Longer Stories

Best Friends, by Jim Bartlett

17/1/2020

Frank stops just ahead, waiting for me to catch up, his eyes overflowing with patience and caring. You couldn’t ask for a better friend.

Wasn’t too many years ago I’d be the one bouncing in the lead, maybe with a little less patience. Probably with none at all. But the old bones ain’t what they used to be, and even with the all the pills I take with breakfast and dinner, the joints creak and groan with each step up the trail.

“Come on,” he encourages. “We’re almost to the top.”

Yeah, right.

We’ve been doing this for as long as I can remember, a daily ritual – weather permitting – after he gets off work. The trail leads over this “small” hill and then drops down to the beach, where we sit at the edge of the sand and reminisce about “the good ol’ days.” Used to be we’d chase a wave or two, maybe even toss the Frisbee, and then head back, taking the longer bluff loop to the car. But with me slowing down, we’ve pretty much made the crest of the hill the turnaround point.

“See, that wasn’t so bad.”

Easy for him to say.

The return is the part of the walk I enjoy the most. Yeah, it’s all downhill – that’s a bonus – but Frank rattles on and on about his day at work, telling me every last detail of how things are wearing him down. He’s still got a few more years until he can retire, and I guess the stress is piling up. But I must be a good listener, because by the time we get to the car, that smile of his has brightened and takes up most of his loveable face.

Once we’re in the parking lot he does that little clicker thing to unlock the doors, and then opens mine first, ever the gentleman. Used to be – there’s that phrase again – I’d hop in and push my nose to his window making faces while he went around to the other side. Now, he has to pick me up and set me in the chair.

But not a complaint one. He actually seems to enjoy it.

“Who’s the good boy?” he asks, making sure to give me one of those wonderful rubs on the top of my head.

Well I am, of course.

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Late Night Longings, by Mary Wallace

17/1/2020

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What age was I when the words of Kenneth Slessor’s war poem Beach Burial no longer caused me tears?
What age when lyrics of songs ceased urging me to try and change the world?
What year was it when I stopped arguing for our future, when I started shaking my head, instead of shaking my fist?
When did emotion become exhausting and passion become passé?

Is there still time to reread those poems and let the few tears remaining soften something lost?
To replay that music and perhaps join Barry MCGuire in exposing the Eve of Destruction?
I remember that person with a future yet to be decided, endless possibilities.
When did I shed that future joy, replacing it with the heaviness of the past.

Perhaps when we age, become tired, when our voices become weak, it is our time once again to follow in the footsteps of those beloved poets, of those beloved songwriters, to feel those emotions. To take up our pens and write poems and anthems for the next generation.

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Escape at Midnight, by Vlad Leus

17/1/2020

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“Go ahead.” he whispered to me. “Don’t just sit there.”

I could feel the sweat starting to run down my back. Why was he so rushed all the time? This whole thing was his idea. My head hurt, my heart was pounding, and my eyes feel sour and itchy. I just need a second to catch my breath. I just wanted to breathe for a…

“Stop stalling.” my partner replied harshly.

Fine! Slowly, I picked up the black ski mask from the top of the dash, and pulled it over my head. I adjusted the eyeholes, then reached over him into the glovebox, grabbing a black pistol from underneath the random loose papers and receipts. I rubbed my eye with the barrel of the gun and took a deep breath.

“Leave the car running.” He said.

I looked at him and he gave me a nervous nod.. We opened the car doors and started walking down the sidewalk to the motel. Our footsteps crunched in the snow. The wind moaned, blowing a barrage of white, wet specks in my face. Stark dark clouds hovered overhead and contrasted the deep indigo sky. Neither of us spoke a word until we reached the entrance and went inside.

I looked to my companion and asked, “What room?”

He quickly looked at his smartwatch strapped to his muscular wrist. “Twenty three.” He replied, “It’s going to be upstairs.”

I sighed as I looked at the old rotting wooden stairs and we began to climb to the second story. Once we finally made it upstairs, we quickly found the room. I drew my weapon and just when I was about to barge in, my partner sat his hand atop my shoulder and leaned into my ear and whispered, “I’ll take this one. Wait outside the door.”

“You sure?” I asked him.

He nodded then slowly tried to turn the doorknob, maybe their target had been careless. And surely enough, the door was unlocked. He pushed open the door and cleared the room, pistol in hand ready to fire at any moment.

After about a minute, he called out from inside, “Jesus Christ, Greg, get in here!”

Quickly I rushed into the room. Several bloody bodies and briefcases laid spread out across the floor. Bits of brain matter were stuck to the walls, pools of blood stained the dirty brown carpet. The room stank of blood and death. I looked to my partner, “What the heck is this? Who the heck are these people?” I exclaimed as I looked at the unrecognizable men.

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Desperate, by Marselienna Von Eschen

17/1/2020

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When the room became too cold, it was time to turn off the fan.

