Longer Stories

The Enlightenment, by Asaf Day

23/3/2019

Following forty days of fasting and visions, Jacob got up and shook the dust off his body and begun to march eastwards to New Megiddo. Upon reaching the town, Jacob marched along its main street, accompanied by the wary looks of the rustic townsfolk. He proceeded till stopping in front of the local Sheriff's office. After gazing shortly at the worn sign saying “Sheriff Bill”, he entered the office tenaciously to confront the law enforcement man. To his surprise, the man was sitting reading the local newspaper, completely disregarding the extraordinary man. After gaining Sheriff Bill’s attention by snatching the newspaper from his old cracked hands, the latter’s deputy jumped out of his chair, tackled Jacob, and detained him promptly. Following his lockdown, furious Jacob began his speech, pointing out the townsfolk evil deeds and sinful ways, accusing them of moral corruption and disrespect towards the kingdom aristocracy’s superior values and people: Your Sundays’ worship of the God of Mercy, instead of the God of Enlightenment and Wisdom. The obsession of your people with competitive horse riding is incompatible with our cultural ideals and practices, such as intriguing debates about the right form of justice and governing system necessary for our neighboring tribal nations, which you are seemingly unaware of their existence. And above all, your taste in food and music corrupts your children’s souls and undermines centuries of metaphysical and intellectual achievements. For that, you shall be punished severely by the almighty, as its wrath will be upon you and your offspring. This sinful town and everything that you’ve built will be fuel for the great fire and your names will be forgotten!

Sheriff Bill stared at Jacob for a few moments, and all of a sudden started laughing frantically... After regaining control of himself, Sheriff Bill turned to his deputy and said: “ Bart… look... we’ve got another of them crazy pants here.” The entertained deputy opened the detention cell and forced Jacob out of Sherif Bill’s office. In the background, the sheriff then chuckled and urged his deputy to bring Jacob “a noble steed, and don't forget to equip him with a big Iron a well.” After bringing him an old donkey and a pan upon his superior’s request, despite Jacob’s opposition, Bart sent the man away to the nearby valley to “save the souls of scorpions and rattlesnakes.” Following Jacob’s departure, the deputy commented with a slight uneasiness: “sheriff, we are running out of donkeys.” Sheriff Bill responded: “You can rest assured that the supply of asses will never end, they keep coming back...”

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Too Many Legs, by Bex Gooding

23/3/2019

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I’ve never fared well against creatures with six or more legs, they’ve often proved troublesome.

As a skinny eight year old wearing shorts, sitting on the steps in our back garden eating a apple. I watched as a wasp drawn by the sweet smell of the apple, flew in an elliptical orbit around the apple and away again. It made a few passes, decreasing its radius, I knew it was going to land.

The edge of its flight path took it between my knees and my eight-year old brain decided to stop him from landing on the apple by slamming my knees together and squashing him. The wasp stung me two or three times before dying and unsurprisingly, I cried.

Ten years old, playing outside our house and I fell on the grass putting my hand firmly down on top of a bee as I landed. Although a skinny girl, the weight of a ten-year old was enough to squash the poor thing but not before he retaliated and stung the side of my thumb. My thumb swelled to twice its normal size. We spent hours in the Emergency Department, much to the irritation of my little brother. It meant we couldn’t go to see The Empire Strikes Back.

Years later, there I was facing the wall, my emotions swinging between indignation and anger to mortified embarrassment, as my husband Pedro donned his ten-times magnification hobbying glasses and examined the site of my latest injury.

‘If you see two puncture wounds, it’s a spider bite.’ I said.
‘Whoa babe!’ Pedro said. ‘I don’t need magnifying glasses! Two definite puncture wounds.’

Was his tone tinted with glee? No. Not at my suffering anyway, but that I had presented him with my full moon, in order to confirm that I had a spider bite on my cheek!

‘The little….’
‘He must have felt trapped.’ Pedro said coating the wound with antihistamine.
‘Trapped?’
‘Or maybe it couldn’t cope. Imagine being that close to such a gorgeous bottom and seeing it with eight eyes.’

I love my husband.

