Longer Stories

There's No Smoke Without Fire, by Steven Lemprière

27/6/2025

Loitering at bus stops was an indulgence on Brian’s part, the kind only a cigarette could address. But tonight, with just a wintery fog for company, Brian kicked his heels. But then, shortly before his bus was due, a young woman joined him and pulled a pack from her bag. The same brand he once smoked. Hackles raised, he’d inched closer.

Brian salivated when the sulphurous odour of a spent match—now discarded, and littering the pavement—drifted by on a chilly breeze. Quivered when she took a long slow pull that scarred the nighttime mist; then sighed after she exhaled, when the curl of smoke he so desired wafted past, tantalisingly out of reach.

Brian shimmied a little nearer, careful not to garnish her attention.

“How long’s it been?” She’d startled him.

“Sorry?”

“Since your last cigarette? I noticed you fidgeting, crabbing toward me, eyeing up the smoke.”

“Nearly two years.”

“How short of that milestone are you?”

Brian’s grin was answer enough.

“Would you like one?”

Brian coughed. “What?”

“Two years and you’re still that desperate. Go on. Take one.”

“My wife would kill me.”

“Well, here’s another nail in your coffin,” she laughed. “Look, we’re all dying. Why not enjoy yourself while doing it? ”

He peered at her extended hand, and the promise it held. For sure, he’d regret it, but the warming glow he’d so sorely missed would be a comfort, however fleeting. He took the cigarette, smiling acceptance as his fingers brushed against hers, and leant into the lit match she cradled.

Straightening up, and having rekindled his love affair with nicotine, Brian was unperturbed as he viewed his bus’s taillights dissolve into a now not so gloomy fog.

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Juliet November Tango, by Nelly Shulman

27/6/2025

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“Tango or foxtrot?”
Her ochre hair gleamed in the dim light of the cheap lamp. Outside, the merciless November wind owned the empty Montreal streets, whirling fresh snow across the cobblestones and slapping handfuls of sludge onto the windshields of the late cars.
“Tango,” Juliet answered, and Victor smiled.
“Bravo.”
The hotel was boarded up for winter, and echoes filled the empty corridors. The man she now knew as Victor had put her in the old-fashioned room with a four-poster bed and a radiator that emanated blessed warmth. Juliet had no idea what Victor’s real name was, but her trained ear caught a faint trace of a Russian accent in his voice.
In the dull reception area, next to a wooden statue of a Zulu warrior, hung some kind of old pennant with Cyrillic letters. Juliet remembered the alphabet from her university years.
“You might want to put it away,” she said, lighting her cigarette. “Visitors might know what the Alpha is.”
Victor shrugged.
“There are no visitors here—ever—and I like to think about my past. I burned my uniform after the war, but this little thing is harmless. I embroidered it myself in occupational therapy.”
He was missing three fingers on his right hand.
The sounds of tango, emanating from an ancient turntable, filled the hall, and Juliet let the music overtake her body, washing away kilos of tiredness accumulated on flights from India to Lima and from Lima to Quebec. Names and faces swirled in her head. Mike in India, Sierra in Peru, someone else on a layover between Asia and South America. New passports and new names.
Tomorrow the Delta team would strike again. Juliet looked at his dry, dark face, made of corners and creases. Victor slid a glass of whisky across the shaky table.
“Drink, and maybe your X-ray eyes will lose their sharpness,” he smiled.
“That’s why Delta employs me,” she said, taking the drink. The whisky caressed her mouth and Juliet inhaled the salty seaside air of her childhood.
“True,” Victor admitted, showing her the phone. “This is Charlie, and he’ll pick you up after tomorrow’s event.”
It was always an event or a job. They avoided the real word—just like the real names.
“You go Yankee-side and get lost in the woods,” Victor continued. “Wait until Papa finishes playing golf and returns to D.C. Romeo will drive you from the cabin to the capital, and the rest will end up in the history books.”
“One day somebody’ll get an Oscar for a film about us,” Juliet said, draining the last dregs of whisky and extending her hand. “Shall we dance?”
He was supple and lithe, like a wild beast—but Juliet could tame any weapon known to man. She led, and Victor followed, until the last sound of the tango dissolved in the plaintive howl of the wind.

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Too Late, by Don Tassone

20/6/2025

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She looked across the room at her husband, sprawled across the sofa, dozing off as he watched TV.

For a moment, she tried to think of him as he was when he was a young man. When he was handsome and fit, when he was confident and ambitious, when he was fun and energetic.

She had loved him then, madly. When they were together, she was euphoric. When they were apart, she ached for him.

Over time, though, he changed. His drive waned, and his looks faded. He retired and traded his suits for sweats. He stopped shaving. He seldom left home. He was quiet and always seemed a little sad.

To his wife, he had become a colossal disappointment. He bore little resemblance to the man she had married. She could hardly look at him anymore. She barely spoke to him.

Still, he loved her. Once he brought her flowers. The next day, he found them in the trash. He didn’t bring her flowers again.

One morning, when he didn’t come downstairs, she called up to him. When he didn’t answer, she went up to his room. He was in bed, under the covers.

“Wake up, you bum!” she yelled from the doorway.

But he didn’t move.

Now she lives alone. She wishes she had asked her husband how he was doing. She wishes she had kept those flowers.

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1600 Transylvania Avenue, by Eric Delong

20/6/2025

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“Silvia, have you noticed that the boss is acting odd lately?”, the Vice asked the press secretary.

She thought for a moment and carefully replied: “In what way sir?”

“He spends the whole day in his residence sleeping. Then he’s up all night, tweeting.”

The Veep stroked his beard, deep in thought, and added: “Did you notice how he behaved last night at the state dinner?”

“Now that you mentioned it, yes. He showed up late in the evening and ate nothing. He did have a glass of what I guess was tomato juice. And -- I’ll be honest with you sir. The way he stares at me gave me the creeps.”

“I’m concerned. He hasn’t been the same since his meeting with Vladimir, two weeks ago.”

In his quarters, the President looked out he window at the deepening twilight.

He thought: My opponents say I’ve been draining the public’s lifeblood for years. He smiled, a disturbing Cheshire cat grin, revealing two prominent fangs. And now I get to do it for real. He opened the window. A black cloud enveloped him, quickly dissipating to reveal a large black bat, flying widdershins around the room.

