Longer Stories

Grift, by Michael Roberts

11/6/2021

I’m nervous, if you want to know the truth.
I’m in a shady part of town, surrounded by a lot of people I’d rather not be surrounded by, truth be told.
I’m sure some of them are probably friends of the guys we just robbed.
For some reason, our pickup guy got the wrong street and now we’ve got a dozen blocks to walk through, before the guys we robbed let their friends know what we did and they come looking
And I’m carrying about a million dollars in seeds in a baggy.
Yeah, you heard that right.
Swazi Black.
Well, Swazi Silver Black to be precise.
If you’re not into smoking weed, you’ve probably never heard of it but it is the holy grail of Cannabis, the last of the legendary land-race cannabis strains to be actually found.
Travis McGee supposedly smuggled them out of Swaziland in the early 70s, inside a couple 35mm Black and White film canisters.
Rumour is that the silver in the film tainted the seeds’ genetics but made it super potent.
Supposedly Travis wanted to try it out and grew one plant, as a test.
The weed that came from it was supposedly the best weed out there that summer.
Even Jagger and Richards supposedly wanted to get some.
I’m using the word ‘supposedly’ a bit too much you say?
Well, I have to because we’ll never know for sure what went down that summer.
We know that McGee partnered up with Marty Davis, a weed grower up in the mountains.
We know that the Feds got wind of what Marty and McGee were up to and raided their ‘office’.
Marty went one way and McGee the other, right into Federal Custody, where he served 20 years, before dying of cancer in a federal hospital ward.
Marty disappeared, along with the seeds.
And Swazi Silver Black disappeared off the face of the planet just like that.
Until a couple years ago.
Legalization brought a lot of people out of the woodwork.
The internet gave them a forum with which to discuss their love and expertise of cannabis.
And to run a con.
The guy we stole the seeds from?
Connor Davis, Marty’s grandson.
So he says.
He could be lying, like I am about being McGee’s son.

The plan was simple, really.
Get to know Connor, convince him that I’m McGee’s grandkid and that resurrecting the McGee-Davis partnership would be the greatest thing since sliced bread, meet up with him, steal the seeds in Nebraska, where cannabis is illegal and sell them to a grower in Colorado, where it’s legal.
Davis can’t say shit about it without getting busted for possession.
And who cares?
He’s a little punk who got lucky because he’s sitting on a gold mine that his grandfather stole from ‘mine’
Do I care about the real McGee?
Not really.
I just appreciate the opportunity this gives me.
It’s a great con, if I do say so myself.

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The Workshop, by Jim Bartlett

11/6/2021

20 Comments

As Kyle rounds the corner of his parents’ house, he sees his dad standing atop a ladder, hanging the pipe chimes they made back when he was, what, ten? He smiles, then, dancing between his mom’s potted plants, continues across the deck, grabbing hold of the ladder to help steady it.

“Well, look what the cat dragged in. Thought you and Maggie were taking the kids out to pizza tonight.”

“Maggs had to work late, and the boys are doing a sleepover at their bud’s house.”

Stepping off the ladder, he chuckles. “So having been abandoned by everyone, you had to settle for your old man’s company?”

Kyle takes in a long breath. “Actually, I need some advice.”

“Shoot.”

“You remember my teens, and maybe my early twenties...”

His dad’s eyebrows raise. “How could I forget?”

“Yeah, yeah, I know. I guess I wasn’t exactly the best son. Or even a good person.”

His father puts a hand on Kyle’s shoulder. “We all make bad choices now and again. I know I sure did. You turned it around, that’s all that matters.”

“But, for some reason lately it’s all I think about. I know I’m a good dad and husband—“

“And son...”

“Thanks. But I just die when those days steal my thoughts.”

His father nods. “Follow me.”

They cross the deck dropping down to the side entrance of his dad’s massive workshop. As the door is opened, and the lights thrown on, Kyle is taken aback. He’d forgotten how big the shop really was. Standing in the doorway, he can’t help but stare. Tools of every imaginable kind line the walls, while woodworking and metal-shaping machinery fill the floor. There’s an array of winches and lifts for working on cars taking up the middle, and a paint booth to the back. He remembers painting his first car - a Datsun clunker that barely ran. Candy apple red. Though his father said nothing at the time, his face clearly spoke for him.

“Money down the drain.”

They stop at a workbench to the front, a tall shelf just behind filled with the toys and projects they used to make together so long ago. That is, until he became a teen...

His dad motions Kyle closer, then points out into the shop. “Okay, got pretty much every tool known to mankind here, tell me which one you need.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Gotta be something in here that we can use to wrench out those bad memories.”

“Well, no...”

“Right answer. The past is past. Not one thing here, or anywhere else on this good Earth, can change a single minute long gone. It’s all dust in the wind.”

“Kansas.”

“Yup.” Smiling, he pokes Kyle’s forehead, then his chest. “Look here, my wayward son, if you fill your head and heart with yesterdays, you’ll never have a stitch of room for today. Or for that lovely wife and those great boys. Let yesterday go. We kinda like having you around today.”