We’d spent the weekend clearing a corner of old coats, hats and dog leads prior to painting and must have disturbed the spider. I recall leaning forward to paint the corner of the wall and Pedro joked that my trousers were giving him a ‘cracking view’ of my backside. The spider must have fallen into the ravine and finding himself trapped, decided to fight his way to freedom. Later when I removed the paint smeared trousers, releasing the spider, he dropped down onto my leg and bit the inside of my knee for good measure before scuttling off to the nearest dark corner.

My daughter thought I was exaggerating about the pain and size of the bite until she saw it.

‘WOW!’ She exclaimed. ‘That’s huge!’
‘I know.’ I replied. ‘It really hurts.’
‘But the poor spider. He must have been terrified and reacted the only way he knew how.’
‘Poor spider?’ I said. ‘My ass!’

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Real Risk, by John M. Carlson

18/3/2019

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November, 1983

Eric didn’t want to fall in love. Not then. Not ever.

He knew he was gay. There was absolutely no doubt of that. And it was not acceptable being gay. Not in the 1980s. Society would never tolerate it. His career plans might be over before he even graduated from college! Then, he was scared of AIDS. It would be best if he stayed single, celibate, and closeted for life.

Unfortunately, however, there was Troy, who sat near him in his college writing class. Troy was good looking, smart, and interesting.

That Monday, Troy read his current paper to the class. Eric listened, feeling almost addicted to the sound of Troy’s voice.

Eric knew that there was a real risk that he could fall in love in love with Troy. And that simply couldn’t happen.

***

At lunch, Eric paged through a newspaper he’d found on the table. There was an article about the AIDS crisis, and “new hope” for “better understanding” AIDS.

I don’t want “better understanding” of AIDS—I want a cure! Eric thought, as he flung the paper aside.

In the distance, he saw Troy walking through the cafeteria. Eric felt a surge of panic. What if Troy sat with Eric?

Suddenly, he wondered. What if Troy were gay? What then?

Troy sat down at a distant table. Eric felt relieved—and sad.

***

Eric suddenly woke up the next morning. He’d just been dreaming about Troy.

Eric got up. It was very early, but he didn’t want to fall back asleep. He might dream about Troy again.

He would get to work on his next writing assignment. He sat at his desk and turned on his Apple IIe computer. As the floppy disk drive rattled to life, he wondered what Troy would think of this paper.

***

Friday night, Eric went to the Student Union to see an old suspense movie. It was a distraction from thinking about Troy. Although he did notice the movie’s characters included a young man and a young woman who were obviously falling in love. Something that will never happen to me, Eric thought sadly.

Finally, the movie’s villain was caught. The man and woman had fallen in love. Everything was right with the world again. And so the movie ended.

Eric got up to leave. Suddenly, he noticed Troy, who was walking out with a young woman. They were holding hands.

At least, I don’t have to worry about him falling in love with me! Eric thought.

Eric headed to his dorm room. He got into bed. It was early, but he was tired and felt lousy. He kept thinking of Troy. Troy with his girlfriend. The happy couple in the movie. AIDS. Society acceptance of gay people.

Eric began crying. He cried himself to sleep.

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The Nobel Dream, by Sankar Chatterjee

17/3/2019

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On a recent evening, Prof. Christopher Lloyd, a Nobel Laureate in chemical sciences, was looking outside from his third floor lab-window. Nearby Harvard Square was covered with at least 10-12 cm of freshly fallen snow, even such late in March. From all indications, this had been an unusual harsh and long winter. States on east-coast were getting snowed repeatedly, while states in mid-America dealing with tornadoes and thunderstorms and states in west-coast experiencing destructive wildfires. There’s no doubt a profound climate-change had happened affecting our universe. And that’s when, the innocent face of the European teenager (he couldn’t remember her name) appeared in his thought. The fearless teenager, not depending on adults, was organizing a worldwide protest movement involving students everywhere against drastic climate change. Just an hour ago, Prof. Lloyd was buying a cup of coffee from the underground café, when the newscaster on the flat-screen wall-TV announced that a few European peace organizations nominating the teenager for this year’s Nobel Peace Prize.