I braced myself. Stood up from the loveseat, faced the blades spinning around in the white circle. It could sense me—and I could sense its fear.
I took a step toward it. Now, it was a fight for its life. The wind produced by the fan turned up, and up. I grabbed the arm of the loveseat to keep myself from being blown away. I rooted my feet deeper into the ground.
And slowly, I marched.
Each step against the current.
My hair a mess in my face, I kept going, kept marching.
I stood now, face to face with the fan, its blades looking into my eyes, spinning as fast as they could, desperate.
My arm slowly extended—almost—almost.
I clicked it off. Triumphant. I walked back to the loveseat and sat down. Took a breath.

But now, I worry, the room is getting a bit warm.

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Life Lesson, by Doug Bartlett

11/1/2020

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Mr. Jagger, a single dad ,was steadfastly making his way through the grocery store while pushing the cart with his young son in it. Up and down the myriad of aisles they sped.,
He was in a hurry for a very important appointment and was frugally filling the cart with all the basic necessities for both of them. However, whenever they went by toys or candy the boy wanted them badly and when he realized his dad wasn't going to get them for him his behavior turned into a full-blown temper tantrum.
Finally, Mr. Jagger removes his son from the cart and sternly tells him, “Listen carefully Micky. I am about to tell you something very important and you need to remember it for the rest of your life,” he pauses to catch his breath, “You can’t always get what you want, but if you try some time you’ll find you get what you need.

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Better Late Than Never, by Jim Bartlett

10/1/2020

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“Standing before the mirror, Gordon Maxwell brushes off his lapel, then straightens his tie. It’s a ritual he follows with precision, as every morning he holds his meeting at 7:30 sharp, and there’s nothing he despises more than those who lack punctuality. Today, however, he will be the one who is late. In fact, he’ll not be making it at all, because in 4 minutes he’ll be dead.

“Halfway down the stairs, a burning in his left arm pulls him to a stop. There a wave of nausea overwhelms, and the burning becomes a stabbing pain cutting deep into his chest.

“The paramedics find him later that afternoon at the bottom of the stairs, someone at work having called 911 when he didn’t show up.”

Gordon shakes his head. “Okay, okay, Doc, you’ve made your point. Probably the third time.”

“Gordon, I’m just trying to impress some urgency here. You smoke. Your blood pressure is too high. Your cholesterol is 320. You’re 50 pounds overweight. And you’re 67 years old working a high stress job. If I Googled your name, I’d get a picture of a time bomb.”

“I know, I know. Look...just 2 ½ more years and I can retire. My divorce bled me dry, I have to work a little more to get my retirement back in shape.”

“But you may not have—“

Gordon raises a hand. “I have a meeting in 20 minutes. You can beat me up at our next appointment.”

With that, he tosses on his jacket and is out the door. In the car, he lights a cigarette, puffing his frustration. Their district came in second in sales again this quarter, and that new guy – Brian? – continues to show up late. He decides that once he’s back at the office, he’ll be firing that incompetent waste of space to set an example.

His return delayed by construction and heavy traffic, he roars into his parking space and hops from the car, catching his shin on a post. A stream of profanity vents from his mouth, but only for a moment, as a warm throbbing spreads down his left arm, stealing away his breath. He tries to call out, but the pain drops him to his knees, and everything goes black.

* * *

“Can you hear me, Mr. Maxwell?”

He opens foggy eyes to see a nurse standing over him, a beeping sound coming from behind.

“What happened?” he asks.

“You’ve had a heart attack. You were lucky, one of your employees, Brian McGee, was running late and saw you go down. He gave you CPR until the paramedics arrived.”

Gordon shakes his head. “He’s always late.”

The nurse bristles at his tone, but finds a smile. “His son’s here with brain cancer, so he stops by in the mornings when he’s having a treatment. While he’s waiting, Brian teaches First Aid to seniors. Which includes CPR. Had he been on time, you would have been the one who was late. Too late...”

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No Peace-Time, by Nicky Johnson

10/1/2020

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Although the explosion was miles away, the flash of light seemed as though lightning had struck only yards away from Johnny’s foxhole. He softly recited prayers as he clutched his Infantry Rifle. Next to him, Gunner calmly chewed tobacco and looked through his binoculars as if he was bird-watching on his back patio.
“Relax, John Boy. That was nowhere near us,” Gunner softly said.
“Do you not care about dying?” Johnny asked with a mix of disbelief and annoyance.
“I have no plans of dying.” A grin spread across his face. He liked Johnny and didn’t want to be off-putting. He changed tone. “This, survival, makes sense to me. I can wrap my head around either kill or be killed. Insurances, interest rates, board meetings, smartphones...that, I just don’t get. Most of the time it just seems like a bunch of people inventing ways to entertain themselves.” Gunner had been turned down by the military twice for failure to pass the physical.
The Uprising was supposed to be quickly and quietly taken care of. A year later, panic had set in, and Gunner’s physical inefficiencies were now overlooked. He and Johnny, thought for dead, were on a three day march out of the rebel woodland. They had been in the foxhole for nearly a day now. Gunner’s watch never let up.
“All right. The other two left. I will take care of the one no problem and be back with what I can. Sit tight until I get back. We’re almost out of this.” Gunner quietly slipped away to the rebel shack.
Although he thought the man mad, Johnny had to admit, there was no one else he’d rather be stranded with. He was as sleek as a cat, and his strike was as dangerous as a cobra.
Gunner approached the shack and let out a clandestine whistle about twenty yards away. A young boy met him and ushered him inside. Without talking, Gunner took out a box of ammunition from his backpack. The boy gave him a bag of food in exchange, and Gunner exited.
As he trekked back to Johnny, he saw vultures circling overhead. The wet, sweltering heat covered him like a blanket. His mind returned to his mission. He vowed to get Johnny home safely, and he always kept a promise. He had no side in this fight; he simply felt free...and he didn’t want it to end.

