Longer Stories

The First Toilet of the Year, by John M. Carlson

22/9/2023

“I wish summer vacation could go on forever!” Carl mumbled to himself, as he walked through the school.

But, of course, vacation had to end. That day was the first day of school. And it wasn’t like he’d gotten away from the school for the summer. As a custodian, he didn’t get a two month vacation. But he liked summer vacation when the school was empty. It was peaceful. The school stayed clean and orderly. There wasn’t the routine of mopping the main hall, only to have it muddied up in minutes when kids came in from recess! He was able to have everything fixed and working right. He could get caught up on small jobs that needed to be done, but he often didn’t have the time to do during the school year.

Oh, well...if the school wasn’t used, he wouldn’t have a job. And he liked the kids—well, he liked most of the kids most of the time.

A boy came up to Carl. “A toilet just stopped working!”

There was already a maintenance problem—and the school year wouldn’t officially start for five minutes!

“I wish summer vacation go on forever,” Carl mumbled to himself, as he headed to fix the first toilet of the year.

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I Told Him Not to Do It, by Doug Bartlett

22/9/2023

6 Comments

Six months ago my friend, who is impatient and quick-tempered, told me he was going to teach his wife how to shoot a pistol. He said he wanted her to be able to defend herself if the need were to arise.

I told him not to do it.

Three months ago he told me he was going to show his wife how to use a chainsaw. He said this was so she could help him prune their many trees on their property and would reduce the burden on him.

I told him not to do it.

Last month he told me he was going to show his wife how to operate a backhoe. That was so she could dig the trenches they needed to install new water lines on their ranch while he would do the manual work of using a shovel.

I told him not to do it.

What’s that you say?

You want to know how my friend is doing?

Now that you mention it, I haven’t talked to him since his wife put in that beautiful, new flower bed.

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The Registrar of Ideas, by David Lowis

15/9/2023

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The official sat behind an oak desk. "Take a seat," he said, motioning to a chair.

I accepted the offer and read his name plate. 'Clive Tweedy'. His appearance made me think of a 1970's TV newsreader.

"Go ahead," Tweedy said, without looking up from an enormous, leather-bound book that was lying open on the desk. The writing on the yellowed pages was too small for me to read, especially from the wrong way round.

I cleared my throat. "Well, my idea is that a man finds a pair of crutches that have been dumped at a recycling centre. Something compels him to try and trace the previous owner. As the story progresses, the crutches become a metaphor for the protagonist's life. The book will be called Dependency."

"Tell me more."

I expanded on my idea as Tweedy scoured the pages of the book, tracing his progress with his index finger. Wafts of air brushed my face as he turned the pages, bringing with them a faint musty smell. Whenever I paused he said, "Uh hmm", to prompt me to continue.

When Tweedy had finished scanning the last page he said, "No, can't see that idea registered. You're free to proceed."

***

A couple of years later, having reached the final editing stage of my novel, I took an afternoon off to look round a book store. I was browsing the new release shelves when I froze. There, staring back at me, was a brand new hardcover: Dependency by Clive Tweedy.

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Stocked Up, by John M. Carlson

15/9/2023

1 Comment

“We’re stocked up for the year!” Stephanie said to herself, as she happily stared into the kitchen cabinet.

It was the afternoon of the first day of school. She’d just finished filling this cabinet with school supplies for her twins. It was stuffed—stuffed!—with paper, pencils, glue, and more. It was so full she couldn’t fit in even one more pencil if she tried. And why would she try? There were hundreds of pencils in the cabinet!

It had been expensive stocking up like this. She cringed at the thought of the extra money on the Visa bill! Back-to-school shopping for just the minimum was bad enough. But, in the long run, she’d save money. Back-to-school sales were so good, like notebooks for twenty-five cents each, instead of $1.50!

And this stockpile of supplies would be convenient. When one of the twins ran out of pencils, she could just pull some pencils out and hand them over. There would be no more late night fast trips to Walmart to get something needed for school the next day.

Unless they needed some special supply, she wouldn’t have to think about shopping for school supplies until next August. Nearly a year of peace!

The back door opened, and the twins came in.

“Hi, Mom!” they said.

“We got a letter—” Amy said.

“—from our teacher!” Brian said.

A letter from the teacher? On the first day of school? Stephanie took it, feeling nervous.

She began reading. “Great news! Our school was approved for a special program that will provide your student with ALL needed school supplies this year!!!!”

Stephanie stared at the letter, feeling numb disbelief. Then, she turned and glared at the cabinet stuffed with unneeded school supplies.

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Perfect Communion, by Don Tassone

15/9/2023

10 Comments

Crouched over, leaning heavily on his cane, Jack Lohman shuffled behind the last row of pews until he reached the center aisle of the church. These days he sat at the end of the last pew in case he needed to go to the bathroom during Mass. He wanted to be the last in line for Communion anyway so he wouldn’t hold anyone up.

Today he was there for the funeral of his old friend, Al. Eight decades earlier, they’d gone to grade school together right next door. Now as Jack got in line for Communion, he eyed Al’s casket up ahead.

He’d been in this church for the funerals of many friends in recent years. This morning, it was packed. Al was beloved.

As he shambled forward, Jack also thought of the funerals there for his wife and, years earlier, their son. Their presence had filled him with joy. Their absence still filled him with sorrow.