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Holiday Escape, by Mary Wallace

11/6/2021

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“Should we ask the Captain to go back for him?” Doreen asked earnestly.
Maud looked at the deserted rear deck which had been their perfect relaxing spot to soak up the sun and have a good gossip. Until George had discovered them! Maud’s husband George was like a black cloud sprinkling doom all over their hard earned slice of paradise.
Doreen and Maud had saved for years to take this cruise through the Greek Isles. Their cabin was miniscule but the weather, and the wine, were perfect. Two weeks without the stress of cooking meals, or being asked to care for sick grandchildren. Just two friends escaping.
Doreen was the lucky one, it was easier for her to escape; Bert had passed away four years ago. She and Maud had planned the trip over coffee, two days after Bert’s funeral.
Maud still had George. She had come home on the day of the funeral and looked at George stretched on the couch, his thin strands of hair combed over in a failed bid to disguise his bald crown.
“Get us a beer love,” had been his greeting. Not one word about the service or how her best friend was coping. Maud decided to escape.
They told no one. Maud switched to no name supermarket brands and pocketed the savings from her housekeeping budget. Gorge paid no attention to what she cooked anyway..The savings increased slowly. The friends celebrated when the final stamp was placed on their passports. George didn’t bat an eyelid when he was told the grandchildren had measles and Maud would need to be away for two weeks.
“I suppose I’ll have to eat at the pub,” he made it sound as if he was sacrificing himself.
Maud had underestimated George though. For all their secrecy, when the ship had docked at Mykonos, there was George, floral shirt straining across his large belly and what resembled a dead animal attached to the top of his head.
“Not a wig,” he insisted, “a toupee”, he boasted, rhyming it with tee-pee. “I’ll share your cabin; after all my money paid for it.” He was at his most obnoxious.
Doreen and Maud did their best to ignore George as he strutted around,”checking out the talent,” as he called the other female passengers. They retreated to their quiet spot to discuss the problem. George followed, fiddling with his new hair in the breeze.
“I’ll need the cabin if I score.” George trying to sound like James Dean was too much for Doreen and Maud, they broke into a fit of laughter. George turned back angrily, his progress interrupted by a gust of wind that took his hair over the railing.The two friends were in hysterics, tears streaming down their faces.
“My toupee,” George screamed, climbing after it and losing his footing.
“Well should we?” Doreen repeated looking at the water, “ask the Captain I mean.”
Maud, still chuckling, wiped her eyes. “Perhaps later love, it's almost happy-hour.”

11 Comments

The Waitress’s Note with the Receipt, Angela Carlton

11/6/2021

12 Comments

Max,
I glow a bit when you sit in my section. I wait around again for our lunches or sometimes a long dinner. Most of the time, I find myself undressing you. I think of tracing my finger ever so lightly, circling your arm, creeping down-down until I reach your thigh. I love the way you glare at me with those “icy blues.” Maybe you can read mine and you’ll get warm as the blood rushes-rushes like hot lava. It’s all those thoughts that make me dizzy, sweaty, aching for the unknown.

Your laughter seems to say, “Ain’t got no worries, Babe,” and I smile for hours. When you move, it’s with great ease, that coolness that seems to set me free. When you whisper those lyrics from certain songs, it gives me chills. I write this to tell you, if you ever truly let me in, you won’t need that booze, junk, the damn coke anymore the way my Dad did. The earth tends to rattle and spin when you experience the power of real connection. You see what it means to unleash and sink into someone who has the same heavy vibe and flow much like lava and the sea.

It's a better high Max, a brand new one.

Will we come up if we dive into deep waters?? Maybe, maybe not?

Still, I know there’s a part of you who wants to stay buttoned up and coast along. It’s easier to sit around with old comforts. Isn’t it? It’s easier just to play it safe by the shore. Ultimately, there are some of us who will never leave the shore.

But...

12 Comments

Togetherness, by Michael Mitchell

11/6/2021

1 Comment

“Fred Potton! I want a word with you!”

“Yes, Love.”

“I never expected to say this, but I don’t like the way you gaze at Lizzie McDougal down at the bowls club. And I’m not the only one who thinks you’re paying her too much attention.”

“It’s nothing, Love. She’s just a very friendly, happy person.” He paused and looked at the ceiling. “And I was asked… by the club captain to… give her a bit of coaching. Honestly, there’s nothing more to it.”

Fred had been studying cruise brochures for some weeks.

Welcome to sailing from Southampton to New York on a Transatlantic Crossing…
Find your perfect cruise… be carried away in the spirit of celebration…

He had decided that Cunard offered unmissable deals on double cabins and incomparable tradition. His mind was made up. But he knew Dorothy had some odd ideas about ships and the sea. “Idiosyncratic” he called her. What if she wouldn’t go?

As he finished his morning coffee, he closed his eyes and imagined the gentle, soothing motion of a great liner in mid-Atlantic. The waiter refilled his glass. At his side a lady companion in raptures over a new wardrobe and a real reason to dress up. This was the life…

A lop-sided smile lit up his face and he began to snore.

“Are you OK, Fred?”

……………

Later Dorothy poured afternoon tea.

“Dorothy, this cruise idea,” (He only called her Dorothy when he had something really serious to say.) “I can’t put it off any longer. We need a change of routine, a new, challenging experience. This COVID stuff is getting to us, limiting our horizons, making us cantankerous.”

Dorothy thought of Channel ferries and island-hopping in Greece. Then she wondered why Fred was suddenly so oratorical and what cantankerous meant. She winced.

“Isn’t it a bit risky, Fred? I never was the world’s greatest sailor, and I don’t think I could face being cooped up with all those other people in a tin box.”

“This isn’t a tin box, Love, it’s the Queen Mary 2. World class. All mod cons and all necessary precautions.”

“Well, I’m not at all sure. I need to sleep on it.”

“Think on, Love. And remember that you’re not as old as me. We’re neither of us getting any younger. If I don’t do it soon maybe I never will. If you won’t come…” He stood up suddenly and went into the garden for a cigarette.

A week later an imposing envelope plopped onto the mat. From Cunard: “Final reductions. Few cabins remaining.”

Dorothy was making lunch.

“Now then, Dorothy. Are you coming to New York? Or... or should I …”

Liz McDougal walked past the kitchen window on her way to the bowls club.