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The Encounter, by Pamela Kennedy

3/1/2020

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Eric observed her from across the room. Her pose, the graceful movements of her arms and hands, the slight upward tilt to her head... he was intrigued by her elegance.

As Helene turned her head, her eyes flirted with Eric's gaze.

Wending his way through a cluster of jovial revelers, he approached Helene with a somewhat original line, "I couldn't help but notice that you must be a professional dancer."

Having had a wee too much to drink, Helene coquettishly smiled and giggled, then countered his opening comment, "No. But if you marry me, I promise you a grand performance every night.

Taken aback, Eric didn't quite know how to respond.

"Perhaps you need an audition," she suggested breaking the awkward silence.

Sensual thoughts spun through his head as he became aroused and....

Suddenly a slap on his shoulder and a bellicose greeting
snapped Eric from his reverie.

"Hi! Remember me? I'm Albert, the mechanic who put the brakes on your..

"Yes, Albert, you sure did," Eric grumbled as his fantasy faded away when Helene disappeared into the night.

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New Year's Resolution, by John M. Carlson

3/1/2020

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"I've made a New Year's resolution to stop hurting you!" Steve said to Claudia, his wife, as they sat by the fire New Year's Eve. "I know I've got a bad temper, and things can...get out of hand sometimes. But I've decided that will change."

"Change like last year?" Claudia asked. "And the year before? And the year before that?"

"No. It will happen this time!"

I'll believe it when I see it happen! Claudia thought. She said: "I guess I'll resolve to help you keep your resolution!"

"That sounds good!" he said.

It was now midnight. They both took a sip of champagne to greet the new year. Then, Claudia stood up, and grabbed the fireplace poker. She hit Steve's head with the poker. He slumped down in his chair, dead.

She looked down at his body. "I kept my resolution to help you keep your resolution!" she said. "You won't ever hurt me again!"

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Sidewinder, by Sterling Warner

3/1/2020

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The greenery on campus caught Bron, a new history instructor, by surprise. All the other colleges and universities where he had taught seemed like industrial complexes, maximizing on classroom space. At IVC, wisteria hung from rafters on the rooflines along the Admissions and Records and Science buildings. Bright flowers popped out of cement pots and small, manicured gardens materialized everywhere. As Bron walked down the stair case between structures, ivy grew up the sides of buildings. “What a perfect eco system,” he thought.

Half way down the stairs, Bron started, then laughed. A twenty-inch gopher snake lay stretched out before him, sunning itself on a warm, concrete step. Putting down his briefcase, he picked up the snake momentarily and then looked back towards the space between the parking lot and main campus. It had a field of ivy accentuated by an occasional manzanita bush—a perfect place for releasing the snake.

Turning back around, Bron noticed a woman in her mid-twenties walking up the steps, heading to the parking lot. “Excuse me,” he said. “Could you do me a favor?”

“Who? Me?” she asked.

“Yes. I’m Bron, a new history professor here at IVC. I need to find the Magnolia Building and meet the Evening Provost before my first class. However, I found this snake sunning itself in a dangerous place.”

“I doubt anybody’s gonna stomp on it,” Leslie countered.
“Still, I’d like to release it into a natural area between here and the parking lot. Would you do that for me?”

“Huh? I’ve never touched a snake before!”

“They’re cool; this is a gopher snake. It doesn’t bite and is rather smooth.”

“Does it always wrap around a person’s arm like it’s doing to you?”

“I guess,” Bron answered. “It might be seeking warmth….What’s your name?”

“Leslie. Can I hold the snake for a moment?”

“Sure,” Bron assured her, placing the snake gently in her hand. Immediately, it began to curl itself around her bare arm, and she giggled?”

“No problem. I’ll release the snake for you professor,” Leslie confirmed. “Have a great first class.”

“Thanks so much, Leslie.”

Two weeks later, Bron and Leslie met on the same stairway: He
headed towards his classroom and she walking to the parking lot. Bron almost walked right past her, but stopped. “Leslie?”

“Professor! Imagine meeting you here again. Actually, I was hoping we’d run into one another.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. I wanted to thank-you for helping me get over my life-long fear of snakes; they really aren’t bad at all!”

“So, everything went okay when you released it back into the wild, eh?”

“Didn’t release it,” she smiled. “I took it home—it became the family pet!” she triumphantly replied .

“Imagine that! I bet a snake’s upkeep’s different than most pets.”

“Not really,” Leslie insisted. “Better yet, we’ve seen no mice in the house since D-con, our snake, escaped its cage.”