Looking up at the sanctuary, he remembered his daughter standing there, looking radiant in her wedding gown.

And there was the marble baptismal font, where his children had been baptized and he himself had been baptized so long ago.

Jack spotted a teenager in line ahead of him and thought of the special evening when he, as a teen, knelt at this very Communion rail. He could still feel the Archbishop make the sign of the cross on his forehead and hear him say, “Francis, be sealed with the gift of the Holy Spirit.” Jack had always been inspired by the saint from Assisi, and he was proud to take Francis as his Confirmation name.

Then he saw a young boy and remembered the excitement of making his very first Communion.

Now all those who had been in line ahead of Jack had received Communion and returned to their seats. Jack stood alone in the aisle, beside the casket. He rested his palm on the linen pall draped over it and said a silent, final farewell.

Looking at the priest, patiently awaiting his last communicant, Jack felt a strange sensation, as if he were rising. Suddenly, he was hovering above the entire congregation.

Jack looked down at the casket. The lid was now gone, and inside lay not his friend, but Jack himself. And yet Jack was not afraid. On the contrary, he felt safe and warm, like a newborn in his mother’s arms. As he looked around, he realized everyone in the church was there for him. He could feel their affection.

Then Jack was gathered in by all his loved ones, everyone he had ever known and a benevolent presence he had felt all his life. He was one with all of them and all things. He was, at last, in perfect Communion.

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Halfway Home, by Jenna Hanan Moore

8/9/2023

5 Comments

Columbus, Ohio, was halfway home. Halfway, that is, between the house Ariana shared with her husband, Jesse, and the home where she grew up, where her aging parents still lived. Twice a year, Ariana and Jesse drove home. When they stopped for the night in Columbus, Ariana called her parents to say they were halfway home.

As her parents grew old and frail, Ariana made the trip more often, sometimes alone. On every trip, she called from Columbus to tell her parents she was halfway home.

On a clear autumn morning, Ariana began her final trip home. This time, only her sister, Lisa, would be there to greet her. When she stopped for the night in Columbus, she texted Lisa to say she was halfway home.

Ariana arrived home to a bittersweet reunion with Lisa. They began the dreaded task of going through their parents’ possessions so they could sell the house. Lisa, who had a big house and children of her own, was eager to finish. After all, they couldn’t very well afford to continue to maintain a house where no one lived. For Ariana, things were different. Once they sold the house, there would be no home to visit.

The sisters went through their parents’ belongings, handling each item with love. These weren’t mere objects, after all; they were links in the chain that formed their parents’ lifetime. Ariana and Lisa reminisced about events they remembered featuring many of the items. When they looked at objects that brought back no memories, they tried to imagine the moments their parents shared in the house before they were born.

Once everything in the home had been donated, recycled, shipped to a relative, or set aside for one of the sisters, they closed the door to their childhood home forever. Ariana drove Lisa to the airport, and hugged her tightly at the curbside check-in. Then she began the two-day drive back to the house she shared with Jesse.

“You’re halfway home,” Jesse said when Ariana called him from Columbus later that night. “I can’t wait to see you tomorrow!”

It was then that Ariana realized she still had a home to return to after all. And she was halfway there.

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See for Yourself, by Don Tassone

8/9/2023

6 Comments

“Cars,” said five-year-old Lochan as his father kissed him goodbye.

“Cars?” his father said, watching as the boy, blind since birth, struggled to find his mouth with his cereal spoon.

“Cars,” Lochan said again.

“What do you mean?”

“Cars,” Lochan mumbled with a mouthful of Apple Jacks.

“Okay, cars,” his father said with a smile. “I’ll see you all tonight.”

As his father closed the door to the garage behind him, his mother said, “Lochan, honey, finish your breakfast. You’ll be late for school.”

About an hour later, Lochan’s father returned home. Saying nothing, he walked into the family room, sat down on the sofa and stared blankly at the fireplace.

“Bob?” his wife said. “Are you okay?”

“There was a nine-car pileup on 70,” he said. “It happened right in front of me. I was almost in it. I hit my brakes just in time.”

“Oh, Bob,” she said, wrapping her arms around him. “How awful. I’m so glad you’re okay.”

“Cars,” he said.

“What?”

“I’ve been worried about the way people drive lately. Remember? I even mentioned it at dinner last night. After Lochan said that this morning, I had cars on my mind. I stayed in the right lane and drove slow. Thank God I did.”

He turned to her and said, “That boy has a gift.”

Word got around about Lochan’s gift. People came to him as if he were an oracle. He would listen to their questions and problems, then say something simple. People left in awe, as if some great, hidden truth had been revealed to them.

Maybe it was his disability, which was off-putting for children, especially in those days, or his mysterious reputation as a fortune teller. But sadly Lochan had no close friends growing up.

After high school, he got a job as a customer service representative. It was a job he could do from home.

When his sister moved out, Lochan was often alone. He cooked for himself. He listened to music, audiobooks and news. He walked on a treadmill.

Years later, when his father died, his mother sold their house and moved to a retirement center. Lochan went with her. When she died, he stayed.

A kind aide named Maddie befriended Lochan. She’d seen him sitting alone and made an effort to talk with him. So many people had come to Lochan for advice over the years, but few had ever really talked with him.

One day, Maddie asked Lochan about his “gift.”

“That’s what my parents called it,” he said.

“Well, isn’t it?”

“Not really.”

“What do you mean?”