Who should I visit tonight? Yes! The Ex-President! He’s half dead already! Red eyes burning bright, the hideous creature flew out the open window, into the wide darkling night.

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Salad Days, by Steven Lemprière

20/6/2025

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“Tomato Tarte Tatin?” Sophie questioned, and not in her customary soft-toned whisper as she glanced over Tom’s notes for this evening’s celebratory dinner with her parents. No, her voice’s timbre was more of a holler, to be heard over the relentless murmur of the kitchen’s stand mixer busily whirring away as her husband gradually added ice-cold water to the bowl. “Surely a Tarte Tatin is a dessert. Tomatoes are a vegetable?”

“The farmers’ market had a glut of some interesting heirloom varieties this morning. You don’t see them very often, and they’ve a shorter season that’s ending soon. Besides, they don’t store well, so the stall slashed their prices to clear them out.”

“And you can’t resist a bargain.” She interjected.

“You know me,” and in riposte to her mildly sarcastic tone, “by the way, they’re a fruit from the nightshade family.”

“Yeah, right? Next you’ll be telling me the same goes for a cucumber,” but before Tom could confirm this to be the case, she continued. “Don’t get me wrong, you know I love your cooking, but my father’s old-school. A meat and potatoes man. He’ll find fault in anything fancy. Last year, it was a hair in the Vichyssoise you made for the first course. It was grey. I’m pretty sure it was his own. Guaranteed, he’ll poke fun at you. I can see it now, something about a man’s place being in his workshop, not the kitchen. Tonight, let’s not supply the ammunition. I don’t want the dining table to become a battleground. By all means, use your fancy tomatoes. Maybe in a side salad, but please, please could you make something else for the starter? Perhaps a terrine? You can still show off your skills, and here’s an idea. You could pass it off as a cold meatloaf.”

“Come on Sophie, you can plead all you like. Look, the kitchen’s my domain. But hang on for a minute. How about this for a solution? I could use the deadly variety of nightshade for your father’s serving. That would put an end to his carping.”

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The Council of Silk, by Nelly Shulman

13/6/2025

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They came one by one, silk robes rustling, hair streaming down their backs or towering over their elegant heads in grand chignons. The Council banners unfolded over the round stone table, hewn from precious marble in times immemorial—red and orange, purple and blue, pink and green, black and white, brown and silver. The circle was closed.
The golden banner remained folded, waiting for the moment when the voting would be done and the imperial crown, its sharp spikes rising in the middle of the table, would adorn the head of the Immortal Empress.
One of them was destined to leave their planet tonight, traveling through space to her future consort, never to return home again. The ceremony was always conducted at sunset, when the endless ocean, nursing the granite mass of the only island in its midst, was at its most beautiful. The fiery star on the horizon bathed in the deep waters, coloring them the shade of blood.
The tall windows were open, and the wind played with the scraps of silk they had to place in the carved chest, guarded by an angelic-looking girl—one of the future cohorts. The other maidens stood silent guard next to the windows and the majestic ornamental door, waiting for the twelfth strike of the clock.
The twelve around the table had also once been like that—pure and eager, carefully selected from all the planets of the Empire for a life of seclusion, duty, and training. Brought here when they were barely able to walk or talk, they knew nothing else, having forgotten their parents and been given new names.
The clock echoed in the hall, and they rose from their chairs. One by one, they approached the chest, dropping the silk scraps until the few colored pieces were buried beneath the abundance of white.
The choice was made and the golden banner fell down. The young woman with a mass of wheaten curls and eyes the color of deep azure bowed to her sisters, putting the crown on her head.
The White, like the others, had been taught never to be angry or resentful, so she only smiled, as the others left the room one by one. From now on, the Council of Silk would follow her orders, sent with Imperial Dispatches, and choose wives for governors and generals. She would never utter a word or move in public—becoming the living goddess and embodiment of the Imperial spirit, the one who is forever silent and still.
The maidens had also left the hall, and the ocean darkened under the shadow of the monstrous spaceship descending from the twilight sky. Her time had come and, spreading her arms, the White jumped from the window. Catching the wind, she soared toward the ship.

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House of Whoops, by Graeme Copland

13/6/2025

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Derek pointed to the cold-food section. “Anything worth having there?”

Doris walked over and looked in. She shook her head. “Some bashed tubs of yoghurt and a couple of packs of dried grapes. That’s about it.”

Derek was annoyed. For years he had been coming for the Whoops discounted food at this supermarket and he had been hugely rewarded for his determination. “Never pay a penny more than you need to” was Derek’s motto in life.

But that was before the low-cost housing had been built in the neighbouring estate. Now, boatloads of people on low incomes would regularly swoop into the supermarket at the time prices were being cut. They’d stand around, block access to the bargains and generally prevent Derek from maximising his spending power and grabbing whoops-priced groceries.

On this day, he and Doris had arrived 15 minutes earlier than usual. Derek reasoned that an early assault on the cold food section would be a useful exercise and, even if the food had not been fully discounted at that time, at least he and Doris would be in the prime position to pounce when the price was right.

“Stand here beside me,” Derek instructed his wife. “We’ll create a blockade.”

Dutifully, Doris took her position beside her husband and they locked arms.

“Excuse me,” said a diminutive, elderly lady pushing a small trolley. She was trying to see what was available in the fridge. “If I could just squeeze past…”

“Nothing to buy here, love” said Derek as he wrestled the trolly from the lady’s grasp and pushed it further down the aisle. “Run along, now,”

The old lady felt a little put out and shuffled after her trolley.

Derek retook his position and looked around for the shop assistants. He had expected them to return and further discount the foodstuffs but no-one approached. “Strange,” he said to Doris. Then suddenly he had a thought. “Stay here” he ordered and took off down the aisle. Dorris watched him go and he disappeared round the corner.

Within seconds he was back. “Quickly, woman. They’re repricing the stuff on the other side. We’re at the wrong side of the aisle!”

They both set off at speed and turned the corner. In front of them at the newly-created discounted food section, mayhem had erupted. People were clamouring and shouting, pushing and shoving and generally behaving in a manner one never sees at M&S.

