begins to unlock a very heavy door that has the name “Gehenna” deeply etched into it. Suddenly and violently the door swings open as the force and heat not unlike a blast furnace explodes through the doorway knocking the clerk off his feet. Extremely hot steam rises as well as the screams of agony from the tormented souls below. The clerk rises to his feet and tries to regain his composure.

“Mr. Putin, I think you’ll be impressed with how organized we are here, '' the clerk comments as they descend the steps down into the darkness. The lower they go the higher the temperature and at one point the pungent smell of sulfur invades their nostrils to the point they can barely breathe.

Eventually they come to a place where their blood begins to boil and it feels like red-hot spikes are being driven into their heads from all angles. Putin tries to leave but it is as if some unseen power forces him to continue on.

“Here we go. This is your room.We do things alphabetically here and if you notice Mr. Putin, your room is located between Mr. Hitler’s and Mr. Stalin’s. Please don’t forget our motto,
“You can check out any time you like but you can never leave.”

16 Comments

Spirits in the Sky, by Angela Carlton

22/4/2022

6 Comments

She escaped with stories. As a child, she sat under pine trees with the whistle of the wind and got lost with Charlotte, Wilbur and Brer Rabbit. As a teen, she tucked herself away with Tom Sawyer, Scout and Holden Caulfield between the thick covers with a journal and one pen.

Life was messy otherwise. Her mother talked to herself and spit her meds in the garbage. She screamed at the sky in her nightgown and directed her anger toward a spirit in the sky. She wandered the streets in the same filthy nightgown until her feet were swollen and blue as the daughters tears fell into her sweet tea, and rolled onto the white pages gaining strength, and momentum as the years passed.

Language and books were teachers, her mother as she rose up-up-up with the wind, into the sky, among the spirits until the words flew right off her tongue and leaped off the page.

Someone listened.

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The Coin Purse, by NT Franklin

15/4/2022

2 Comments

The coin purse among the flotsam and jetsam strewed along the beach caught Mildred’s eye. Actually, it was the reflection off the clasp that drew her attention. When she picked it up, the pungent odor repulsed her, and she held it at arm’s length. She brought it closer to inspect it. The clasp was gold, maybe 18 carat, and it was bright and sparkly in the sun. She tried to open the purse, but her finger brushed against the wet, slimy suede side, and she let go of her treasure. She turned her hand over and studied the pad of her little finger. It was glowing, smoking, and was giving off an astringent smell. And it hurt like the dickens. She looked at the coin purse and it started to sidle away on its own, leaving a wide trail on the soft sand.

Mildred took a step back and the pain in her finger subsided. She took several more steps back and her finger immediately started to heal before her eyes. She cocked her head. She knew that coin purse. It belonged to her mother’s sister, Claudia. But Claudia was buried with it. Mildred blinked. She stepped closer to retrieve the object, but stopped before she could reach it. Her finger where she touched the coin purse started glowing and smoking again, so she stepped back.
Mildred looked around. It was the same park she’d visited almost every day for the past 10 years. She watched as the coin purse slowly made its way back to the ocean. Plopped on a comfortable rock, she watched for the next hour until it had returned to the ocean and went out of sight under water. Her mother always said Claudia was a witch. Maybe she was.

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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.

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