“When I was a kid, sometimes I would hear a word and say it for no particular reason. People thought I knew something they didn’t, maybe because I’m blind. Anyway, they started coming to me with questions. In their questions, I could always hear their answers. I don’t have a gift, Maddie. All I’ve done is help people see for themselves what they already know.”

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Whispers, by Jim Bartlett

8/9/2023

18 Comments

"Tell me you love me," she says.

A rush of warmth flows through my body; I'm almost too choked for words.

"Of course I love you. And always will."

Her eyes aglow, she smiles that smile that takes my breath away, causes the old ticker to skip a beat.

"No, no. You know what I want. Whisper it. Whisper it in my ear. Like you always used to."

Tears stream down my cheek. Good lord, where did those come from? I pull her close. The scent of strawberry shampoo overwhelms, taking me back to picnics in Stow Canyon, walks along the boardwalk, lying in bed on Sunday mornings.

"I love you," I say in my softest whisper.

"55 years, Henry. Can you believe it? 55 years."

I shake my head, but now it's my turn to smile. "Never thought in a million years you'd put up with me for that long."

"Well, here we are."

She's quiet for a bit – it’s what she does when something's on her mind.

"Henry. You need to watch the time. You're going to be late."

I glance over at the clock. 12:30. Mark, our grandson, is graduating from the university today. I haven't been out much lately, but I promised I'd be there.

"You'll be okay while I'm gone?"

"Silly boy. I'm never far away."

I set her picture back down on our nightstand and give my eyes a quick wipe with my hanky. It takes me a minute to find my legs – always does when I sit down for a visit – and, straightening my tie, I head for the door.

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The Dragon, by Malvina Perova

1/9/2023

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In my favourite story, dragons are real. They are monsters that take any shape and do evil things to people without anyone suspecting anything. I’ve read it so many times that Mommy started to get worried. Once, she brought “Harry Potter” for my bedtime story, but I wanted to hear about dragons just one last time. With a sigh, she opened my battered book and said, “Okay, one last time.”

I dreamt about being a dragon slayer that night, a true hero, a brave Cossack, hunting evil where nobody dares to go. When I told my pals about it, they said dragons weren’t real. How should they know? Dragons are shapeshifters. They can be Makar-the-bully from our class or even their dads when drunk and angry.

This winter, nobody is drunk or angry, because they’ve all joined the army. There are no more school or bedtime stories, only air-defence sirens and distant booms around the village. We sleep in the corridor and never stop watching the news. It’s only bad news that makes everyone cry. Everyone but me, that is. Cossacks don’t cry. Instead, I do something totally “unhealthy” – play Candy Crush on Mommy’s smartphone. And she doesn’t even mind it.

Nobody expected the windows to get blown inside and the shelves to fall down. Something massive drones past our house. Everyone screams and runs. I grab Grandad’s rifle, scramble outside and follow the trace of the black smoke in the grey skies.

It smells of burnt rubber and metal. I peek through the shrubs at the flames licking at the plane wreck with an enemy red star on the tail and notice a move in the distance. A man lands behind it with a loud thud and a f* word. His parachute falls on top of him, and he fumbles under it like a bug tangled in a cobweb.

My knees tremble when I walk towards the pilot. The soil is hard and frosty and the gun weighs a complete ton. But my hands are steady when I point it at him.

The pilot turns his helmeted head at me and freezes. “Hey, kid, hey, hey…” he stutters. “I’m a friend. I came to save you.”

He looks around and reaches his arm to a pistol some metre away from him. I pant heavily. Grunting, he crawls closer to the pistol and raises his voice. “I said, put that down! I’m your friend.”

“You’re lying!” I yell back, “I know who you are, I KNOW WHO YOU ARE!”

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R8 Your Life, by Anthony Ward

1/9/2023

1 Comment

“Why are you so upset?” Susie’s mother asked her, sitting herself down on the side of her bed.
Susie continued to sob until she found the strength to release her response.
“I was on a website called Rate Your Life,” she spluttered, “and I only got a 2.”
“What,” her mother exclaimed. “You were on what website?”
“I just told you what website,” Susie replied curtly.
“What kind of website?” she asked gravely.
“I told you; it’s called Rate Your Life.”
“Rate Your Life?”
Susie removed her hands and looked at her mother. “It’s a site where you answer a whole bunch of questions about your life, and at the end it gives you a score out of ten.”
“And you only got a 2.”
“Yes!” she choked, throwing her face back into her hands.
Her mother placed her hands on her hips and sighed, “Well, what score would you have given your life?” she asked hesitantly.
“At least a six or a seven,” she sobbed.
“Six or seven. Is that how you would rate your life?”
“Yes,” sniffed Susie hysterically.
“Well then, that’s what it is,” replied her mother placing her hand on her shoulder. “It’s just a load of old nonsense. How can anyone rate your life but you?”

“Rate my bloody life,” said Susie’s mother shaking her head as she unfolded the laptop. “What has it come to.”
Feeling a motherly duty towards her daughter, she decided to check out the heinous site for herself. She typed Rate Your Life into the search engine and rolled her eyes when she saw it come up as R8 Your Life. She scrolled down all the questions answering as faithfully as she could. Questioning where she lived, had lived, how she lived with, who she used to live with, where had she been, where would she like to go, all fifty-seven of them.
When she had finished, she hovered the cursor over the See Your Score prompt, then pressed cautiously.
“What a load of nonsense,” she told herself after seeing her score, and smiled as she slowly closed the laptop down.