Derek pushed his way into the melee. A large, tattooed man stood at the front of the group next to the Whoops food. Derek tried to reach past.

“Oi! Wait your turn.” The large man said. “I was ‘ere first.”

“I think you’ll find I was here well before you, my good man.” said Derek with the manner of someone used to getting his own way and he pushed the large man to the side.

Later that afternoon, Doris carried a bashed tub of yoghurt and a pack of dried grapes into the hospital at visiting time.

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Gastronomic Entrepreneur Par Excellence, by Cheryl Dahlstrand

13/6/2025

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The chef/owner called on his brother, the doctor. He was worried.

“Hey Dr. Bro, I noticed many of my patrons’ stomachs growling at the restaurant. Could be a bad sign.”

“It actually could be good,” his brother reflected. “Medical professionals listen to stomachs all the time and learn a lot that way. I’ll lend you my stethoscope. Try it for a month and see what you find out.”

After the allotted time, the chef called with an update. “Dr. Bro, I took your advice, and you were right. After the growling, there were many positive comments. True gastronomic stomachs even made suggestions. For instance: ‘try finely minced scallions instead of chives.’ Sure enough, I modified the recipe, and more patrons ordered the appetizer. So, I decided to diversify my business model.”

“What? Franchise? New restaurant across town?”

The chef winked. “Actually, matchmaking.”

“Matchmaking?” His brother appeared doubtful. “Sounds like a separate business.”

“No, absolutely not. I selected my most popular dishes as determined by my male stomach data. Then I opened up cooking classes for single women who were interested in attracting a mate.”

“The way to a man’s heart is through his stomach,” observed the doctor “A well-known medical fact.”

“I have held three classes so far. They resulted in four marriage proposals. It was so successful I decided to take up your franchise suggestion.”

“It may require a different marketing angle,” the doctor advised.

The chef smiled broadly. “That’s exactly where you come in. You and your buddies listen to a lot of stomachs- could you put in a good word for me?”

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The Year of the Locusts, by Don Tassone

13/6/2025

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Thousands of worker ants fanned out across the forest floor to find food, leaves and twigs. In an orderly fashion, they then bore them back to their home and queen.

It took them months, but they laid up supplies enough to nourish and protect every member of the colony through the long winter.

But this year an enemy was watching: a swarm of ravenous locusts. Perched in the trees, they saw the ants as easy prey, in part because they knew they would do anything, even sacrifice themselves, to protect the colony.

“How foolish they are,” said the locust king. “They could leave the weak behind and run for cover. But they risk their lives to save others. They’ll make a good meal.”

The following morning, the locusts swooped in with a loud, continuous buzzing and attacked the ants, who huddled together, surrounding the injured, the old, eggs, larvae and the queen.

There were many more ants than locusts, but locusts can fly, they have killer jaws and their appetite is nearly insatiable. By day’s end, they’d decimated the colony, whose hardiest members burrowed deep underground, saving the queen.

“Suckers,” laughed the locust king, devouring the last of his feast. “Losers.”

Then the locusts, fat and happy, flew away to find new prey in another forest.

But not for long because the average lifespan of a locust is only four months. Ants, by contrast, can live for years, their queens for decades.

Soon the locusts, too weak to attack, their selfish lives ebbing away, began to fall dead to the forest floor, where detritivores consumed their carcasses.

All the while, the ants carried on, forming columns, marching, gathering supplies, fortifying their home, raising new generations of ants and protecting the colony, where values and wisdom reside and abide.

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Market Forces, by Tom Baldwin

30/5/2025

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Dalston had driven his ancient pickup truck for nearly two hours since leaving the last small town. He’d seen few signs of life, just an occasional farmhouse set well back from the road.

It was something he did for a few days once a year to relax from the rigours of his international business and financial entities: buying, rationalising and selling on companies with their drastically reduced workforces to satisfy the demanding shareholders and contribution-hungry politicians while claiming huge tax breaks. He would drive all day and camp out at night, shunning diners and restaurants, cooking over a fire and reliving his travels across the country as a young man.

Dalston realised the light was fading fast and his gas was running low, very low, and cursed himself for not filling up earlier. Then in the distance he saw a lone gas station. He drove in, stopped at the old-fashioned pumps and stepped out. An old man in faded blue overalls and a straw hat appeared and gazed at him incuriously.

‘Hi. Can you fill her up, please? I’m nearly empty.’

The old man looked his customer up and down. ‘You Dalston?’

‘Yes, I am. I’m surprised you recognised me in this old truck.’

‘Delos Dalston, the fifth-richest man in the country in nineteen-ninety-eight.’ Dalston inclined his head modestly.

‘Yes, but that was last year. Can you fill me up?’

‘Dalston, the man who believes in free enterprise, efficiency and letting the weakest go to the wall.’

‘I said I was,’ said Dalston, recognising his own words and just wanting to be on his way.

‘It’ll cost you a hundred bucks a gallon.’

Dalston spluttered. ‘That’s outrageous! It’s extortion!’

‘You believe in market forces, charging what the customer will pay, supply and demand and all the rest, don’t you?’

Dalston was silent, knowing what was coming.

‘You want fuel and haven’t got it. I’ve got it and I want money for it, therefore it’s a seller’s market. A hundred bucks a gallon is my price, take it or leave it.’

Dalston wondered if he could get help from elsewhere. He checked his phone – no signal. ‘How far to the next gas station?’

‘Forty-eight miles. Think you’ll make it? If not, it’s a long walk, and there ain’t much traffic about.’

‘OK, give me a couple of gallons, enough to get me to the next town.’

‘You asked me to fill her up. I reckon that’s fifteen gallons. A thousand five hundred dollars. Cash. I don’t take cards.’

For a mad moment Dalston considered knocking the old man down and taking the fuel for free, then common sense returned. He checked his cash. He always carried plenty, and could just cover it. ‘OK, do it,’ he snarled.

‘Money first.’ Dalston handed it over and the old man filled the tank. ‘It was a pleasure doing business with you, Dalston. Have a nice day.’

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Heavenly Blues, by Steven Lemprière

30/5/2025

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Backstage at the Arena, May sensed more than the instrument’s physical weight as she lifted her father’s axe from its stand. Named after a Chuck Berry song, Pa’s childhood hero, and not her birth month, as her mother once believed, she’d adopted the shortened version, rather than the officially registered Maybellene.