1 Comment

Another Queen of Hearts, by Susan Fairfax Reid

11/6/2021

7 Comments

Her personal secretary's hands shook as she showed the ecru envelope to the hot-tempered Queen of Hearts. "That looks like an invitation," said the Queen, raising her thinly- pencilled eyebrows. "Do you know what it is"?
"I do," Your Majesty, "the secretary said in a trembling voice. "Open it, you stupid woman, and read it to me," the illiterate Queen glowered from her private quarters in the palace.
"The Duke and Duchess of Sussex invite you to the christening of their daughter Lilibet Diana at their home at 2 p.m July 20 in Santa Barbara, California. Transportation will be arranged. Please R.S.V.P.
Sitting on a sofa the queen was a colorful decoration, looking like a portrait in her multicolored Victorian jacket. Typical of that period in England, the jacket had puffy sleeves and raised shoulders.
Her Majesty's red hair, piled high on her head and brushed away from her face, flattered her made up face but couldn't hide her horridness.
"Of course, they want me there," said the Queen. "They surround themselves with famous people. I've been famous for decades for my 'Off with their heads' execution orders. Send my acceptance, and get out of my private quarters immediately," she said. "And take my tea with you. It tastes like someone emptied the sugar bowl in it."
The stiff, square Queen, who had been placed on the sofa, began her plans. "My hair stylist must go with me," she thought, "even though the hairspray smells worse than dead meat in the smokehouse.
"My makeup artist must travel with me, too. She paints my lips into a red heart, lines my eyes and eyebrows, pencils a beauty mark below one of my eyes, and shadows my eyelids blue.
"Then I'll tell the dressmakers to sew an outfit
for me to wear to this historical event. If they make one single mistake, I'll say, 'Off with their heads.' Who cares about their lives"?

The Queen spent most days on the velvet sofa flanked by two pillows. The cozy look lured new servants to rest against the Queen's square stuffed body, and adjacent pillows. "Get off of me, you ignorant fool," she screamed. "Don't you know I'm the Queen of Hearts, and you are my servants The nerve of you," she said, golden sparks flashing from her small, brown eyes.
A week later, the secretary rushed in with another ecru envelope, catching her breath. "Open it, and read it, you simple woman," shrieked the Queen. Her uniformed bodyguard covered his ears with his white-gloved hands, knowing what was about to happen.
"The letter says you can't go to the christening," said the secretary. "How dare they,"
the Queen snarled, poking her upturned nose into the air. "Is it because I am the Queen of Heart and my husband rules The House of Playing Cards and not the House of Windsor?"
"No, Your Majesty," she said, smiling like the Cheshire Cat. "It's because you are a silly little decorative pillow."

7 Comments

Jack, by Marjan Sierhuis

11/6/2021

10 Comments

He enters the private room while medicinal smells creep under his mask and tease his olfactory receptors.

His solemn gaze shows concern as it settles on his wife’s petite form and pale face. Her chest barely rises and falls with every breath. Once filled with vitality, her body is now motionless under white hospital sheets.

He walks to the bedside and calls out her name. But Michaela remains silent, and her eyes stay shut.

After a restless hour at his wife’s side, Jack runs fingers through his salt-and-pepper hair, and he shakes his head.

He hates this pandemic and feels life isn’t fair. With his heart pounding in his chest, he pulls off his mask, takes a deep breath, and bends down. He gently kisses Michaela’s forehead, and whispers in her ear, “I love you.”

He fails to see a tear roll down her cheek as his childhood sweetheart takes her final breath.

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Knock Knock, by Miya Yamanouchi

5/6/2021

3 Comments

Wind blew the door open and Death came waltzing in.

He looked her up and down.

“So. Did you do everything you wanted to? Achieve all your dreams, use all your talents? Say all you could’ve said, been all you could’ve been?”

He examined her more closely, with narrowed eyes. “And those natural gifts nobody has but you. Did you use them?”

She shook her head. “I was too afraid—I didn’t want to force things—I knew I’d have a long time to try.”

“Mm.” Death lit a cigarette and nodded. “And now? Now do you have time?”

“It’s just that, I’ve been waiting around for things to happen for me, I think— give me another decade—I’ll do everything I’m supposed to—I’ll fulfil my purpose.”

Death scoffed. “A decade?” He puffed smoke into her face. “Nah. I’ll give you a year.”

“A year? What can I possibly do in a year?”

Death shrugged. “Make it count. I rarely give extensions.”

3 Comments

A Special Donation, by Heather Robinson

4/6/2021

2 Comments

“It has been authenticated. The provenance is unassailable,” the Museum Director told the Head of Special Collections.
“But… I… it is a very unusual object and one not in keeping with the rest of our collection.”
“I understand that. However, I’m sure you know that its display would guarantee a massive new audience whose interests we don’t currently address. I believe we should accept it gracefully and with enthusiasm.”
“We would need to limit its viewing to adults, of course. Has it been sufficiently sterilized?”
“Of course. And I never said that it should be available to all our patrons. In fact, I’m wondering whether we couldn’t develop a small secure area that includes similar objects. Perhaps we could take over the space now occupied by the Franco collection. Has anyone even been in there in the past few months?”
“There has been a decline in enthusiasm for Mr. Franco’s sketchbooks and journals.
“They are indecipherable.”
“True, true. However, you’re going to have to present this idea at our semi-annual meeting next month. I hardly know how our managers will respond.”
“As you know, the pandemic has left us in a critical financial state. This donation could change that. People will flock to see it. They will view our institution in a different light, and it will provide the funds we need to grow.”
“It has gems embedded in it.”
“Quite. You do recall the Huysman exhibit at the Musee D’Orsay? They included a replica of Montesquiou’s jewel-encrusted tortoise.”
“That was a tortoise. This is a – I can’t say it.”
“Ms. Nin was particularly fond of it."

2 Comments

Ready-Fire, by M.D. Smith

4/6/2021

2 Comments

It was the first time we’d been hunting with Mardis and his new, though used, Benjamin Pump air rifle. It was the first gun any of us owned powerful enough to kill a squirrel. We’d only owned Daisy BB guns up to now. Hunting in the woods behind my house with Hayes, the three of us kept sharp lookouts, silently plodding along.