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Start From Minus, by David Dumouriez

25/8/2023

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Witt was born with, by the standards of the day, no natural advantages. As a result, he was under suspicion from the first.
As we know, children want to play. As we also know, sometimes parents have loose tongues. A combination of these factors can be disastrous. This was seen when Witt tried to organise a game of doctors and nurses in the playground, which his mother said she'd enjoyed when she was young. But that was then, this was now, and his actions received more than a little opprobrium. He was six.
At seven, after hearing of it from his father, he persuaded his schoolmates to play a different game. Again, it was believed that certain stereotypical roles may have been assigned. Consequently, his name was placed on The List and his parents were reprimanded.
From then on, his schooldays were spent under strict supervision. These and other transgressions were kept on record and it was decided that he be sent to Wykenham College in order to undergo a program of evaluation and repair until he was finally pronounced suitable to enter adult society.
And let the importance of such rehabilitation not be ignored. For as President Wykenham often said, most people managed not to infringe. Those, like Witt, who failed to assimilate, were guilty of jeopardising the personal development of others and thereby undermining the very foundations of the system itself.
It was to protect Witt from himself, as much as anyone else, that he was assigned a mentor named Sam. Witt, being his usual self, immediately set himself back one year by referencing Sam incorrectly. Naturally, this necessitated a period of correction before the pair of them could think of addressing the conditions that would allow Witt to open a bank account and, thus, properly begin his advancement in the system.
Being denied access to a bank account was tantamount to not existing. Without it, you could make only low-level purchases and you wouldn’t be able to find full-time employment or secure independent accommodation. Witt was encouraged to feel fortunate in the sense that he was under the aegis of the government as ‘a special case’. But that was already becoming somewhat limiting, debilitating even, especially when he compared his situation to that of his peers.
Witt’s journey then was long and fraught. His triumphs were characterised by the completion of small steps. A job here. A better job there. A modest place to live. A slightly better one. He did manage to earn some money. Not much, but enough. He had various acquaintances but missed out on anything deeper as soon as potential friends or partners exercised their right to vet him.
Years turned into decades, and Witt’s insular life meant that he wasn’t aware of how grumblings about the system had become more persistent.
“Hey, have you heard the news?” his co-worker asked one morning. “Wykenham’s finally out, Andersen’s in: you can say what you like now!”
Witt was speechless.

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No Beethoven, by Daniel Hybner

28/7/2023

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“Why do you always hit the keys so hard, grandma? You don’t have to do that.”

She shook her head and muttered, “Old habits.”

“From what?”

She smiled softly and motioned for me to follow her.

She led me to her back room and reached under a desk stacked high with papers, most older than I was. She pulled at a large brown, metallic briefcase.

“Help me with this.”

As I slid it out, I dusted off the top near the handle. The words Smith Corona shown through.

“Who are Smith and Corona?” I naively asked.

She laughed at me. “Not who. What.”

She pinched the buttons on the case and opened the lid. Ivory keys glistened inside the prettiest shades of blue I’d ever seen mixed together. She clicked another button near the handle and asked me to help pull the blue beauty from the case. We set it down gently together.

“There. That’s why I hit the keys so hard on that computer.”

She grabbed a scrap paper from the desk and rolled it carefully into the machine. She sat down and wriggled her fingers in a way that looked like second nature to her. Quickly, she began pounding.

She was no Beethoven. But the way her fingers banged the keys as the words she typed spilled out on the paper, well, I imagine that’s pretty close to what he looked like as he worked out his fifth symphony. I was watching an artist completely at ease with her medium. She kept perfect rhythm as she went, punctuated by the poetic ding that ended every line. I was mesmerized as she filled the page quickly and effortlessly before she let her fingers come to rest on the desktop in front of her.

She sat back in the chair and looked caringly at her work. I could tell that, in that moment, she was somewhere else, back in time, a time before modernity had fully set in.

“A relic,” she chuckled. “Both of us, really. Old habits. This one, this one’s my favorite habit.”

She got up from her chair and went back to her computer. She resumed slamming the keys there as she typed out an email.

At least I now knew why she hit the keys as hard as she did.

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Just Driving Through, by John M. Carlson

28/7/2023

2 Comments

“This city has turned into a hellhole!” Jen, my sister, said, as she stared out the car window. “I can’t believe it!”

“I’d been thinking that, too, although I wasn’t sure.”

“Gary, it’s pretty obvious this city is terrible! It’s run down. Dirty. And I’m pretty sure the women I saw standing on the street near the high school weren’t there waiting to meet a friend for coffee!”

“True. I just wasn’t sure if it’s all happened in the last thirty years. Remember—we were young teenagers when we moved. Our memories might not be totally accurate.”

“Oh. You have a point. I’m sure our memories are better than the reality ever was. But I still think it’s gotten worse. A lot worse. Dad certainly thought so. When he moved to Arizona, he commented how smart I was to leave in the 1990s.”

“Not that you made the decision. Mom made it. Although it wasn’t so much made as forced on her, thanks to the divorce.”

“True enough. She certainly wasn’t happy moving. I don’t know if I ever told you this, but I remember that last night we spent in our house. I could hear Mom crying in her room.”