Invited by her late father’s bandmates, May was guesting in a tribute to his memory, a sold out show to be recorded at a local theatre for later transmission by a national network. Fittingly, the location chosen for the event, was a medium-sized hometown venue they’d first played when hitting the road as wet-eared youngsters; and among those lucky enough to have got a ticket were an invited group of the musical legends her father deemed close friends.

So, as a talisman and to feel his presence on stage, she’d selected her father’s 1960 Les Paul Sunburst, a favourite guitar of his when performing the blues. Spoilt for choice, from the sheer number and quality of his collection, she’d settled on the Gibson. Its slimmer neck, when compared to a Stratocaster—another instrument closely linked to her father—and unique to that year’s production run, was a feature that suited May’s smaller hands. However, and more importantly, she felt its humbucker pickups produced a warmer, more expansive sound than the Fender’s single coils, especially when paired with a Marshall amp at full volume. Just the right note for the two songs she’d perform, one a composition she and her father had collaborated on shortly before his passing.

Never daunted by an audience, May felt more than a little trepidation when she heard a familiar song’s opening chords; an anthem written by her father which had announced the bands’s arrival to a larger audience. The last in tonight’s set before she was called on stage. Used to performing, whether for family, friends or at a school concert, the thought of a much larger audience hadn’t unduly unnerved her. No, her father’s memory was May’s primary concern, and imagining he’d be looking down from on high, she feared disappointing him.

In her heart, May knew she wouldn’t; but then again, feeling downbeat was the perfect prelude to playing the blues.

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The Catapult, by Eric Delong

23/5/2025

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“I’m sure all of you have noted the toy catapults and rubber balls on your desks,” the instructor told the statistics class. “It’s your next assignment. Divide up in teams of four. Each team will vary the parameters such as placement, release, tension, height from the ground as examples. Make notes and enter the results in the correlation apps on your laptops, to find out the parameters that will give the best accuracy and maximum range. There will be prizes for the highest accuracy, and for the greatest range.”

The following day: “OK, now, using yesterday’s results, each team will fire their catapults. Team A you’re up first.”

Team A set up their toy, placed a small rubber ball in the cup and fired. Appointed monitors noted where the balls landed. The instructor used a piece of chalk to mark the spot.

“Not bad. Take two more shots.”

“Good work. All are within ‘3 sigma’ or three standard deviations for accuracy. Your distance is good, but not optimal.”

The rest of the teams went though the exercise, leaving Team F for last.

“You’re next Team F…. Team F, you’re up!”

The double doors leading to the lecture hall opened wide and Team F, straining, wheeled in a huge catapult. The members worked the windlass to bring down the throwing arm to the loading position.

“Where in Christ’s name did you get that thing?”

“We borrowed it from a renaissance fair,” the team captain replied. He lifted a large black coloured ball, marked with ‘10 lb’.
“It’s a medicine ball,” he explained. “It weighs ten pounds”.

He placed the ball in the catapult’s throwing arm cup, and stood to the side, holding the firing lanyard. The captain warned: “Stand Aside!” and pulled.

Swishhh! The arm swung upward. Thunk! It hit the padded stop. The rear of the catapult lifted off the ground and dropped back down with a thud. The big, heavy ball flew across the room. Students ducked or scattered; the ball knocked over a table and crashed though a window on the opposite side of the hall.

The instructor yelled. “Are you folks crazy? Look at the damage you caused!”
.
“It wasn’t supposed to do that,” the captain said, puzzled. He looked at the catapult, at the pawl and rachet mechanism used to tighten the throwing bands. He glared at one his crew members, who wore a tag, ‘Hello, my name is --- Fred Smith --- Team F for Fantastic’.

“Fred, did you tighten the band on the throwing arm?”

“Yes, I did, it looked loose.”

“It was supposed to be loose, you idiot! That’s how we set it up! Remember!”

“Oops, my bad,” Fred exclaimed, crestfallen. He turned to the instructor and said, sheepishly. “Do we get the prize for distance?”

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Sphere of Influence, by Don Tassone

23/5/2025

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Matt Spence stood in his front yard and watched the flames come closer, devouring everything in their path. The world was on fire, and there was nothing Matt or anyone could do to put it out.

Would his home too be consumed and he and his family with it? Could anyone save them from this conflagration? Was there still time to flee?

Then Matt had an idea. He got out his ladder and climbed up on his roof. He called to his wife to grab the garden hose, swing the nozzle end up to him and turn on the water, full blast.

Once she’d done that, Matt began spraying everything within reach: his yard, his house, parts of his next door neighbors’ yards.

His neighbors saw what Matt was doing and decided to climb up on their roofs and begin spraying too. Then their neighbors did the same. Soon the whole neighborhood looked like a fountain. The fire ravaged dry areas but left the wet ones alone.

Word spread to other communities all across the country. With their hoses, everyone drenched everything they could and staved off the fire. It still found plenty of fuel. But amidst the flames, the people had found a way to save themselves and one another.

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Monty And The Space Dragon, by Graeme Copland

16/5/2025

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Captain John Montgomery checked the control panel on the sleeve of his spacesuit for the third time. All his system indicator lights, with the exception of life support, glowed red when they should have been green. He was in a jam and he knew it.

Moments earlier, Captain Montgomery had taken his first steps outside the safety of the space shuttle as it glided silently in Earth’s orbit. His instructions had been clear:

1. Exit the spacecraft and secure himself to the shuttle using a tether.

2. Float or “spacewalk” to the end of the tether.

3. Detach from tether.

4. Engage the space-suit built-in jet pack and return to shuttle.

Steps 1, 2 and 3 had been carried out flawlessly. No issues. But now, he was in trouble. The built-in jets needed to propel him back the safety of the shuttle stubbornly refused to fire. And now, their failure to operate was causing him some concern.

He pressed his intercom button. “Houston, we have a problem. I am showing multiple spacesuit system failures. This includes my jet-pack. Do you copy?”

A distant voice in his headphones replied. “We copy that, Monty. We see your system failures down here and are working on a solution. Standby.”

“Standing by” Monty replied. What else can I do? He thought.