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A Bratwurst A Day…., by Sankar Chatterjee

3/1/2020

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Mike Jones, an American doctoral student was already late for a lecture to be delivered by Prof. Herbert Booth, a Nobel Laureate from the Maximilian University, Vienna. Mike was spending a semester doing collaborative biological research in the labs of Prof. Joachim Sanders in Berlin’s Max Planck Institute. Now in a hurry, he would decide to take a short cut through a neighborhood street. And that’s when he noticed a street-food cart, operated by a young couple selling bratwursts, grilled German sausages served on rolls, layered with mustard as well as a heap of sauerkraut (fermented cabbage). From his German colleagues, Mike heard about this particular vendor couple and the great quality of their bratwursts. Mike, a health conscious foodie already missed out on his morning apple. Now feeling hungry, he would decide to try out this street bratwurst. He was pleasantly amazed to the item’s quality.

Soon, Mike became addicted to the item, consuming at least one every day, if not more. In addition, he started to feel a new kind of vigor allowing him to spend more time in the lab, carrying out additional experiments of his own curiosity. Even Prof. Sanders noticed the change and inquired about any change Mike recently made in his life style. Mike mentioned about his new daily affinity to bratwursts from this particular street vendor. Intrigued, Prof. Sanders requested Mike to go to the health center, associated with the institute to donate some blood in order to undergo a thorough analysis of the circulating chemical compounds.

Two days later, Prof. Sanders received the analysis report. As he was pouring through the data, Prof. Sanders noted the surprising presence of a chemical not known to be circulating in the blood of a normal person. Next day, Prof. Sanders stopped by the same vendor Mike mentioned. He would request a sample of their sauerkraut and bring back to the lab. At his request, one of his postdoctoral associates would analyze that sample of sauerkraut, reporting the presence of the same compound that was found to be circulating in Mike’s blood. Prof. Sanders realized that the particular fermentation process that imparted the vendor’s sauerkraut so tasteful was also creating that unique chemical. Prof Sanders theorized that in Mike’s case, he was genetically predisposed to this chemical to augment his immune system. Thus was his new found vigor. But what was the biological rationale for Mike getting addicted to this vendor’s bratwursts? Thus began a whole new line of research in Prof. Sanders’ labs.

After returning to US, Mike started to experience a bratwurst withdrawal syndrome (BWS). At the time of this writing, he checked himself into a rehabilitation program near the Rocky Mountains in Colorado, hoping to recover, just being surrounded by caring nature.

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Track Time, by Ed N. White

27/12/2019

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I didn’t live far from the railroad tracks and spent a lot of time there with my friends, putting pennies on the tracks, breaking discarded whiskey bottles and seeing who dared to be closest when a speeding New York-bound train roared past. The ultimate adventure was to sit in the escape box suspended under the bridge crossing over the Pawtuxet River as the train roared overhead. I never did that.
When the Barnum and Bailey Circus came to town, their railcars were shunted onto a siding below the embankment parallel to Wellington Avenue, behind the old foundry. As young kids, we would go there to watch animals and equipment being unloaded and dreamed of someday maybe joining the circus. When I was fourteen, I went there early one morning and stood in a line of other kids hoping to be hired as day laborers. I was put on the watering gang and repeatedly carried a full bucket in each hand to the elephants and other exotic animals—not jungle cats which were kept in the cage cars and attended to by their handlers. I also got the opportunity to pick up a lot of shit with a manure fork, dump it into a wheelbarrow and take it to the bushes at the bottom of the embankment and deposit it there in piles that remained long after the circus left town.
The most exciting day was when I went again early in the morning after torrential rain the night before, and there was a huge puddle that looked about 2 feet deep. Just enough depth to cover the knees of the three naked women who were bathing there.

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Hello, Goodbye, by Jim Bartlett

27/12/2019

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The crowd, large and boisterous, goes quiet as she arrives, then parts in the middle, opening a path to the hospital’s rear entrance that glows in the overhead lights. It’s not a partisan break, for there are those on both sides who reach out trying to touch her as she passes. A yearn to feel the warmth of the hope that she brings. They call out her name, not with appointed celebrity status, but rather in reverence. Awe.

Yet, at the same time she sees those who, with a scowl upon their face, recoil as though she was a leper. They shout angry and accusatory words, fearful of the fate she may bestow upon them.

As if she even holds such power.

When she reaches the door, it opens, a group of nurses or doctors – she’s not sure which – ready to lead her to his room. She stops and turns back to the crowd. Are they really here to see her?

Or to pay him a respectful farewell.

Or, maybe, by the looks on some of those faces, a good riddance.

“This way,” a taller woman says. “There’s not much time.”

With a nod to the crowd, she follows as they lead her down the white sterile corridor toward the elevators, their heads bowed in silence, a somber acknowledgement of why she is here.

When the doors open to the third floor, the air, unlike the warm yet antiseptic atmosphere that greeted her back in the lobby, is cold and heavy, and it weighs down upon her shoulders, pushes against her heart. They step out as a group, but the nurses and doctors all stop, as they seem to know that from here on she must make this journey alone.

“319,” says the tall woman, pointing.