While appreciating nature’s beauty in fresh snowfall, Prof. Lloyd fell into a deep nostalgia. Growing up, he was a brilliant student both in his high school and college days. Both his parents were practicing doctors, but he had chosen a different career-track of a discovery scientist. He wanted to leave behind his legacy by discovering novel molecules that would be useful in fight against human hunger and illness. After earning his PhD, he began his career in academia, devoting time in experimental research as well as training new PhD-s. After initial struggles, success followed. Along came the desire for recognition, fame, and the ultimate dream of a Nobel Prize.

Prof. Lloyd was well aware of the fact that the granting of a PhD-degree resided mainly on the final nod from a mentor. He began to accept mostly hard-working international students to do breakthrough research towards their PhD-thesis. Three past foreign students would commit suicide, being unable to cope with pressure, followed by shame of being failures. But he was never investigated due to his world stature. Two of his marriages dissolved in divorce without any children from either one. He remained obsessed with his dream, like many of his contemporaries. Finally, the midnight-call came from Sweden. Now turning around, he looked at the award-medal resting inside one of his bookcases.

However, like the unforeseen destructive behavior of Nobel’s dynamite, Prof. Lloyd’s many discoveries also took some unintended turns. Due to expansion of global terrorism, many of his same experimental inventions found utility in creating new generations of explosives. On the other hand, the industrial-scale production of medicinal and agricultural products proved to be responsible for releasing harmful gases into atmosphere. Multinational companies found cheap labor and lax regulations in world’s poorest countries to manufacture the products. Many of those countries began choking with severe atmospheric pollution.

Prof. Lloyd opened his computer, composed a strong recommendation letter for the brave teenager, and floated the same in ether for the Nobel Peace Prize committee.

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The End of Ageism, by Don Tassone

16/3/2019

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When I was in my twenties, I started running on a bike trail along a river near my house. I ran fast, as I had all my life.

I said hello to other runners as they passed me. The other young runners, that is. Older runners didn’t interest me. In fact, for some reason, they made me feel uneasy.

Every once in a while, I’d see this older man on the trail. I’d watch him jogging toward me, but as he drew near, I would lower my gaze. Close up, I never looked at him or even acknowledged him.

In my thirties, I still ran at a good clip but not as fast. I’d still see the old man from time to time too. Now he was trotting, not jogging, and when he got close, I’d still avert my gaze.

When I hit 40, I dialed back on running and started jogging. My knees began to hurt. I still said hello to the younger runners, although some of them seemed not to see me, especially the women.

And I’d still see that old man. Now he was walking. When I passed by him, I still didn’t look at him.

At 45, my hips began to hurt, and I began to alternate walking and jogging. None of the other runners paid much attention to me. I felt invisible to women.

One day, I spotted the old man in the distance. He was walking with a cane. As I got closer, I decided to look at his face. The closer I got, the more familiar he seemed. When we were just a few feet apart, I realized he looked just like me, and his face was simply an older version of mine.

“Hello,” I said.

“Hello,” he said, smiling.

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Extremes, by Don Tassone

13/3/2019

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George Abbott was a man of extremes. To be more precise, he pushed the limits of everything and everyone, especially himself.

He worked harder than anyone. His company led its industry on every measure. He pushed his employees to achieve more every quarter. He acquired more wealth than just about anyone. His home was the largest in the city. He married five women, divorced them all and sired 15 children. He ate like a horse and weighed as much as a pig.

One night, George had a dream. He dreamed he was a pendant, suspended from a great pendulum by a thread. He had swung to one side as far as he could go. Any farther and the thread would snap. He knew he must stop and swing back or risk flying into the abyss.

The next day, George put both his company and his house up for sale. He instructed his attorney to divide his proceeds equally among his children and his ex-wives.

A few days later, he moved into a one-bedroom apartment with no furniture, except for a mat. He began eating only one bowl of rice a day and drinking only water.

Sitting on his mat, George began each day in prayer. Day after day, he talked with no one and saw only those passing by his window. He had no computer or cell phone. He read no books and watched no television.

Instead, he simply sat and reflected on the excesses of his life. He wondered how his life had veered off to such an extreme.