As he waited for Mission Control to respond with a solution, Monty stared at the shuttle. Normally, he loved the vastness and solitude of space but now, for the first time in his career, he was scared. To look away from the shuttle, from safety, from rescue, from life, could mean he never set eyes on it again, and his fate would be sealed. He locked his eyes on the shuttle’s crew entry airlock and tried to control his breathing.

A crackle in his ears. “Monty. This is Houston.”

“Receiving. Go ahead.”

“Ok John, our top engineers have come up with a workaround we need you to try. Power down all your systems. We know this includes life support, and reboot. Hurry John. You don’t have much time.”

Montgomery raised an eyebrow and thought, “Switch it off and on again? Really? And these guys claim to be rocket scientists!”

He looked at the power switch on his suit. Reluctantly, hesitantly, his hand moved to turn off his life support system, when suddenly his helmet filled with a blinding light and a deafening sound.

“Houston. I fear I’m too late. The Space Dragon has found me”.

“John. What are you doing? I’ve been calling you for the past 10 minutes. Your tea is ready and on the table.” John’s Mum had entered his bedroom, switched on the light and was shouting.

“I was just about to fix my spacesuit jet-pack and return to my shuttle.”

“Well, you can return to your shuttle after you’ve had your tea. And don’t forget to do your homework.”

Captain John Montgomery made one last call. “Houston. Can rocket scientists help with sums?”

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Life is Hard, by Julie Turland

16/5/2025

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A brutal wind whips the snow into a frenzy, stinging my face with icy crystals, making my cheeks burn and my eyes water. Shivering, my teeth chattering as I huddle closer to my mum, needing her warmth against the cold and the unfamiliar sounds of this hostile land.

The grey skies are heavy with menace; skuas wheel overhead, their harsh cries a constant, unsettling reminder of the lurking danger. Small and vulnerable, I am easy prey, my downy feathers offering little protection.

My parents share the responsibility of raising me. I am shielded by them, and I make many friends among other young chicks.
It’s almost time for me to join the others on our trip to the sea. The salty tang of the sea air, thick with the smell of brine and fish, fills our lungs.

Following the others, their clumsy waddle is a comical sight. We embark on an exciting adventure, each step thrilling and full of unfamiliar sounds. I belly-flop onto the frozen snow; the cold sears my skin as I mimic my elders. This is fun as we slide across the snow.

Ahead the shore is littered with sleeping seals, their snores drifting through the air. We must overcome these obstacles, however perilous. A hop and a jump before I see a glimmering expanse of blue ahead. I am a little hesitant; a knot of uncertainty tightens in my stomach.

The older ones tumble one after another into the sparkling, crystal water. It must be ok. Here I go.

Full of grace, I glide through a jewel-filled ocean, the gentle sway of the ocean currents around me, filled with awe at the kaleidoscope of colours and bioluminescent creatures. For a minute, the thrill of the adventure eclipses my mother’s warning, silencing her cautions in my mind. Whoosh. Enormous jaws, bristling with sharp teeth, snap mere inches from my face. A rush of air from their movement, along with a profound sense of fear. I need to escape. My heart pounds as I speed across the water followed by this enormous creature. Rhythmic drumming fills my ears as I haul myself back onto the slick ice.

Safe now, but this silence feels heavy, a deceptive calm masking a hidden threat. This experience teaches me that danger is ever present. Staying together is key; if I remain alert and aware of my surroundings, I might avoid danger and live a long life. The harsh reality of life’s difficulties has already dawned on me; I know it won’t be a smooth path. Icy blizzards, howling winds that cut to the bone, and the constant threat of becoming prey while hunting for food is no fun. Life’s hard, but it’s especially tough if you’re a penguin.

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Like You Like Me Long Version, by Cheryl Dahlstrand

16/5/2025

5 Comments

Jake ran into an old friend simply by walking down the street. These things happen.

Dan, buddy, how the hell are you? It’s been quite a while.
I bet thirty years at least. Got time for a brew? There’s a burger joint about a block from here.

So, how’s life been going?

You know, the regular. I married and have a son. High school valedictorian, went to college on a full ride. He founded a computer company, sold it and retired at thirty-three. Now he oversees his investment portfolio and sits on boards. Lucky, I guess. And yourself?

Like you, I married, but not for long. And yeah, like you, I had a son. Different story.

Success pass him by somehow?

You can be the judge. Majoring in journalism, he dropped out of college and piled up serious student debt. When loan forgiveness did not happen, he was desperate. So, he went to where the money was.

Oh, the stock market? Crypto?

No, he robbed a bank and was convicted. Then he wrote a letter.

Crowdsourcing?

No, he explained the situation to the higher ups and was granted a full pardon. Afterwards, he started a blog. It immediately went viral, and money poured in.

Jake, that’s actually just like my boy. What now? Early retirement?

Not exactly. What with the conviction, notoriety and pardon, he decided that he might as well run for office.

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The Lift, by Nelly Shulman

16/5/2025

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The cabin stopped with a loud thump, and the mechanic frowned.
The new office building had appeared just over a year ago, replacing the crumbling skeleton of the old Police Ministry—burned in the military coup, looted in the civil war, and bombed in the invasion. The place had been as good as haunted, with its secret underground passages, rotting bodies in the cellars, and rat hordes feeding on God-knows-what.
Stepping into the shiny cabin, the mechanic poked around with a metal stick. An engineer by training, he had forgotten almost everything during the last decade, spent in the corrective labor camps. After the invasion, the prisoners were set free, but he had nowhere to return to and spent his days drifting between jobs.
Everything seemed in order, and he frowned again. The marble floor outside echoed with the click-clack of female heels, and he turned to the plastic wall. Strangers were often scared by his face, distorted and scarred after the torture.
The mechanic inhaled a sweet smell. A corner bakery, where before all the wars he had bought pastries for his girlfriend, had also emanated an aroma of sweet vanilla. The shop, his house, and the whole street were gone, and his girlfriend had disappeared along with her entire family just after the coup—when people vanished into thin air and nobody risked searching for them.
“Is the lift working?”
She spoke his language, and the mechanic turned around. She dressed like the occupants, but the bracelets on her well-cared-for hands and the valuable rings were local—blackened, beaten silver, brimming with opaque gemstones from the mountain mines.
She had dyed her neatly cut hair blonde, but her chestnut eyes remained the same—almond-shaped, languid, and serene. The last time he had kissed them was ten years ago. He had heard about people escaping via the sea, in rubber dinghies, starving on the way and drinking rainwater.
“Is it working?” she repeated, looking at him with a mix of disgust and pity. The mechanic was used to that.
“No,” he managed. “Please take another one.”
The hissing doors obscured her slender back, and he was alone again.