Moving to the room’s doorway, she leans in for a peek. She gasps, the mere sight of him lying crumpled in that bed stealing her breath. She quickly averts her gaze to the monitor above him, where a green jagged line marches along its screen, chirping with each of his remaining heartbeats. To her right, a large clock with long black hands is centered on the wall. It looks out of place, something better suited to a classroom back in the 70s.

The time is 11:58.

“Come in,” he invites in a raspy voice. “Sit. There is so much I want to say. But no time...” He leans to the side, hacking out a series of coughs.

She takes the seat beside him, the first tears beginning to form in her eyes. “I am so lost,” she squeaks out.

“You’ll do fine. Everyone is lost right now. Compassion cannot be heard over all the noise. You can help silence that hate, let the world see love for a change. I—“

But his words die, as the does the jagged line, and the chirps revert to a steady buzz. 2020 looks to the clock – midnight – then she leans down to gently kiss 2019 goodbye.

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The Rose, by Doug Bartlett

27/12/2019

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Rose, a beautiful young lady, was having a relationship by correspondence with Tom, who appeared to be a wonderful young man. This had been going on for a little over a year. Tom was overseas and they had never met in person. They didn’t even know what each other looked like. They only knew what they had told each other about themselves and they seemed to be a good match for each other.
Tom was flying into LAX tomorrow morning and Rose would be there to meet him.
“But how will I know which one is you?” Tom texted.
“I’ll be wearing a yellow rose,” she responded.
Anticipation,anxiety, fear, curiosity and other emotions kept disturbing Rose’s attempts to sleep the night before.
Rose awoke early the next morning remembering to pin on her yellow rose as she got ready.
She nervously arrived at the airport forty-five minutes before the flight was due. She found herself packed in the middle of the crowd.
her anxious thoughts began to dissolve into ones of doubt.She was a beautiful woman on the inside as well as outside. But no man in her past ever appreciated her inner qualities only her outer beauty. This led to her experiencing much pain. Would Tom fall into that category?
Would Tom like her for only her outward beauty? Would he continue to like her as her external beauty fades with age? Had she made a mistake coming here?
The passengers began disembarking the plane and were flooding into the terminal.
She spotted an unattractive homeless woman and an idea popped into her head. She went over to her and quickly pinned her rose onto her.
She then stood back to see what Tom would do, if anything.
A tall nice looking gentleman approached the homeless woman.
He gave her flowers, a hug and a kiss on the cheek.
Somehow, Rose knew everything was going to be just fine.

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Whack, Whack, Whack, by Doug Bartlett

20/12/2019

Elizabeth was somewhat of a tomboy when she traipsed off to summer camp. She was pleasantly surprised that her parents let her attend as they were very abusive to her.
She loved competition and would compete not only against the girls but boys as well.. She was determined to win the hatchet throwing contest that would be held at the end of the week. She practiced diligently every free minute she had and became quite adroit at handling that hatchet.The competition was intense but she persevered and took first place.
Camp was now over and parents were picking up their children. As she got in her parent’s car her newly fond memories soon soured as she realized what was in store for her that evening when they returned home. Then a strangely devious grin slowly crept across her face as her mother asked her what she was holding. She proudly showed her the trophy, a shiny new axe engraved with “First Place --- Lizzie Borden.”

...He remembered! but..., by Yashwant Lokare

20/12/2019

It was happening again. Slowly from the bench he sat upon, a fresh green of lush lawn started spreading out like an oil drop on tissue paper of wide expanse of snow. As it went further and further, it brought everything to life. The leaves appeared on bare stubs , the frozen white of the stream came alive to blue as the atmosphere came alive to usher in the warm sunlight that let loose it's blue horse. Trees bathed in warm golden glow as came out the flowers among the leaves .Dewdrops shone from grass blades . Then came the chirping and Twitter and the scene was alive. It kept changing though , as if someone was fast forwarding the slides of nature's shades through some heaven-located projector. It went on transforming until it was...
whoa! It was a garden , the one he fleetingly remembered ,a remote memory; it slipped more out of mind the harder he tried to grasp the Sandgrain-vestiges of it.
It was hopeless ..but he could not rest either without placing it right . He knew it was unreal but he was curious and ,strangely, comforted by it.
Then came - sounds of laughter, as two childish silhouettes appeared . One blew soap bubbles and the other jumped and clapped them off . One bubble drifted along the breeze, went near the acacias on the tree .....and sat on them......
And the girl ....,a girl? Yeah, a girl! It was Jessy! Jessica ,he now remembered. He remembered, how she clapped when she saw the bubble alight on Acacia flowers and then he too clapped -
And now he found himself clapping and those around him looking at him .He smiled apologetically at his neighbours and then to himself. He was back on the bench where it all began and was waiting for her now. Waiting for who? He tried very hard to recall but he could not. he'd had a lapse again. then ,a bubble came drifting and he remembered,...
that it was his grandchildren playing bubbles and was supposed to take them back home.