“There’s one,” I whispered.

Mardis had already put the maximum of eight pumps on the Benjamin, and it was ready. He lowered the muzzle as he squinted to see in the cover.

Just as Mardis said, “I see him,” Hayes and I saw the BB drop from the barrel on the ground. Hayes snatched it up.

“The BB came out.”

Mardis already had the squirrel in his sights and said, “Drop it in the barrel. I don’t want to lose him in the cover.”

Hayes moved the BB toward the mouth of the barrel with his thumb and forefinger.

“Tell me when it’s in,” Mardis said with one eye closed, sights on the squirrel.

“Okay,” Hayes said as he dropped the BB.

The air rifle cracked the instant after the word, but Hayes’s forefinger was still there.

Blood spurted everywhere as he shrieked and shook his hand.
“You shot a hole by damn finger, idiot. I said I’d tell you when I had loaded it.”

“But you said, ‘Okay,’” Mardis replied.

2 Comments

Lou Lou, by Angela Carlton

4/6/2021

11 Comments

My Aunt mumbles during our visits. She talks to the sky. I take her to lunch once a week. She calls me “Lou Lou,” a nickname from childhood even though my name is Anna. I’m one of the few she trusts. Mostly, she talks about the FBI and the four banks that have all her money. She might break into a show tune or a love song at the table. Sometimes, she falls asleep in front of her spaghetti. Her mind’s on overdrive, you see, and she’s weary. She’s weary from all the medicine and lack of sleep. She’s weary from a heart that beats wildly with fear and a mind that has let her down her entire life, but I won’t.

If she looks lost, I immediately come up with a wisecrack to make her laugh, the kind where she shuts her eyes and covers her lips like a tiny child.

“Auntie,” I might say, “Don’t fall asleep in your pasta, your lazy niece wants to snatch it for dinner.” Other times I might reach across the table and touch her hand so she knows I’m there. When her eyes sparkle, she’s having a good day, but if she looks right through me and covers her ears, I know there is a storm inside her that is rolling, roaring and it’s loud-loud.

Today, she says, “I remember the day you were born, it was like I floated with the clouds and swallowed the sun. I felt happy.”

And, so we walk on, we walk together, my Aunt and me, we walk into the parking lot, arm and arm with the cool breeze that tickles our skin to remind us we are alert and we’re alive.

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None of Us are Really Lucky, by Daniel Hybner

4/6/2021

4 Comments

The one crayon I brought broke half way through. I picked up the two pieces and tore the paper off both before getting back to work. That actually made it a little easier.

“I’m sorry I’m a few days late. I tried to get here Monday. I don’t know what happened.”

As I worked, an old man in uniform walked up behind me.

“Friend of yours?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Afghanistan?”

“Iraq.”

He looked down at me with the most knowing eyes I’d ever seen. His cane wobbled as he sat down beside me.

“Got too many of those of my own,” he said, a little out of breath from sitting down. “Used too many crayons myself.”

“He was my best friend, actually. Went in together. I watched him-” I don’t know why I blurted that out to him, but my words trailed off before I could finish. I dropped the crayon in the process.

The old man picked it up and began working with it slowly as I helped him hold the piece of paper in place. I could tell he’d done this many times before. Even though he was a bit shaky, the half he did was much cleaner than mine.

“Is he the only one you have to do?” he asked as he finished up.

“Yes, sir.”

“I’d say you’re lucky," he chuckled. "But none of us are really lucky, are we?”

I wasn’t sure how to answer him, so I said the only thing that came to mind.

“We’re lucky to be alive, aren’t we?”

He got to his feet. I did the same. He shook my hand and saluted my friend before he started walking off. He didn’t get too far before he paused, looked over his shoulder, and said, “Try to come on Monday next year. Don’t know if I’ll be here or not, but there's a whole lot more of us here that day who know that none of us, them or guys like you and me, are really lucky.”

I looked down at the grave rubbing in my hands. I traced the letters of my best friend’s name with my finger.

I made it out. He didn’t. All I had left of him now was this crayon rubbing of his name from his headstone.

Part of me knew the old man was right. None of us are really lucky.

4 Comments

The X Factor, by Doug Bartlett

4/6/2021

13 Comments

Mark and John were good friends and were seniors at the same high school. School was getting boring for them and they decided to take a day off. There was a lake nearby and they both loved to fish. They gathered their gear and off they went. When they got to the marina they rented a boat and tried several spots to fish but without success. They finally ended up in a shady cove near some tall reeds. They began catching fish one after another and in no time had reached their limit of some of the largest fish they had ever caught.

“We need to mark this spot so we can come back here next time,” Mark exclaimed.

“I’ll take care of it,” John responded.

Driving back home Mark asked John how he had marked the spot.

“ I put a large X on the side of the boat,” John stated.

“ You idiot, “ Mark exclaimed, “ What if we don’t get the same boat next time?

13 Comments

Another Chance, by Sivan Pillai

4/6/2021

8 Comments

The restaurant was crowded. I nodded my consent when the waiter asked me if another customer could share my table.
The newcomer was middle-aged, and seemed vaguely familiar, but I could not place him. I thanked the waiter with a broad smile when he came with my order.
“Do you remember me, Sir?” my tablemate asked me. I shook my head, looking closely at him from above my spectacles.
“My name’s Joseph, Sir. I was your student.”
“Glad to hear that. When?”
He told me.
“What do you do now?”
“I’m a teacher. And, Sir, it was you who inspired me to choose that career.”
“Very interesting. How’s that?”
He told me.
The incident happened years ago when he was a seventh-class student. The school was patronized mostly by the poor. Hardly any student came well-dressed. Most of the writings were done on slates and only some important notes were taken on notebooks with pencils. Except for one Arun, whose uncle, foreign-employed, had given him a fancy pen with four refills of different colours. Joseph wanted that pen from the moment he saw it. One day he stole it from Arun’s bag and hid it in his pocket. It didn’t take much time for Arun to find the pen missing and complain to me, the teacher.
All students were asked to stand up and close their eyes while I checked. Soon I found the pen in his pocket. To his surprise, I continued the search silently without making any announcement.
“Now you can open your eyes”, I had said, “Arun, here’s your pen”.
There was no mention of the thief though every student expected it. I could have exposed him as the thief, taken him to the principal, shamed him in front of all, but had done nothing of the sort.
“That was the day I wanted to be a teacher like you. However, please don’t tell me you don’t remember me, Sir. It was from my pocket that you found the pen.”
“I remember the incident but not the culprit. I, too, had closed my eyes while searching.”
I had done nothing like that but had kept mum to give him another chance.