“I’m not surprised.” Indeed, I knew she was sad about leaving here the rest of her life. She’d fallen in love with this city when my parents moved to it, and that love never dimmed until the day she died.

“I wonder what she’d think seeing this place now.” Jen sighed. “Part of me thinks it might have been good if she’d seen it before she died. Maybe she’d have finished moving on from the past.”

We reached our destination, The Owl Motel. We remembered this motel from when we were young. We’d regularly pass by the sign, which had a huge owl painted on it. That painted owl always somehow looked welcoming. Now, thirty years later, it looked faded and tired. As did the rest of the motel. Oh, well. I’d checked online. A review said: “The Owl is out of date, but decent for the price.” It wasn’t like one motel in town that had a ton of news stories talking about drug busts and the occasional homicide.

“I suppose we should check in,” I said. “Then go out and get dinner. Maybe drive by our old house.”

“Might as well. Although be ready for a shock. I saw a photo online from when the house was last sold. Those flower bushes that Mom loved are gone. The tree with our tree house is also gone. But there is now a fence that would be at home surrounding a maximum security prison. I gather crime has gotten a lot worse since the 1990s.”

“Lovely,” I sighed.

Oh, well. That house was no longer home. This city was no longer our home town. We were just driving through.

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Vast Expanse, by J. Iner Souster

21/7/2023

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The night began to drift with an eerie glimmer in the sky. It was a glowing, frightening luminescence. I remember a flicker of a full moon, shimmering red, above the horizon, and my eyes were open to a dream. I looked down towards the darkness, and all the light above disappeared. My teeth were biting into the air, and my eyes were searching for the moon's glory. I fell on the sand, and it was an unbelievable and inexplicable feeling. Then my head was beginning to spin across the shore, and I was trying to climb, just reaching for it, until my face found the water.

Love was the word you searched for—not a metaphor, a look, an action, or an emotion. Love was the air you breathed and the smile you flashed so often. Love was the colour you knew, the beat of your heart, and the life of your breathing. The rise and fall of your chest, beating and sinking, losing and finding. You never thought you would find it, but you knew its absence would leave a hole in you that no one could fill. And in a moment when the sun shone so brightly that you felt its glow spread over you, the only thing you knew for sure was that you would have to go on living.

I knew that one day this love would find me and bring us together again. The wind says there is always time to tell a tale and more than one way to weave it. You'll recognize the wounded by their smile. They are the ones who keep you going, who keep you sane, and who will keep you secure.

I needed the tears of my love to speak, touching her lips to tell me all the quiet secrets. Maybe if we learn to listen again, we'll find the words that lead us back home to the heart of our own story and find the meaning in our scars from what was once said but never heard.

I listened to the wind and the waves for the voice that was my lover's, forever calling me from the bottom of the sea. It's been an eternity, but you still hear the calls, and they come looking for you. Maybe they haven't found you yet, and they never will. But they still remember.

One message is a story, another is a declaration, and yet another is forever waiting for discovery. Was it an erratic note or a shattered heart I saw floating in the vast expanse that separates us as I washed back out to sea?

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The Fog of Enlightenment, by M. A. Hassan

21/7/2023

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The market buzzed with rumors as the city warmed up in the shadow of Mount Elba.

Divination rose from the grave to Emmanuel’s child.

Our mighty gods disapproved of an apostate woman who had given her soul to the demons.

Enoch, wearing his wise mantle, walked among the citizens.

He was looking for a woman running through the city, screaming, and crying. “I’m not a sinner! I’m not a sinner. My child is a son of light!” while holding Jehovah in her arms. The jeering crowd threw their hatred at her like Minotaur stones.

Enoch found her. He raised an arm from under his mantle and spoke in God’s voice, “SILENCE.” The only sound left was the whimpering of the child. Enoch’s songs embrace love, loss, and everything in between. His words dispel the shadows in the darkness. His Andvaranaut’s finger touched the child’s forehead.

Child silence. The mystical mist rose and obscured the sacred ground. Jehovah’s face discolored, the whimpering became more violent, and crows flew up. He floated from his mother’s hand.
Enoch returns to the void, leaving the mantle behind. Jehovah turns into light, rising to heaven, and lets the scene end; It overjoyed Astrid to see this. She was a wise and just woman who thanked the gods and forsvalaði, her enemy.

This leaves the holy city in awe of the knowledge of the truth, in an endless search for enlightenment. You may find yourself paved in the dark.

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A Nuisance, by Libby Belle

21/7/2023

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Her mother had thought it was cute. The twisted fourth toe was the only flaw on a perfectly born beautiful baby girl. It wasn’t until she became a teenager and joined the swim team that she realized it was an ugly deformity, brought to her attention by a group of girls showing off their painted toenails. From then on, she was the first and the last to get in and out of the pool.

As the years passed, the appendage began to hide under the protection of the third toe and soon it began to ache. The owner became increasingly aware of its retreat. But when the middle toe’s bone was crushed, the crooked toe found a purpose and pillowed the poor, shattered digit while it tried to heal.

Sneakers were her favorite shoes and were justified as she took on more athletics; hiking and baseball, the attempts at tennis and cycling with her young husband who was so completely enamored with exploring the rest of her body, he never even noticed the malformation.

With age, the weight of carrying children in and on her belly made the toe flatten and useless. She often thought of amputating it and remembered what that looked like on the neighbor who had lost two toes from a tractor accident. Horrifying! She concluded that a crooked toe was probably better than no toe at all.