The Haunted Mansion, by Sivan Pillai

20/12/2019

“Doctors have given your old man just three months and he is drawing a will,” Uncle John informed me.
“I don’t get anything, do I?”
“You made sure of it by disobeying him, didn’t you? Anyway, the will is yet to be finalized.”
Father had declared me persona non grata and shown me the door on the day I told him there was no going back on my decision to marry Martha, the daughter of his friend-turned enemy. He had conveniently forgotten that it was he who had declared Martha as my girl when we were children.
Uncle John was a trusted friend of my father with whom he would discuss all important matters.
“Who gets the old mansion?” I asked.
“Your eldest brother.”
Though I had worked as hard as my brothers and father on the farm, I was not keen to have a share of the property. The old mansion was, however, different. I had a lot of sentimental attachment to it. It was there that I had spent my childhood with my late mother and dreamt my dreams before the family moved to the present house. It was an old-fashioned, beautiful wooden structure, situated at the edge of the forest. There was a narrow road in its front and beyond that a deep gorge. One could see miles and miles of the beautiful valley from the mansion.
Suddenly, I wanted it. By hook or crook.
I called on Joy, a close friend who headed an amateur drama troupe, the following day.
Within a short period, the mansion had become the talk of the town. People were reported to have seen strange flashes of light and heard blood-chilling shrieks from the locked building at night. Some neighbours would swear that they had seen white-clad figures floating in the air in and around the building. Dogs were heard howling continually at night. Neighbours would take care not to go anywhere near it after sunset.
“Congratulations, Jacob,” Uncle John told me a few days later. “Your brothers have refused to have anything to do with the haunted mansion and your dad has bequeathed it to you in his will. Nothing else.”
“He wants the ghosts to keep us company?”
“If you don’t want it”, Uncle John whispered with a mischievous twinkle in his eyes, “Joy may perhaps be interested in buying it from your dad.”

Comeback, by Sterling Warner

13/12/2019

Rex stopped and savored his environment. The grove in Henry Coe State Park smelled of evergreen sap and centuries of nature’s teardrops glancing off ferns, moss, Douglas fir needles, and dead redwoods. From across the meadow, a burbling brook trickled over rough and worn rocks and scattered pinecones, sounding like low pitched, murmuring windchimes. Then, from a distance, a hoot owl sounded an alarm causing rabbits and deer to take flight.

Overcome by wilderness awareness, sights, sounds, smells seemed to merge into a sensory chorus. Like a harpsichord picking strings, each became one with the moment and strident thoughts and emotions appeared to vanish like vapor into dense fog. Ultimately, Rex felt cloaked in nature’s overcoat of Zen. In such moments, today became tomorrow, and tomorrow became yesteryear. Then Linda came to Rex in an ephemeral mist, a reminder that nobody but Linda ever evolved so thoroughly from a dark, nocturnal shroud to life.

A gust of wind blew Linda’s long, thick hair from behind and billowed around her dress like a sail. “Stay with me awhile longer Linda,” Rex pleaded as he observed her chameleon-like body taking on characteristics of the elements.

Rex watched through the trees as rain clouds gathered above, and the quaint forest smells became mixed with the smell of rotting timbers, dried grass, and musty flowers. Linda’s apparition had long since melted into the shady gloom. Once it began to pour, Rex turned to go back home, but the warm rain felt like nature weeping on his body and sounded like a gentle voice backed by an angle choir—crying.

As the nebulous form dissipated into nightshade, Rex stopped speaking, and for the first time in years, he knew that he ‘d always be alone…. The shadow through the mist might have been anybody; his wife, Linda, had died the very moment she gave premature birth to their son.

Time Lapse, by Joanna Mehzabeen

13/12/2019

Find me in my floral print pajama and plain t-shirt. Notice how I pull up the silk curtains and let the warm air fill up my tiny haven on steamy summer nights. Watch me under the shimmering light that is coming up from the streets and notice how the loose strings of hair from my messy bun fall on my unbaked face and down my sweaty neck on a steamy summer night. Watch me as I bite my lips and dust the bed clean with my bare hands to make you a comfortable sitting space.
Welcome to my station. Pause here, now, for a few moments before your next train arrives. See how I paint the cracks on the walls of my life. Look around. Do you see that small corner between the dressing table and the window, where it seems that my butt will barely fit in? That's where I sit down and let my mind drift to afar galaxies and think of the possibilities of the existence of a land of lilliputs and how many dimensions Voyager-1 might have crossed by now- does it feel very lonely sometimes?
Sometimes I think of you, too, until my face reddens with shyness and then my eyes become hollow as I take a leap of million seconds of lifetime left behind in silence. I brush off the tiny flakes of memories floating carelessly in my heart and crush them underneath my feet creating yet another void in time- will you ever care to know what's on the other side of my event horizons?
Then go through my diaries with which I sat down on starry nights and wrote pages after pages about how I couldn't get enough of your smile. Press your fingers on the soaring turns of letters with which I proclaimed how I'd always be by your side.
Pull out that photograph. Do you see the faded dots of tears all over your face? Can you count the number of dots or how many times each dot was remade on that photograph? Stop. Your train has arrived. What my swift hands have written to you with love and without love will never find an escape through your tongue.
Will you remember how on a steamy summer night I caught your fragrance in the air? Unfair, isn't it, how the silence weighs so much on the flurry of forgotten times? You may leave now. Perhaps, someday soon, I will hop on another train of thought, hoping against my mind that it leads to you.