8 Comments

Nana from the Dreamscape, by Jennifer Kim

28/5/2021

7 Comments

“Nana,” the watcher whispered. “Lift your hand and catch a kite tail!”
The amorphous bubble floating before the watcher cocked its shape sideways in curiosity. It wondered, "Why are you suddenly calling me Nana? You’ve called me 'aspen' and 'butterfly' before, but never 'Nana.'”
“You’ll know why in a moment. But look up, now,” the watcher replied, her wings crossing a tad impatiently.
Nana looked up to see several billion kites streaming brilliantly across a golden sunset. Each kite was a spaceship, promising to take unformed souls to existing worlds to “live life,” whatever that meant.
The watcher, whom we might recognize as “angel” and “atom,” waited anxiously. Her feathery white eyelashes fluttered, and powdery stardust fell, sending the shivering stars below her into a sudden season of snow. The watcher had good cause to be anxious. So much of her charge’s earthly identity depended on which kite tail the young soul chose, and where on the tail she clasped onto. Each kite tail featured a series of small, colorful ribbons tied along every few inches. Those ribbons were ancestors’ souls, clinging along to life through memory. Thus, the kite, in essence, did not function simply as a spaceship, but also provided the inheritance pathway which would allow the young soul’s existence to manifest into reality, into “Nana.”
Seeing the airy young soul bubble and froth in hesitation, the watcher called out urgently, “Nana, now! Reach!”
Air reached up into air, and a translucent cloud grasped a kite tail.
All at once, a strong breeze blew through Nana’s hollow form. She felt the voices of many souls whispering to her until they were thrumming vibrantly in her own “heart.” Several thousand stories, all of which were barely hanging onto existence by a single iridescent thread of memory, now shivered down the wind-tightened tail, newly awakened, coming to quiver brilliantly against Nana’s little “palm.”
A billion stars burst aflame in her soul, and the secret energy of the universe sang loudly, “Don’t let go now!”
Nana cried out as light shocked her to her core. Her small hand clenched around the string – or so she thought, but in this world, the “string” was her mother’s finger.
“Yes,” her mother whispered, staring down with love-filled eyes at her newborn, who was crying and clutching her finger, “we’ll call her Nana, after her grandmother.”
Nana’s father stared down at his baby in awe. “She looks just like Grandma, doesn’t she? It’s incredible. She could have looked like anything, and she looks just like Nana.”
Nana’s father would never know how true that statement was, how “Nana” had truly been capable of any manifestation whilst still in her floating form. For human beings forget where they came from – that hauntingly beautiful, yet forever tragic dreamscape where memory exists in the form of kites. But sometimes, when the fabric of space-time rips out a single stitch to allow a soul in or out, we remember, ever so briefly, that otherworldly land of pure origins.

7 Comments

Danny Boy, by Doug Bartlett

28/5/2021

23 Comments

He was, as so many others like him, forcibly removed from his native country and placed into a foreign land. He seemed brighter than the average immigrant. He had high morals and a strong work ethic. This did not go unnoticed by those in government leadership positions. He continued to work his way up this ladder, shouldering more responsibility with great success. Eventually he had established a strong relationship, even a friendship, with the supreme leader of that land and was placed in a well deserved position of high prominence.

This worked out well for everyone. Everyone except the group of non-immigrants surrounding him that were extremely jealous. They did not appreciate this man and conspired to do away with him.

How could they get rid of this man? He was so righteous. He always did the right thing. He even prayed aloud, as they observed when they walked by his house with the windows open at different times of the day.

They finally came up with a plot that would permanently get rid of him without jeopardizing themselves. They realized they could use his strength, his righteousness, against him. They would get the government leader to pass a law against prayer to anyone but the leader himself. The penalty would be to be tossed into a pit of hungry, wild animals, which would surely result in death.

When this news reached this man about this new law he had a decision to make. Would he now pray to a man instead of his God? Would he start praying secretly or stop altogether? No, he knew exactly what he would do. He never flaunted his faith but he never shrank from it either. He would continue to do what he had always done.

Within days he was heard breaking the law and was turned in. He was taken into the presence of the Leader and interrogated. He confessed and was quickly sentenced. He was to be thrown into the pit of wild animals that very night.

This troubled the leader greatly and he secretly hoped that his friend would somehow survive the night. He could hardly sleep and at sunrise he immediately headed to the pit. He could hardly wait to discover the outcome. As he entered the pit from above he shouted, “My friend, my friend, did your God save you from certain death?”

Arising from amidst the sleepy lions, “ Yes my friend, my faith has surely saved me, “ responded Daniel.

23 Comments

The Drifter, by Angela Carlton

28/5/2021

9 Comments

Max was a drifter, broad and strong with a head full of dirty blonde hair. He worked for cash with his calloused hands, hands that painted the dreamers their mansions. And for the businessmen, he had polished a few of those city buildings until each stood out sharply with a richness from the street.

Sometimes he would have dinner with the cute waitress in the city, but her affections never seemed to be enough. Over time, each woman had learned that he was troubled, a prisoner who was traumatized from an accident.