Throughout the years the toe continued to be a nuisance, keeping her from running barefoot on the beaches, disrobing in the daylight for a hungry bout of sex, or freely kicking off her shoes anytime she felt the desire. She felt better when she wore socks and took delight in searching for the brightly colored, cotton ones and the softest possible.

When she found herself single again with the prospect of romance, she scheduled to have her toe corrected through surgery. The doctor laughed at her and told her to tape a stick to it and leave it alone. She imagined the horror on the coroner’s face once her body decided to kill itself, the crooked toe notwithstanding. To her, the blasted thing had already died!

Now a sexagenarian, ripened by age, the very wise woman ponders deeply those unfortunate souls without limbs, blind, or disfigured and while bathing, scrubbing her tired feet, she silently apologizes to the toe that kept her vanity at bay and her humility whole.

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Sacred Work, by Don Tassone

21/7/2023

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As a boy, Josh loved working with wood. He learned from his father, whose hobby was carpentry.

He taught young Josh about various types of wood. He taught him how to measure, cut, sand and finish wood. He taught him how to hammer a nail through wood without splitting it.

But before he taught Josh any of these things, his father taught him wood was once a living thing, created by God, and that fashioning something useful from a tree that had sacrificed its life was sacred work.

Josh learned fast. Soon he was building planters and bookshelves and making repairs around his house. His mother told her friends about her son’s impressive woodworking skills. When he was still in grade school, some of them hired Josh for small jobs around their houses.

During summers in high school, Josh worked in a carpentry shop. He thought about signing on full-time after graduation, but his father insisted he go to college. He himself hadn’t gone to college, and his work life had consisted of a series of mundane, low-paying jobs.

“Make something of yourself,” his father told him.

Josh left for college that fall. He majored in business. Right after graduating, he joined a solid, mid-sized company, where he excelled. By 40, he was the CEO.

Josh liked his work, but his love of carpentry never left him. Wherever he went — offices, hotels, homes — his eyes were drawn to the woodwork. Sometimes he wondered if he’d missed his calling. “Sacred work,” he could hear his father say.

In 10 years as CEO, Josh doubled his company’s sales and tripled its profits, but his success came at a price. He was burned out. He decided to retire early.

Josh could have joined boards, taken another big job or just kicked back. Instead, he decided to teach carpentry at a local vocational school.

He asked his father to come with him to his first class. He was now 80 and in poor health, but he said yes.

“This is my father,” Josh told his students. “His name is Joe. He taught me everything I know about working with wood.”

Then, turning to his father, Josh said, “Dad, would you please get us started?”

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Oppressively Empty, by John M. Carlson

21/7/2023

1 Comment

This is it, Betty thought, as she watched her daughter drive away. The last of her summer guests was now leaving.

After the car was out of sight, she went back into the house. The house had felt so alive and full the last week. Now it felt dead and empty. She felt sad. She’d have visitors at Christmas, but that was five months away.

She headed to the kitchen. The table was a sheer disaster zone! She stood, remembering how irritated she was when her kids would leave the table a mess before going to school. Was it THAT hard to take an empty bowl and put it into the dishwasher? It was still a bit irritating when her grandkids didn’t clean up, but it was also sad to think that this was the last time she’d see this table so messy for many, many months. A sign that she was alone.

She started cleaning the kitchen. After this, she’d go and start cleaning the bedrooms. Tomorrow, she’d go back to her part time job as church secretary, and her life would return to normal.

The telephone rang. It was Pastor Jim.

“I’m sorry to bother you,” he said. “I know you said you’d be back in the office tomorrow. Could you come today? At least for a few minutes? We have a minor crisis.”

She looked around the empty kitchen. It was just about clean. The sheets didn’t have to be washed until December. And the house felt oppressively empty.

“I can be there in an hour!” she said.

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Clever as a Cat, by Rod Drake

21/7/2023

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I should tell you at the outside that I’m a talking cat—otherwise an ordinary house cat, acting like and doing all the things any normal cat does, except for the speech ability (in English,
and a smattering of Spanish and Japanese that I picked up from the help). I only talk to my “owners” daughter, four-year-old Emma, since if she reveals my secret, who would believe her?

I have no desire to end up in a tiny aluminum cage in some government lab undergoing tests for the rest of my nine lives (which by the way is nothing but an old wives’ tale, and I don’t have your tongue either). Anyway, talking to Emma is fun, as she brings me gossip from her pre-school (that Ethan is sweet on her, I believe, and Ashley doesn’t like that fact at all!), and since she has opposable thumbs, can do my bidding, which is getting me Delicious Delicacies from the package whenever I want them (take that, Mr. and Mrs. Riley!) and turn on the television for reruns of America’s Funniest Home Videos (humans are idiots).

So it’s a good life, lying in the sun in some cozy spot, snoozing most of the day away, watching the stupid dog next door try to remember where he buried his bone yesterday and chasing his own tail (I mean really—whoever thought dogs were more intelligent than cats was obviously human! Cats rule and dogs drool. Literally). Ah, I hear Emma arriving home from a tough day at pre-school, so time to dish with the kid and see what mischief I can get her into and escape any blame as I sit silently and look innocent.

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Panhandle Blues, by Rod Drake

14/7/2023

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Janis sat on the top step of a makeshift staircase idly blowing bubbles from a plastic wand and a little bottle of liquid soap.