Over many months, George grew thin and weak. One morning, after prayer, he fell backward, too weak even to sit up. He looked up at the ceiling, which opened, revealing blue sky.

George watched as the clouds in the sky became more distant and realized he was falling. He fell for a long time. Then his fall slowed and stopped, and he began rocking, gently rocking, back and forth, as if he were in a cradle, rocking slower and slower and slower until at last he was centered and still.

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A Pivotal Fix, by Jim Bartlett

10/3/2019

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Grabbing hold of one of the cross arms, Astronaut Raymond Mason pulls himself under the ISS’s solar panel for a better view of the swing hinge. The idea is to get a closer look at the sticky pivot point, but he smiles, for here it is even harder to focus, as the heavenly glow of Earth, 250 miles below, steals both his gaze and his breath. Stretched out before him, it basks in the sun’s light, showing off the varying blues of the oceans, the white of the soft icing-like clouds, the tan of the dry desert sands, and the crusty brown of the mountains, some tipped in bright-white snow. Making it all the more spectacular, the luminescence of Earth, this living, breathing organism, is solidly framed by the deep black of space just behind, its vastness nearly overwhelming. He takes in one last look before turning back to the mount.
The problem practically jumps out at him. A bushing has caught against the rotating arm, leaving metal to rub against metal. He shakes his head at its simplicity, and reaches into his tool pouch, pulling out his wrench. Making sure to lash the lead, he twists around the side and starts to--
“Raymond?”
--loosen the long hinge bolt--
“Hey, anybody there? Earth to Raymond...”
He wants to ignore the call, revel in the moment, but a hand wraps around his ankle and yanks him out from under the Audi.
“Hey, come on, maaaan...that old lady, Mrs. Weathers, is asking about her car. Ya got it figured out yet?”
His boss, Dennis – or, “Rooster” as everyone calls him, with all the strutting he does around the garage – stands over him, hands on his hips. He’s a tall skinny kid, a good 25 years younger than Raymond, who can’t seem to get the hang of shaving or combing his hair, and spits while he talks. But his uncle owns the shop, so...
“Yeah. It’s a bushing on the tie-rod. Just a couple more minutes to slip on a new one. Probably have to check the alignment.”
“Good. So get with it...” Rooster gives a swift kick to the bottom of Raymond’s shoe and disappears back in the office.
With a deep sigh and a shake of the head, Raymond rolls the creeper back under the car.
It’s then, not too far off in the distance, he hears the roaring locomotive fast approaching. As it closes in, the rumble of the tracks reverberate into the trestle pillars, and it shakes him to the very marrow of his bones. Dangling from his rope, 500 feet above the raging river below, Special Ops Agent Raymond Mason realizes he only has a matter of seconds to get the pivot bolt back into the support arm, or the President’s train will go crashing into the canyon in a flaming heap...

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Selfless, by Don Tassone

10/3/2019

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He stepped into the kitchen from the hallway.

“Hi,” she said.

“Hello.”

“Finished?”

“For the morning.”

“Productive?”

“Yeah. I’m putting finishing touches on a marketing plan for a new client. I’ll probably send it over this afternoon.”

“Hungry?”

“Starving.”

“We have that leftover spaghetti from last night.”

“Sounds good,” he said, pulling open the refrigerator door.

“Join me,” she said, walking by him into the family room. She was carrying a sandwich and a glass of water.

He pushed the cold spaghetti onto a plate with a fork and slid it into the microwave.

“Care if I watch the news?” she called to him.

“Nope.”

When his lunch was ready, he joined her in the family room. They sat at opposite ends of the sofa.

On TV, a man anxiously reported on an outbreak of measles because of children whose parents had refused to have them vaccinated.

“That’s terrible,” she said. “Those poor kids.”

“Just wrong,” he said.

“If we had had kids—“ she said.

He waited for her to continue, but she said nothing more. He looked over at her. She was looking down with tears in her eyes.

“What’s wrong, honey?” he asked, reaching over and putting his hand on her back.

“Do you think we made the right choice?” she said, her voice trembling.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean not to have children.”

“Yes,” he said. “Yes, I do.”

“Well, sometimes I’m not sure.”