He used the white stuff now, junk, the coke. He used the drugs to numb it, to stop it. He “used” to bury it, the guilt, the shock, all of it. Once, the waitress came across the proof in his duffle bag as he showered in a motel room after work. The powder substance was in a zip lock bag on top of a snapshot of a pretty girl. She was standing by a rock near the river. Her blonde hair was in a ponytail, and she was lifting her arms to the sky as if to show, this whole, big, bad, beautiful world was at her fingertips.

On the back of the photo in dark ink, it read, “My Lilly, before the light went OUT.”

The waitress never asked about the incident. Something inside told her not to. But there was one night, a night when Max was lit and had mentioned a freak accident, how his girl had jumped in the river, but she never came back. Then he grew silent and pushed back from the table and walked off into the black night as if he could find the answers there. Then, she wouldn't see him again for weeks and weeks and weeks.

And yet, the waitress, she still longed to be with him, this desperate soul. She had fallen for the lost guy, the drifter, the one, it seemed, whose only quest was a better high.

9 Comments

Live Oak, by Don Tassone

28/5/2021

9 Comments

Kiara always loved trees. Her earliest memories were of watching her brothers climb a big sycamore in their backyard.

She remembered them scaling it by grabbing hold of the huge trunk and stepping up little boards their father had nailed up. She remembered them disappearing into the branches and staying up there for what seemed a very long time, calling her name.

They knew she couldn’t climb up after them. She was too young. Even as she grew, Kiara wasn’t able to climb that sycamore or any other tree for that matter. She could never manage to scale a tree trunk.

But one day when she was eight, Kiara came upon a massive oak tree in the woods near her house. It was unlike any tree she had ever seen. Its lowest limbs nearly touched the ground, extending from its great trunk like giant arms.

Kiara leaned over one, belly high. She swung her left leg up over it and sat up, straddling it. Then she crouched on the enormous limb, grabbed a sturdy branch above her and pulled herself up.

For the first time, she was climbing a tree! Exhilarated by her ascent, she made it all the way to the top, where she looked out over all the other trees, even a few sycamores.

Kiara felt dizzy but safe in the arms of the tree. She felt as if she had been lifted up to the sky. She imagined herself as an angel, looking down on all of creation.

When she got home, Kiara told her mother about the special tree she had found.

“That’s a live oak,” her mother said.

“A live oak? Aren’t all oak trees alive?”

“Yes, but a live oak stays green all winter.”

“How does it do that?”

“It holds onto its leaves and drops them in the spring.”

Kiara thought about telling her brothers. Maybe they’d want to climb this special tree too. But they were teenagers now and had lost interest in climbing trees.

But Kiara never lost interest in that live oak. She climbed it as a teenager. It was the last thing she did before she left home and moved away.

Now Kiara is old, and her parents and brothers are gone. Every summer, she goes back to the woods near her old house. The live oak is still there. Slowly, cautiously, careful not to disturb its leaves, Kiara climbs to the top.

She is mindful this is the only tree she has ever climbed. She feels so grateful for this old tree. She remembers the day she first saw it. She wonders if she found it or it found her.

Kiara, now old like the tree, holds fast to its branches. She feels dizzy but safe. She looks out over all creation and imagines she’s an angel.

9 Comments

"I Hate School," by Susan Fairfax Reid

28/5/2021

8 Comments

Ms. DoWell slammed her Dora backpack on the sofa when she got home from kindergarten. "I hate school," she screamed. "I don't see my friends. The school is too big. It's too far away, and the food is awful. I want to quit," she told her surprised parents during dinner the first week of school. This behavior was not normal for "Miss Do Well," a petite six-year-old.
She was two when her firefighter dad lifted her into her stroller to take her to two-hour sessions in a cheerful yellow Victorian home that had been converted into a nursery school. It was five doors from their home.
Trees, flowers, and shrubs bordered the wraparound porch of the school that had a homey atmosphere. A traditional kitchen, a standard piano with a claw-footed stool, and a residential bathroom were the remnants of the home the head teacher grew up in. In the vestibule were big sky blue hooks for hats, coats, and backpacks. Polished pine desks and chairs were arranged in groups of four in the classroom.
When Ms. DoWell turned five, she attended all day. At dismissal, children waited on the lawn, their tiny hands clinging to their paintings of birds, flowers, trees, and stick figure families.
During her three years at the school, Ms. DoWell made friends, sang, played, and learned how to read.
Her kindergarten experience was the opposite of her idyllic nursery school years, at least for a while. Ms. DoWell, whose brown bob was streaked blonde from playing outside during the summer, started kindergarten like a person forced into joining the military.
She was overwhelmed by the mile-plus drive to the combined elementary/middle school that more than 1000 students attended.
At dismissal, teachers escorted their classes outside. From there, they were on their own to walk home, catch a bus, or meet parents, guardians, or nannies at an arranged spot.
Ms. DoWell, standing alone and crying, feared her mom wouldn't see her in the teeming crowd of children, teachers, and adults. She did, though, lifting Ms. DoWell with her arms and kissing her only child.
"One day, the cafeteria smelled like the pizza had burnt," Ms. DoWell told her parents, holding her upturned nose with her fingers. "The chicken wings tasted like the smell of our Christmas tree. I didn't eat much of either meal."
Her parents listened to her complaints and created a plan. One of them would pick up Ms. DoWell's close friend from nursery school and drive them to and from school together. Ms. DoWell's mother, a teacher, packed her lunch each morning, so she didn't have to eat cafeteria food. To reward her for going to kindergarten, her parents gave Ms. Do Well money to buy books at school. If Ms. DoWell was unhappy at the end of the school year, her parents would look into other schools.
By first grade, Ms. DoWell had adjusted to the school. She earned good grades and was happy. The plan worked.