Freedom, by Bruce Levine

6/12/2019

It flew around the room without regard to anyone or anything other than what appeared to be the simple joy of flying. How it didn’t bump into anything seemed almost astonishing, but then we poor mortals are not created with the same flying attributes.

Four times. Five times. And it continued around and around. If we didn’t know better it would almost seem as if it were set on a specific course, almost like a NASCAR race, but without the competition to interfere with its path.

We continued watching, but now we started feeling our own desire to be as free, to be able to fly without fetters, just for the simple joy that freedom could induce.

For nearly an hour it flew without seeming to tire.

We left the windows open as we exited the room, just in case it wanted to leave.

An hour later it was still flying.

Two hours later it was gone.

The apparent joy of flying around the room had transfixed us with a new sense of freedom. Now we wanted to spread our wings and fly too, but, as humans, our flying would be restrained by gravity, but not our hearts and minds.

We too would fly.

The Sweet of Memories, By Yola M. Caecenary

2/12/2019

It stunned me for a few seconds when on my random research; I stumbled upon a picture of my childhood—until now—sweets. A flash of memories struck my present and occupied my rainy nighttime. I never got enough with this sweet. Probably the whole family’s favourite, including our mother.

The sweet is milky white, chewy, and thick. A clear thin edible filament rolled around the cylinder-shaped sweet then wrapped in its recognisable logo wrapper. I reminisced, Mum used to buy them in kilos and kept them in a hidden place so we, the children wouldn’t jeopardise our tooth health. Each day, Mum only allowed us to consume five pieces, which definitely not enough, but nothing we said or did could break her decision. As more mature I became, these sweets remain one of my favourites. They held my nostalgic childhood.

As for the last time I had these sweets with my mum was the end of summer in 2018. Just she and I, we spent the afternoon watching a movie in the cinema. We bought these sweets to accompany us during a 90-minute film. And, no, Mum didn’t limit the sweets.

A flash of light and a roaring thunder awoke me and brought me back to my night. I sat at the kitchen table. In my hands was an unopened sweet and a warm tear streamed down my cheek, as an In Memoriam album opened.

As The World Turns, by Sankar Chatterjee

2/12/2019

After a day’s long work in the Wall Street, Ms. Nancy Gibbs, a young and energetic New Yorker returned to her sixth floor apartment on the Madison Avenue. On her way back, Nancy stopped at the corner grocery store, now putting down those grocery bags on the kitchen counter. Before beginning to prepare her evening meal, she then turned on the TV that sat in her living room. Through an opening on the wall between two rooms, Nancy began to watch the world news. Soon, she succumbed to a pain on her left chest while feeling light headedness, reminding her of a similar recent experience. She immediately dialed the emergency medical number and proceeded to keep the front door unlocked. Then Nancy collapsed right there.

The arriving medical team found her body and transferred Nancy to the ER of nearby Mt. Sinai Medical Hospital. The doctors revived her from an apparent heart attack. They ordered several diagnostic tests and kept her for an overnight observation. As the various test results began to flow back in, the current doctors and the nurses in the ER realized that Nancy was treated there just three months ago for a similar episode. And like previous test results, there was absolutely nothing alarming with current test results. Her blood pressure and cholesterol level were normal. None of her arteries were clogged. Nancy never smoked. She also exercised regularly in a neighborhood gym. In fact there were no culprits that could be blamed for Nancy’s two episodes of heart attack within three months. A medical mystery shrouded her and the medical team.

That’s when, Albert, the robot walked inside Nancy’s room. A product of modern day artificial intelligence (AI), Albert unfurled its various display screens. Attending physicians then connected Nancy and Albert via various wires. Soon, Albert began its interrogation. But nothing in the background information (familial or medical) of Nancy would create any blip on any of Albert’s screens.

Like any smart sleuth, Albert then changed its tactics. From its built-in search engines, Albert pulled out the historic segments of the TV news that Nancy was watching during those two episodes. While the news reels kept rolling on two screens, another display screen stated to show the tightening of Nancy’s arteries, constricting them and blocking the blood to travel to heart to cause an imminent heart attack. In the news segments, the current strongman from US was meeting his counterpart from UK, first time in Washington, recently in London. Albert turned its search engine off. Relaxed Nancy requested a glass of martini.

Soon, a research paper would appear in the journal Lancet, alerting medical community about this new risk factor of a sudden heart attack in otherwise healthy persons.

Moonshiner, by K Hoffman

29/11/2019

We sat listening to my grandfather’s story of his days as a moonshiner. We were too young to really understand what it meant, but the story always fascinated us.

“Ahh, hell, Berta. Remember how we used to hide in the ditch when we saw the fuzz coming? Yah, they’d be shining their spotlights right over our heads and we’d laugh and laugh. Stupid bastards never could catch us.”

“Cleo!”, my grandmother would scold. “Don’t talk like that in front of the girls.”

“Ahh, hell. They don’t care.”