The rough wood set of steps was attached to the temporary stage erected at one end of the Panhandle Park in the Haight; a small army of long-haired kids worked on taping down cables and electrical wires, attaching them to amplifiers, microphones and control boxes that snaked across the amateur stage. In four hours, the Panhandle section of Golden Gate Park would be the crowded scene of a weekly free concert featuring various local bands, a regular and much anticipated event.

It was early spring 1967 and Haight-Ashbury was alive with the sights and sounds of young people, an enclave of tie-dye, wild, streaming hair, sandals and free joints.

Janis listened to a couple members of Quicksilver Messenger Service trying out the amplifier and microphone connections, mostly getting shrill feedback and loud electrical clicks.

“Hey, Janis, try out this mic,” one of the skinny sound techs called over to her.

She smiled her crooked smile, got up and walked to the center of the stage, grabbed the mic stand and launched into an old Big Momma Thornton song acapella. Janis wailed, she cooed, she screamed out the lyrics as she rocked back and forth like someone possessed, clutching the microphone stand like a lifeline, stamping her feet and shaking her long, wavy, thick hair, caught up in the powerful feeling of the blues tune.

Everyone on the stage and groups of hippies already camped out in the park stopped whatever they were doing and listened, transfixed by the intense performance. This local girl really had
it; she was going somewhere for sure.

She finished the song, laughed her cackle of a laugh, said “That’s how it’s done,” and walked off stage probably to find a bottle of her ever-present Jack Daniels somewhere.

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Pecuniae Omnia Parent, by John O’Keefe

14/7/2023

2 Comments

During 63-62 BC a populist uprising took place in Rome, instigated by Lucius Sergius Catilina, better known as Catiline. The famous orator and statesman Cicero happened to be one of the two consuls in that period. The crisis threatened to destabilize the entire Empire; still the Senate was hesitant how to handle the insurrection. That came to an end with the public execution of five prominent co-conspirators on the Forum; Cicero had been instrumental in reaching that decision. Next year Catiline was killed in a battle and order was restored. Cicero however had to be put on trial since Roman Law specifically forbade extrajudicial capital punishment.

Cicero played it safe and stayed outside of the city in one of his villas near the Adriatic Sea. He only returned after a messenger delivered the good news: the judge had ruled in his favor.

Following the verdict, rumors were circulating among Rome’s proletariat and their patrician sympathizers that the rich Cicero had bribed the poor judge. Cicero shrugged it off, “That judge is not poor at all. Now after the trial he is exactly as rich as I was before the trial.”

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Foxglove Frenzy, by Jocelyn-Anne Harvey

14/7/2023

2 Comments

Tony had bought them at a garage sale. Some enthusiastic gardeners selling off plants they’d potted. No knowledge of what colour stems would appear a year later. Now amidst the border they stretched towards sunlight, giving bees the chance to buzz between them.

The flowers reminded him about trips west. The change from concrete to countryside. Where tractors squeezed you into hedgerows and grass tickled you through open windows. They hadn’t been for years.

‘Is it still there, Diane?’ A question answered with a search. Yes, it was, with the promise of warm Welsh cakes dripping with butter. He clicked book.

***

This time he used the sat nav. Diane sat with the map on her lap. That was familiar, as was the flask in the door and the foil wrapped sandwiches. Except this time the map pages didn’t turn as they whizzed past signs. And she didn’t sing about green grass when they crossed the white bridge. Or try to pronounce the wiggly words that made sense when you pronounced them English style.

Tony stopped at the services. Locking the car, just to be on the safe side. Everyone was either moving or eating. A flurry of motion. He liked to have sat with his tea and cheese sandwich but perhaps those lanes would help him.

Soon they’d get narrower once the junctions passed. There the foxgloves would tower above the overgrowth. Threading their scarlet blooms, hastening him on. Surely then she might remember?

They’d been so many times, and he’d booked the same room with the view of the pastures where the cattle lowed. And the sea winds blew over the cliffs with the vinegary tang of chips, and of laughing and watching families pass with ice creams, and waking up knowing you still had days left; that you could repeat it all over again.

Perhaps one moment, she’d pause and look at him. Properly look at him. His Diane. And she’d say something, something relevant, something even small like, ‘digitalis’.

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Shades of Wildflowers, by J. Iner Souster

14/7/2023

1 Comment

Corvin marvelled at the beauty of the orange and blue flowers in his hands. Their vibrant colours and delicate petals brought a sense of joy. As he continued his journey through the forest, he couldn't help but feel a deep connection to the natural world surrounding him.

The path led him to a meadow filled with all shades and hues of wildflowers. The sweet fragrance of blossoms filled the air, and the gentle breeze played with his hair. He knelt down and gently placed the flowers among the vibrant blooms, letting them find their place in the tapestry of nature.

As Corvin wandered further, he encountered a sparkling stream that meandered through the woods. The water shimmered in shades of cyan, reflecting the azure sky above. Drawn to its mesmerizing beauty, he cupped his hands and sipped the cool, refreshing water. It quenched his thirst and invigorated his spirit, revitalizing him for the journey ahead.

With each step, he felt a deep sense of peace and harmony. The forest embraced him with open arms, and he reciprocated by respecting its delicate balance. He trod lightly, mindful of the life around him, from the tiniest insects to the majestic trees towering above.