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Back Side of a Milk Carton, by Jim Bartlett

16/5/2025

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Hoping to catch even a glimpse of my friend, I once again wander the city streets, bracing myself with each step against an icy wind that has brought dark clouds, leaving the world, like my mood, overcast with gray. Scattered here and there, I catch sight of the posters I’d stapled to telephone poles and wooden fences, though time has left them tattered and washed-out from the harsh change of seasons.

“Have you seen her?” they ask in long since faded black and white print. Yet, while my eyes fill with tears as I gaze upon them – she’s been gone for some time now, and I miss her tremendously – even here, on these weather-worn placards, hers shine through the dim with hope for those amongst us who may be lost and weary. And her smile, oh, that smile, sings of a love that at one time could melt the cruelest of hearts.

But times have changed.

Then again, my head lost in a Pollyannic fog, maybe I’d just failed to notice that this metamorphosis has been long underway. Or worse, rather than the gloomy transformation I’ve envisioned, we’re simply returning to who we’ve always been...

That dagger of possibility cuts deep into my soul, sending a shiver down my back. It’s then I realize she’s not lost. She most certainly didn’t just “disappear.” Rather, she was abandoned, left behind, as her empathy and understanding could no longer be stomached. The traits she tried to instill in each of us had become obstacles to the filling of coffers, so much so, there was no room in the world of greed for a welcoming smile or open heart.

But truth be told, even those of us who said we cared – myself included – did nothing more than fearfully stand by and watch as she was driven away by the heckling and angry voices. The fingers pointing in rage, a needed scapegoat finally found.

Really – and I hate to admit it – the signs have always been there. We’d seen her misty eyes when tolerance and acceptance were pushed aside – gasped as the less fortunate were denied that which they so desperately needed. We winced with her when it became the “right” thing to build bigger fences rather than a longer table. And we whispered sadly, watching as she sighed – ever so softly – when openness and opportunity for all turned into an invitation-only event.

But when it became evident hate and deception were perfectly acceptable, and in fact openly celebrated, her soulful sobs should have caused us to rise up with loud voices. Instead, the few who did speak up were chastised, labelled as pariahs, leaving their spark of hope nothing more than charred ashes, scorched by the fiery glee so prominently aglow in the eyes of those rejoicing her demise.

With that, despite rallies and candlelight vigils, my dear friend Compassion remains missing, lost to the cold breeze. And it gives me cause to wonder, with each passing day, if she’s even missed.

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A Trip to the Countryside, by Rebekah Lawrence

2/5/2025

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A cacophony of birdsong fills the air. But no birds are in sight; hidden in the growing crops and burgeoning bushes. Except for the swallows. They continue to swoop and circle, fast-moving shadows against the blue sky; their arrival heralding summer.

They’d all be silent and invisible when he returned later with Veronica, he thought as he walked back to his car. Of course, she’d be silent too. She habitually used silence as a weapon; but he was confident that, after tonight, she would be disarmed.

Veronica has isolated herself all her life. She wasn’t pleased to have to look after him following the loss of his parents in an aircraft crash when he was 14. But that was a long time ago, and for some years he had been taking care of her while she silently despised him. She spoke to no one and rarely left the house.

It took him a while to load the car before he and Veronica set off that night. And even longer to get Veronica settled in the back seat. Although he knew the drive would be silent, he still found it unsettling. He reached for the radio to provide some distraction.

Arriving at the place he had selected earlier, he turned and smiled at Veronica.

“Wait there, I won’t be long.”

Opening the boot, he removed the paper gloves and coveralls. After carefully pulling them on, he reached inside again.

It was harder work than he had expected, but finally everything was ready and he returned to Veronica.

He opened the car door, “It’s been a while coming, but you deserve it all.”

Struggling to get Veronica out of the car, he swore under his breath.

“Helpful as always! If you’d just make a bit of effort, even just occasionally, perhaps life could be better for both of us.”

She didn’t reply, or even look at him.

He smiled at her again when she emerged. “You’ll like it here.”

She didn’t make it to the place he had selected, but he picked her up and carried her the rest of the way. This was the first time he’d held her in all the time they’d spent together. He could hardly breath through her familiar perfume, which was heavier than her small frame. She had never held him, not even to ease his grieving all those years ago.

He carefully replaced the final piece of turf, complete with dandelions and water hyacinths and stepped back to check his work before returning to the car.

Back home, he burnt the paper gloves and coveralls and stored the shovel in the back of the shed.

No one would miss her, he thought, as he entered the house. Then he cleaned out her cup, just in case, and opened a bottle of wine to toast her memory.

The poison had worked well; even if a bit quicker than he had expected.

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The Redlands, by Don Tassone

18/4/2025

In the Southern Ocean, between South America and Antarctica, there is an island chain called The Redlands. Historically, few people have lived there because the climate is so harsh. But with global warming, the ice and snow have begun to melt, and the population has ticked up.

The Redlands are a sovereign state. In the 1800s, they belonged to England. But as the British Empire began to unravel, The Crown let go of the islands, thinking them of no real value beyond a safe harbor for ships making their way through the treacherous waters of the Drake Passage.

Except for the crews on those ships, few people had even heard of The Redlands. That changed in 2026, when large deposits of the rare earth minerals scandium and yttrium were discovered just beneath the newly exposed surface of the islands.

The world took note. Many countries wanted those minerals. The US made the first move, extending a lucrative offer for mining rights. China, Russia and Europe quickly followed with offers of their own.

But the 22,000 inhabitants of The Redlands weren’t interested. Concerned excavation would ruin both their land and simple way of life, they politely declined all offers.

This didn’t sit well with the American President, who angrily vowed to “get The Redlands, one way or another.”

Most nations no longer trusted the US. Even once staunch allies now saw America as a threat.