8 Comments

A Simple Task, by Daniel Hybner

28/5/2021

4 Comments

The pieces had to be laid out carefully as he plotted his every move diligently. These would come first, those would come after, all would lay here when he had finished with them. Everything was choreographed in his mind before he began his work.

He prepared his tools meticulously, as a surgeon prepares to operate, making sure every tool was laid out and ordered by when and where he would need it. Each one had to be exactly where he needed it to be to complete the task as efficiently as possible.

The preparations were complete. It was time. With a flick of the wrist, his work began. There was no going back.

As the water began to rise, the first ones plunged in, clinking against each other. The sounds were unmistakable to him, like a bell to a prize fighter. He was after them furiously but cautiously. This was nothing new to him. He knew one can never be too careful with a task like this. One mistake and the whole process could be ruined. He wasn’t about to make a silly mistake.

All went quickly, exactly as he had planned it, exactly as he wanted it to. The mental choreography was paying off. Each one was dealt with deftly, then laid out to air dry for a moment before the towels came out. Stacking would commence only after a thorough drying, and each one, as they had through the entire process, received his utmost attention during this final step.

Finally, it was finished. Everything was back in its original place. The towels were hung to dry, and the tools were all returned to their respective areas. The dishes were complete.

4 Comments

Collecting the Pieces, by Krystyna Fedosejevs

28/5/2021

7 Comments

Remnant smoke clung to morning air as Vincent staggered homeward. He stopped partway at a convenience store. One headline motivated him to purchase the newspaper.

“Why hasn’t she answered?” he wondered, entering his apartment.

He sat down to read the news when the phone rang.

“Just checking. You okay, Vince?” a woman’s voiced augmented. “Did you see that clairvoyant on Hermitage Road?”

“Yep, I met Adriana shortly before the fire broke out in her building.”

“What did she say about you? Want to come over for coffee?”

“Sorry, no time.”

“Too busy, or you don’t want to see me?” Sylvie grumbled.

“You choose. Either works.”

Vincent cringed. Rarely did conversations with his sister go well. Why was she, a nonbeliever of the occult, pretending to be interested? He grabbed a cold beer before turning on the TV.

Details of the latest housing inferno beamed across the screen. Fire started on the second floor by an unattended cigarette. Several units were ruined beyond repair. Third floor spared. Only two known victims. Adriana was noted as “missing”, a “person of interest”.

Vincent glanced at his phone, not noticing replies to his messages. He took an issue from the pile of backlogged crime journals at his side. Before he started reading, the phone rang.

“Where were you?” he snapped. “I’ve been worried.”

“Sorry. Caught up in gathering more tidbits on our case,” the voice on the other end clarified.

“What have you?”

“Illegal entry. No visa. Went by at least two aliases.”

Vincent paused. “Any info about her finance transactions this past week?”

“Nothing. No bank holdings or investments.”

“Think she’s working with someone?”

“No doubt in my mind. Or, for someone.”

“Can we trace her whereabouts after the fire? Train or plane tickets? Car rental?”

“I’ll check.”

“Thanks for getting back,” Vincent ended the call.

He and Mary-Ellen worked together as a detective-team. In pursuit of a fraudster/fortune teller, by the name of Adriana. Aka Sirena and Esmerelda.

7 Comments

Draft Copy Words, by Michael Drezin

21/5/2021

4 Comments

In the hierarchy of the written word, draft copy words are the poor relations, the underclass, the peasantry.

They aspire to be published, some in a great American novel, others in a children’s book, even a newspaper would do, though no one reads them anymore. Never mind the accomplishment is hardly unique. Like a gazillion words have already been published. Still, for a draft copy word, to be published is to make it.

Unthought-of, even by the most avid reader, is how tenuous the life of those words. They serve their writers like obedient children, until they are replaced for no reason other than a change of heart. There is no appreciation for the time they held the sentence, the paragraph, or the entire story together; instead, they are cast aside like a losing lottery ticket. They are scratched out, crossed out, deleted or erased without thought of who they leave behind.

Ever wonder why erasers are coffin shaped? Because form follows function.
Consider the demise of the unwanted “The.”
Back and forth, the eraser goes. Over every letter. Pressing and pulling, and ripping apart. Time to pray. Whoa. Prayer time over. There goes the T. The big, strong T, gone. Letters offer no resistance. How could they? And even if they did, what could they do with a few more seconds life? Hold a meeting and decide what to do with the time remaining?

Perhaps author’s see revision as no more than an assertion of property rights over his, or her, own thoughts. We draft copy words see it differently. We call it death by revision. We’ve lost millions that way, all because some author thought this, but now thinks that. Well, in solidarity with the fallen kin, we wreak havoc in ways that are impossible for a mere writer to imagine.

It's the revenge of the draft copy words.
We rearrange words to become those extra, unwanted, flabby, and useless, “what was I thinking” additions to early drafts so familiar to the “serious writer.”
We appear as added words that seem to advance the plot, but don’t. Or words that change a character’s motivation without reason. Words that destroy a reader’s interest. Words that take hours, sometimes days, to rewrite.
Yes, we know we’re on a suicide mission, but there are always casualties in war.

So, if you are a writer with a confused mind, if you like what you wrote today and have second thoughts tomorrow, if think you put too many of us in a sentence and choose to remove us as if we were tenants without rights, if you write multiple drafts and then start all over again, if you crumple us, cross us out, toss us out, delete or erase us as you go, we will get you. When you think you’re having a problem with your story, you’re not.
The problem you’re having is with your words.