As he ventured deeper into the woods, Corvin noticed that the trees took on an unnatural quality. Their bark appeared almost white, emanating a soft glow as if nature would speak its secrets to those who listened with open hearts.

Corvin couldn't help but feel a sense of wonder. The forest seemed alive with magic and mystery, with every crevice holding a new surprise. The animals he encountered along the way, from playful squirrels to graceful deer, regarded him with curious eyes, acknowledging the harmony between them.

Through the forest, he found himself exploring the external beauty and embarking on an inner journey of self-discovery. The tranquil surroundings invited introspection, allowing him to connect with his true essence and find solace.

As he walked, he became attuned to the subtle whispers of the wind and the forest's melodies. Nature's symphony enveloped him as if the trees and birds were singing songs of unity. He understood that he was an integral part of this grand tapestry of life, and his purpose was to honour and protect it.

Guided by this newfound understanding, he vowed to become a steward of the forest, embracing his role as a guardian of nature. He would share the wisdom he had gained, inspiring others to rekindle their connection with the natural world and work together to preserve its beauty for generations to come.

And so Corvin's journey through the forest continued, filled with growth and a deep appreciation for the interconnectedness of all living beings. As he walked hand in hand with nature, he carried the lessons of harmony, love, and respect, spreading their transformative power wherever he went. The forest, in turn, embraced him as one of its own, forever grateful for the gentle soul who found solace and purpose within its timeless embrace.

1 Comment

No One Knew, by Diane Chattaway

7/7/2023

26 Comments

No one knew about the old-beat-up Chevy, forgotten in the pines. I found it the day I fled home, seeking refuge from my stepfathers' touch. Its metal carcass beckoned me over, promising shelter from the heat. I spent my summer days there, cradled in its skeleton, safe from the duties made mine in my mother's absence.

I stiffened the moment my bedroom door crept open. His shadow shifting against the wall meant one thing, "Mom was working late."
Not again.
As if they heard my muted cry, the cicadas screamed, their calls carried in the wind, bustling through my window, urging me to visit and infecting my thoughts.
I knew what to do.

"Not here," I whispered, my twelve-year-old voice failing seduction. I slipped from the covers, knowing he'd follow.

Feeding him a whorish delusion that this time, there'd be no fight. I slid into the backseat, seizing a sliver of the broken glass window, and waited.

Summer passes, and I still taste the damp soil masking the decay in that car. An odd comfort.

Cops come with questions. Where is he? Where did he go?

I stay silent, just like he taught me.
I smile because, like the things he's done and the car's existence, "Those answers," No one knew.

26 Comments

The Aperture, by J. Iner Souster

7/7/2023

3 Comments

Behold the boundless sky, an expanse with limitless possibilities. Let its beauty inspire greatness and fuel your dreams. The ingenuity that launched a craft into orbit demonstrates human potential. The same visionary spirit that birthed the moon two centuries ago has now birthed a celestial subway system to the stars, providing a thriving colony for tens of thousands of diligent individuals.

The aperture symbolizes resilience and offers a glimpse of the infinite universe. Embrace the yearning for exploration and envision a future among the stars. The void within us is a gateway to endless possibilities.

The moon thrives as a hub of activity, offering affordable adventures and cherished memories. A Texan artist's vision connects with others' aspirations to leave a mark on the cosmos.

Humanity's spirit of exploration persists, pushing boundaries and defying limitations. The unknown becomes a sanctuary for reflection and a reminder of our potential.

Witness the bustling station and trains filled with eager passengers embarking on journeys to the colony's farthest corners. It showcases humanity's unwavering thirst for adventure.

Embrace the awe-inspiring beauty around us. From a humble beginning, our journey leads us to growth and discovery. The hole beckons us to explore our true potential and unleash our inner strength.

Amidst an ever-changing world, the aperture remains a potent symbol of this place's resilience and unwavering determination. Behold the wonder of the rift in our world's ceiling, offering us a fleeting glimpse into the celestial marvels crafted eons ago, far beyond the confines of our earthly abode.

Venture into the vast expanse of the universe and seize the future with unwavering conviction, for the potential for greatness knows no bounds. Envision the limitless horizons that beckon us beyond the stars. Our courage to explore the unknown leads us to a future of wonder and discovery.

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<<Previous

The First Toilet of the Year, by John M. Carlson

I Told Him Not to Do It, by Doug Bartlett

The Registrar of Ideas, by David Lowis

Stocked Up, by John M. Carlson

Perfect Communion, by Don Tassone

Halfway Home, by Jenna Hanan Moore

See for Yourself, by Don Tassone

Whispers, by Jim Bartlett

The Dragon, by Malvina Perova

R8 Your Life, by Anthony Ward

Start From Minus, by David Dumouriez

No Beethoven, by Daniel Hybner

Just Driving Through, by John M. Carlson

Vast Expanse, by J. Iner Souster

The Fog of Enlightenment, by M. A. Hassan

A Nuisance, by Libby Belle

Sacred Work, by Don Tassone

Oppressively Empty, by John M. Carlson

Clever as a Cat, by Rod Drake

Panhandle Blues, by Rod Drake

Pecuniae Omnia Parent, by John O’Keefe

Foxglove Frenzy, by Jocelyn-Anne Harvey

Shades of Wildflowers, by J. Iner Souster

No One Knew, by Diane Chattaway

The Aperture, by J. Iner Souster

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