“Grandpa, tell us about the pigs. We want to hear about the pigs!” That was always our favorite part of the story.

“Oh, them pigs. We’d take our leftover mash from the still and feed it to those damn pigs. They’d stand on their back legs and just squeal and squeal. Funniest thing I ever did see.”

We sat there laughing right along with him, not noticing the way he drifted back in time.

Older now, I understand what it meant to be a moonshiner in the 30s and I can picture the drunk pigs on their heels. It still makes me laugh. But I also feel something more profound, as I sit here going back in time just like my grandfather did when he shared his own story.

Redeemed, by Doug Bartlett

29/11/2019

The smoke rises from the torches that are mounted on the soot-stained walls. A heavy haze fills the room along with an abundance of rowdy and raucous men who are anxious to get started. The slaves enter timidly from the front of the room and stand behind the auction block. The auctioneer escorts a young, attractive girl to the block. He thinks that she will bring a good price and could set the tone for higher prices throughout the day. She looks over the crowd with trepidation as she steps up on the auction block with trembling in her knees and a quiver on her lips. The bidding is brisk and quickly escalates. Finally, the bidding boils down to just two bidders. One is at the back of the room. He is a Roman Prince. The other bidder sits in the front row. He is a twisted man with a disfigured face. He keeps an open ledger on his lap and occasionally looks at it. The young girl knows both of these bidders, but only by reputation. The disfigured man is an evil taskmaster. He treats his slaves harshly and severely abuses them. She knows if she ends up with him she will have a life of torture. The Roman Prince treats his slaves like his own children, with dignity and respect. She realizes her life will soon be either Heaven or Hell, nothing in between. Her hopes rise as the prince makes a bid from the back of the room. She prays that this would be the final bid. However, her hopes come crashing down as the evil taskmaster makes his bid. This continues on for what seems to her to be an eternity. Sweat flows off her aching body. Her knot-filled stomach begins to cramp as she becomes nauseous. How much longer can she last? She feels like she is teetering between life and death. At this time the prince stands up and makes a bid that far exceeds the entire net worth of the evil taskmaster. The taskmaster knows it’s all over. He slumps in his seat with his head hanging low and slams his ledger shut. He is totally stunned. The prince takes off his cloak as he walks to the front of the room. He then wraps it around her, covering her nakedness. Every eye in the room is upon them when the prince breaks the silence by announcing, “Today, I set this girl free!” The crowd goes into shock. No one has ever paid such a great amount for a slave…. and then set her free. It was unheard of. “Also,” stated the prince as he removes his royal signet ring from his finger and slides it onto hers, “I make her a joint heir of all my inheritance.” In essence, she is now part of the royal family. Unbelievable? ...No. Incredible?...Yes!

Turkey Burger with Fries, by Adam Kluger

29/11/2019

Melvin Mudlicker sipped his coffee slowly as he worked the numbers on a napkin at his fifth favorite diner.
"Are you ready to order sir?"
On this afternoon, Melvin's luck wasn't getting any better. Instead of the sublime and comforting waitress Anastasia, the dark-haired beauty from Albania, waking him from his numbers-crunching despair, Melvin was suddenly jostled out of his work-mare by a ruddy-faced older woman with frizzy red hair and a plump, sweaty face eager to get this transaction over with already.
"Can I have a turkey burger please?"
"Do you want that with fries?"
"Yes, please, that's a great idea."
"Coming right up."
She was gone before Melvin could ask for a refill.
I guess that's the price of efficiency Melvin thought to himself.
"Here you go."
The turkey burger had arrived. That was quick!
It was all alone.
"No fries?," Melvin asked.
"You didn't ask for a Deluxe," the waitress replied impatiently.
"I know , but when you asked me if I wanted fries--I said yes."
"I never asked you that."
Melvin looked into her eyes. He was not sure what he saw there but he knew what he had to do.
"Yes, yes you did," Melvin persisted.
"Would you like fries with that?" the waitress asked, acting still as if the French fries were a new topic of conversation.
"Yes, that's why I had already ordered them," Melvin replied resolutely.
"Ok, I will bring some on the side, but they may take a little time."
"Thank you very much."
By now, the family seated at the nearby table was looking up from their meal to watch the exchange.
Before Melvin knew it a busboy had buzzed by his table and brought him a refill on his coffee.
He felt bad about having over-reacted. He didn't even want the fries anymore. he missed Anastasia--her delicate touches, black eyes and hair the color of licorice.
When the fries did come they were still delicious as always but he had to eat them without the burger.
There would be no combination of divine textures and juices. He would have to make do with his sugary red sauce and crispy yellow treats and lukewarm bean water and no Anastasia and it was all so inexplicably sad and the numbers on the napkin were bad, bad, bad and when she came back with the check she was ashamed. Melvin had caught her in a lie. She knew she had lied. She had, in fact, asked Melvin Mudlicker if he had wanted fries with the burger. She didn't know why she lied. Maybe she was just afraid. Maybe she really needed this job Melvin realized.
"I'm sorry, so sorry," her voice trembled.
Melvin got up from his chair and the two hugged briefly and then smiled at each other and laughed, for this world had made them both do and say things that they had regretted

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