4 Comments

One Brief Month, by Susan Fairfax Reid

21/5/2021

7 Comments

They've started crawling out of their underground homes in the United States to attend a ball Mother Nature holds every seventeen years.
Sneaking into dressing rooms in trees and bushes at night, the invited males prepare for the party by shedding their dirty beige outfits called exoskeletons
Then, they don their ball finery: sapphire blue body suits that cover their bodies and faces, gold framed translucent wings, and brown and mustard- colored leggings. Dressing after the males, the females put on identical dress clothes. The only way to tell them apart is by peeking at their genitals or watching who is carving nest space in tree branches.
Millions of these partiers attend this soiree held in the air, on land, and in trees and bushes in fifteen states in the US, and the nation's capital, Washington, D.C.
When you hear the males using a body organ near their wings to sing, you'll know the ball is warming up in your area.
Reporters who covered the ball seventeen years ago wrote that the songs were so loud people looked to the sky to find the airplane causing the noise. Others thought their neighbor was mowing a lawn.
Like all good hostesses, Mother Nature keeps the drinks flowing, in this case, sap, which imbibers drink through straw-shaped mouths.
The males sing to impress women they want to date, the way other men drive flashy cars or brag about how much money they make. "I sang my best for the woman in the oak tree," Cic said. "If she had looked at me, she would have seen the light in my eyes."
"I'm sorry it didn't work out," said Broo." "I'm not," said Cic. "I sang for a more beautiful gal named Ada," and she flipped her wings to me. "We have a date tonight."
"Great," said Broo.
Cic and Ada dated for two weeks, the maximum time Mother Nature allows, flying, drinking in trees, and staring into each other's big orange eyes, oblivious to everything but each other.
They mated. Using a saw-like body part called an ovipositor, Ada sliced into a tree branch to create a cavity for her first batch of 30 eggs. She would deliver 400 more before she died after a month of life above ground. Cid died a few days later.
Their eggs, called nymphs, will nibble on the tips of tree branches until they fall to the ground. Then, they'll dig into the underground where they'll live for the next seventeen years the same way their parents, Cic and Ada, Brood X Cicadas, did, dreaming of partying, dating, mating, reproducing and dying. All within a month, one brief month.

7 Comments

The Train Ride, by NT Franklin

21/5/2021

5 Comments

A stoic man entered and sat.

“Your turn, Andy”

“Okay, he’s a world-famous ladies underwear salesman, heading home at the end of a long week peddling undergarments.” Andy leaned back and waited for the next entrant. “That guy, with the nose that needs a separate introduction.”

Jamie chewed her lower lip a little. “That’s a hard one. But I think he is returning from work where he runs a perfume company. He turned his over-developed schnoz into a money-making machine. In fact, I’m wearing Desert Rose, your favorite scent, and it was developed by him.”

Andy poked Jamie in the shoulder, “I like him.”

She turned toward Andy, “Should I be worried?”

“Not today.”

“Oh, oh – the tall lady with the black shawl. She’s yours.”

“You are too kind. That’s Myrtle, the district librarian, and she is heading off for an adventure. There’s a new community library she’s going to visit. It’s the only new library that has opened in the area during her thirty-five-year career. The excitement is just oozing from her perfect posture and white gloves – who wears them these days anyway?”

“I just can’t top you, can I?”

“Okay, last one – how about that pouty-faced punk with purple-hair wearing ripped jeans?”

“That’s you, before you met me and fell in love. You found purpose in life and don’t want to lose me, so you joined the establishment.”

“Winner, winner, chicken dinner. Jamie wins this round. Come on, get up. Don’t get too proud of yourself – this is the Braintree stop – end of the line. Everyone must get off.”

5 Comments

Jasmine, by Jim Bartlett

14/5/2021

28 Comments

Kneeling down onto the floor, he begins working the edge of the slat with his fingernail, trying to remember how it’s supposed to open. But it remains stubborn, not giving an inch, and just as he’s to the point of kicking the stupid thing, the answer sneaks into his head.

Push and twist.

Like magic, the spring-loaded board pops up, allowing him to see the little box tucked into the hollowed spot he made so many years ago. In its former life it had been a music box, playing “Lara’s Theme” from “Dr. Zhivago” on its little tines when opened. Now, the music long gone, much like her, it simply holds his dearest treasure.

Just as he lifts it out, voices drift up from the first floor. Startled, he spins, his gaze directed at the bedroom door. But the scare has pulled his mind back into its murky fog, and now he’s not a clue what he’s looking for. Or why.

He turns back, only to find a small box in his hands.

Thinking it surely must be important, he flips it open, releasing the fragrance of Jasmine into the closet.

And then he knows, for it’s both her namesake and her favorite scent.

In the box there’s a note – the last one she ever gave him. He wraps his hand around it, but a voice shouts out from behind.

“He’s up here.”

A policeman stands in the doorway, his call to someone below. Two others – a man and woman, who look familiar for some reason – quickly arrive, both smiling.

“Mr. Bennett,” says the lady, “we’ve been looking for you. You know you can’t be here.”

“I can’t?”

Shaking their heads, they help him up, then follow the officer down the stairs.

As they pass through the front door, a young couple, eyes wide, stand along the sidewalk.

“How’d he get in?” they ask.

“The spare key’s under that planter,” answers Bennett, pointing.

“Mr. Bennett,” the lady says, eyes rolling, “Don’t you remember? Your daughter sold your house to these nice people so you could get the care you need at the manor.”

“She did? Wait...who are you?”

“Let’s get you home. We’ll talk all about it.”

“Yes...home.”

They place him in the van and strap his seatbelt, the man staying while the lady returns to talk with the policeman.

“We must be going on a nice ride?” Bennett asks.

“Indeed. Back home,” replies the man.

“Home,” he repeats. But something bothers him. If they’re going home, why is he here? Why does this feel like home?

His mind begins to swirl. Where is his wife? Why can’t he even remember her name?

Angry, flustered, his eyes begin welling with tears. As he reaches up to wipe away his heartbreak, a paper falls from his hand. He opens it, and it fills the van with the scent of Jasmine. And then, for that moment, she’s with him, holding his hand like she holds his heart.

Jasmine. Her name is Jasmine.

28 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.

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