When they heard the US might “get” The Redlands, China, Russia and Europe decided they’d had enough. They jointly issued a warning that any invasion by the US would be met with a “swift and forceful response.”

“They’re bluffing,” sneered the President.

Then he ordered his military to take control of The Redlands. But the President had badly misjudged his counterparts. As soon as American soldiers set foot on the islands, China, Russia and Europe unleashed nuclear strikes on the US. America tried to mount a defense, but the combined attack was overwhelming. Within a few hours, the US was decimated.

When the dust settled, China and Russia divvied up America, on the eve of its 250th birthday; Europe stepped up as the new leader of the free world; and The Redlands remained undefiled.

Cold Cuts, by John O’Keefe

18/4/2025

Italian deli; only a handful of guests, most sitting by themselves.

I check the counter first. Bologna, hard salami, Black Forest ham, pepperoni, roast beef, smoked turkey breast, prosciutto, corned beef, liverwurst, cheeses.

“Nice place,” I tell the heavyset bald man, probably the owner.

“Thanks, ma’am,” he says. “Business is slow, though. People no longer eat out or no longer see eye to eye, I dunno. Jus’ a few come here anymore.”

“You’ve got smoked beef tongue?”

“Irish-Italian neighborhood, ma’am, nobody would touch that kinda thing here. Although I remember, my old man liked it also.”

There’s a TV on the wall next to the counter; on the screen we see a deep crater where a hospital was standing a few hours ago. The deli man sighs and shakes his head.

An elderly woman who entered the store right after me joins the conversation. “Beef tongue! Sounds disgusting. It’s probably like French kissing a cow.”

“I like it,” I tell her. “Acquired taste, I guess.”

“Well, I for one wouldn’t want to acquire that taste.”

The TV announces that during a friendly soccer game a rocket slammed into the pitch killing a dozen kids. The deli man sighs again and murmurs a few words, the four-lettered type.

“In a bad mood today, are you?” I ask him.

“Always, ma’am,” he says. “What a world we live in!”

I order roast beef on Russian rye, mustard, pickle. And an extra pickle to help ponder the world we live in.

Moonlit Romance, by Dart Humeston

18/4/2025

Ryan parked the car along Fort Lauderdale beach. The night was warm as the full moon rose from the dark Atlantic Ocean, bathing the waves and sand in purity.

“What are we doing?” Mary asked.

“Take your shoes off, we are going to tip our toes into the Atlantic Ocean.”

Mary shook her head, smiling. “You are such a romantic fool.”

They walked carefully, holding hands to steady each other in the soft sand.

Ten meters from the waves Ryan dropped to one knee in the sand.

“Ryan, are you okay?” Mary knowingly asked.

A bikini-clad girl and a guy with long shorts emerged from the
waves, paused to watch.

“Mary, you are my very best friend, and I love you like crazy. Will you be my wife?” Ryan asked, looking up into Mary’s misty eyes.

“Oh, my God!” shrieked the bikini girl, hands to her mouth. Her boyfriend took her hand, and they watched the romantic scene play out with a few other bathers.

Mary giggled. Ryan swayed about, his face grimacing with pain.

“Can you guys help him up? He has a bad knee,” Mary asked.

Ryan waved them off, saying,” Not until I get my answer.”

Mary, her hands over her chest, tears in her eyes, said, “Of course I will!”

Beach goers cheered and a few clapped. The bikini girl’s boyfriend helped Ryan to his feet.

“Wow, that is awesome, how long have you been dating?” The girl asked, her eyes misty too.

“Ah, well, we actually have been married for fifty-one years. My husband insists on reenacting his proposal every year. He is a hopeless romantic!

“Oh, my God! How awesome!”

Just then, the bikini girl’s boyfriend dropped to one knee in the sand.

The bikini girl shrieked again.

Predictions, by Tom Baldwin

18/4/2025

Arnold hated his job. As a government statistician, his work in investigating population densities and changes, death rates and the like was unchallenging, to say the least. But with only two years to serve before retirement and a pension he knew he had no choice but to struggle through the boredom.

One evening, after some particularly depressing world news headlines, he wondered if it might be possible to statistically predict and, ideally, prevent wars.

For a year he looked at the problem in his own time from all angles, and at last he saw a possible way forward, involving novel variations of several accepted statistical equations.

He gathered the data he thought he needed from his own and a friendly neighbouring country’s published information and set his computer to calculate the results. It quickly produced an answer: his country and its neighbour would be at war within two years, plus or minus three months, with a likelihood of eighty per cent, plus or minus six per cent.

Horrified, Arnold checked and double-checked his data and equations, found a few minor errors and re-ran the program. This time it predicted war within twenty months.

That Monday morning an apprehensive Arnold took his results into work to show his boss, who would undoubtably take it to the department head, and maybe up to the President, which was exactly what happened.

Within an hour of the President seeing his work, three grim-faced men strode into Arnold’s office and took him, his laptop and his printed results to a sub-basement room he had never seen before. ‘Who else knows about this nonsense?’ said the most intimidating of the men.

‘No-one,’ said Arnold. ‘I worked entirely alone in my own time, and brought my results in today to let the government know there is a strong possibility of war. If a few variables are changed war can be delayed or even prevented. I was sure the President would want to know this rather than sleepwalk into a conflict that could cost many lives.’

‘Good,’ said the President when he was told that Arnold’s work had not been disseminated elsewhere. ‘We’ll go ahead with the invasion as planned, just a little earlier than I would have liked in case anyone else figures this out. Increase the defence budget by three per cent per annum from today, run intensive exercises involving all armed services and bring forward the plans to commandeer civilian aircraft and shipping. Oh, and get my trust to increase its holdings in military-industrial stocks, using the usual nominee accounts and offshore companies.’

‘Yes, Mr President,’ said everyone, making a mental note to do the same.

In solitary confinement, Arnold spends his days with pencil and paper calculating his chances of release. The answers always came back as zero.

Sucker-punched by Temptation, by Peggy Gerber

30/3/2025

JOINT 1st, 2025 SIDERIUS MEMORIAL LONGER FLASH CONTEST

TEMPTATION

Hope sat on the examining table picking her cuticles and bracing for the bad news. The pain in her knee was agonizing and she knew the prognosis wasn’t going to be good. As she waited for the orthopedist, her dad’s favorite Bette Davis quote popped into her head, “Growing old is not for sissies.”

After a short delay, Dr. Green entered the room and smiled warmly. He swiveled his computer to show Hope the x-ray images. “Your arthritis has completely worn down the cartilage in your knee,” he said. “It’s bone on bone. It’s time to take action.”

Hope took a deep breath, “So, I’ll need surgery?”

“Yes, but I’m not going to mince words, Hope. You must lose twenty-five pounds first. Every single extra pound will make recovery that much harder.”

Hope slunk out of the office with tears burning her eyes. Her knee was killing her and she didn’t have the energy to cook. On the drive home, she spotted a fried chicken restaurant and stopped off to order dinner. “I’ll start my diet tomorrow,” she mumbled to herself. “Today I’m too upset.”

The next morning, Hope woke up motivated to begin eating healthier. To limit calories, she decided to skip breakfast and go straight to work. When she got to her office, though, there was a large tray of doughnuts sitting on her boss’ desk. It was her co-worker’s birthday and they were all celebrating.

“What can I get you, Hope?” asked Janey pointing to the food.

“Nothing, I’m on a diet.”

“Oh c’mon,” insisted Janey. Calories don’t count at parties.”

Hope hesitated for a minute before picking out a jelly doughnut. She justified the treat by telling herself jelly has fruit in it and vowed to have a healthy lunch.

When noon rolled around, Hope went to the cafeteria and ordered a Caesar salad. She was feeling proud of her choice until the blue cheese dressing began calling her name. She grabbed a couple of packets rationalizing she was just eating lettuce.

That night, Hope’s knee was aching again, and all she wanted to do was sit. She called her husband and asked him to pick up a sausage pizza on the way home. She figured she had already ruined her diet that day, so she might as well enjoy dinner and begin fresh tomorrow.

The following morning, Hope decided a cup of good coffee would be just the ticket to curb her cravings, but when she entered the coffee shop, they were just taking fresh bagels out of the oven and the aroma was intoxicating. Hope’s defenses dissolved and she ordered a raisin bagel with butter. She ate it in her car, her stomach clenching with guilt.

When she got to work, Hope sighed deeply and pulled out her phone. She called Dr. Green’s office and wailed, “Doc, I need help. Would you write me a prescription for Ozempic?”

One Small Drink, by Graeme Copland

30/3/2025

JOINT 1st, 2025 SIDERIUS MEMORIAL LONGER FLASH CONTEST

TEMPTATION

“A large malt whisky, please. On the rocks.”

The barman poured the drink and set the glass on the bar.

Brian sat down. His drink looked warm and inviting. He stared at his glass, letting his mind wonder.

It had been a particularly difficult week, he told himself. No-one likes a divorce and his was turning into a particularly messy one. His mouth felt dry and parched.

“Are you going to drink that?” A familiar voice jolted Brian out of his reverie.

An attractive, curvaceous woman sat on a barstool next to him. His soon-to-be-ex-wife. Brian wondered why he hadn’t seen her earlier but there she was. All glammed up as usual and, to-his eternal annoyance, still attractive. She asked again. “Are you just going to stare at your glass?”

“I’m, uh, deciding.” Brian’s alcohol consumption was a subject he was not happy discussing - particularly with his wife. The fact he had just come from an AA meeting was no-one’s business but his. “Anyway, what are you doing here? Come to gloat?”

“Oh, don’t be silly.” said his wife, clearly avoiding the questions. She had turned now and was facing Brian directly. She was dressed immaculately in a modern, orthodox style with a twist – conventional yet still managing to suggest playful. Her hair, auburn and tied up, shone brightly in the bar lights. Her face slim, her skin glowing and, to Brian’s chagrin, still had the most beautiful brown eyes he had ever seen. She looked just the way when he had first met her. She smiled. “Is that a malt whisky? That’s your favourite, isn’t it?”

“It’s not that simple”, explained Brian.

His wife smiled. “I know about the AA meetings.” She reached across and pushed Brian’s drink closer to him. “But you’ve had a terrible week. I’ve been a real bitch and my lawyers want locking up. You need this.”

Brian nodded slowly. For once, he didn’t argue with her.

His wife was talking earnestly now. She had moved her stool closer and had leaned in towards Brian. Her mouth was inches from his ear. She whispered, “What’s one small drink? No-one will know. And you’ll feel better a whole lot better.”

Brian’s hand reached out. His fingers slowly encircled the glass and he brought it up to his dry lips. He could smell the wonderful aroma of the malted barley, the smokiness of the peat.

One. Small. Drink.

“Don’t do it, son.” A strong yet calm voice broke through the spell. Brian turned his head away from the glass. Away from his wife.

An old man sat on a barstool next to him with a look of sad disappointment on his face. Brian sighed. “Yes. I know, Dad” He put the glass back on the bar. Untouched.

The barman approached Brian, drying a tumbler with a towel. “I hope you are enjoying your drink, sir. Not sure why it’s a such a quiet night. I hope you don’t mind being my only customer.”

<<Previous

There's No Smoke Without Fire, by Steven Lemprière

Juliet November Tango, by Nelly Shulman

Too Late, by Don Tassone

1600 Transylvania Avenue, by Eric Delong

Salad Days, by Steven Lemprière

The Council of Silk, by Nelly Shulman

House of Whoops, by Graeme Copland

Gastronomic Entrepreneur Par Excellence, by Cheryl Dahlstrand

The Year of the Locusts, by Don Tassone

Market Forces, by Tom Baldwin

Heavenly Blues, by Steven Lemprière

The Catapult, by Eric Delong

Sphere of Influence, by Don Tassone

Monty And The Space Dragon, by Graeme Copland

Life is Hard, by Julie Turland

Like You Like Me Long Version, by Cheryl Dahlstrand

The Lift, by Nelly Shulman

Back Side of a Milk Carton, by Jim Bartlett

A Trip to the Countryside, by Rebekah Lawrence

The Redlands, by Don Tassone

Cold Cuts, by John O’Keefe

Moonlit Romance, by Dart Humeston

Predictions, by Tom Baldwin

Sucker-punched by Temptation, by Peggy Gerber

One Small Drink, by Graeme Copland

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