“Why do you say that?”

“I mean sometimes it feels so selfish.”

“Hun, we’ve been over this,” he said, rubbing her back.

“I know,” she said softly.

“You know the opposite is true. We’re being selfless. There are far too many people in the world. We’re doing our best to lessen the burden on our planet. Our choice is a kindness.”

“I suppose you’re right,” she said, wiping her eyes with a tissue.

They resumed watching the news, saying nothing more, and finished their lunch. He stood up, then bent down and kissed her on top of her head.

“I love you,” he said.

“I love you too.”

“I’m going back to work.”

“Okay.”

He began to walk back toward the kitchen, then turned around.

“Would you like to invite Matt and Sarah over for drinks tonight?” he asked.

“No. I’d rather not.”

“Okay.”

He put his plate in the sink and walked back down the hallway to his office. She picked up the remote and turned off the TV. The house was so quiet, and she felt so lonely.

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One Last Ride, by Doug Bartlett

8/3/2019

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Burt Collins was a decent human being, a great husband, a wonderful father and grandfather, and oh yes, he had made millions of dollars in the stock market. Everyone who knew him loved him but didn’t care too much for his wife. Susan, his rich and conceited widow, had fond memories of their life together as she was being wheeled from the chapel, having been confined to a wheelchair the past several years. The quick ride to the cemetery was not quick enough for her as she was concerned about arriving late, but she knew they wouldn’t dare start without her. Upon her arrival at the gravesite she had assistance in getting out of the vehicle and was quickly surrounded by family and friends. She felt sorry for many of them, thinking they were jealous of her and her money, even though they could walk and she could not. She could hear them talking about her, but only her six-year-old grandson would talk directly to her. Finally, the service came to a close and people began leaving until Susan found herself all alone, with the exception of the two workers who carefully lowered her into the ground beside her husband.

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The Basement Chamber, by Jim Bartlett

8/3/2019

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He follows her down the winding staircase, more a rickety pile of ancient boards and rusty nails than a series of steps. By the time he’s at the halfway point, the chill in the air has crept into his bones, and he begins to shiver. He wonders if it’s really the cold that raises the goosebumps on his arms, the hair on the back of his neck, or this place and its past have left their mark.
“Come on, get a move on,” she calls, already to the bottom.
He picks up his pace, coming to the landing where the walls are nothing more than flaking cinder blocks, the only lighting flickering torches that make the shadows sway in a ghostly dance. He tries to keep his focus on the sound of his own footsteps as they clack on the stone floor, because off in the distance he can hear the rumble of thunder; while right here, in this very chamber, he hears the echoes of bygone screams forever trapped in the walls.
As with the floor above, cobwebs fill in the crevices and cracks, they dangle from the archways and ceiling, hide in the swirling shadows. He can’t help but bat the air in front of him as he inches forward, worried that any moment he may walk face first into a giant tarantula.
Or a dead body.
They round a corner – she’s still twenty paces ahead - when he comes upon a thick wooden door that sits slightly ajar. Peeking in he can see a table, chains and pulleys strewn atop, a lumberjack-sized axe stuck in one of the tree-trunk legs. Chain-link bindings hang from the wall next to an open box with a variety of knives and nooses and even a long, thin, sharp stake, something like what his dad might use for a shish kabob.
“There are s-s-stains on this t-t-table,” he stutters out.
“Well, what’dya expect?” she says with a roll of the eyes and a dismissing shake of the head, “it’s a torture chamber.”
From somewhere behind, a tormented moan fills the air, followed by several shrieks of terror.
“AHHHHH! That’s it for me,” he shouts. Ignoring the webs and chains and haunting shadows, he dashes past her and down the hall. Racing by three or four more open doors - none of which he has the slightest inclination to turn his head for a look - he comes to a slow bend in the corridor that finally leads to the exit.
He bursts outside, stopping at the closest tree to catch his breath, gather his wits. Maybe even quit shaking. He’s only there a moment when she pops up behind him.
“That was fun. Let’s do the roller coaster now...”

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The Clubhouse, by John M. Carlson

8/3/2019

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Enough is enough! I thought, as I slipped out of Grandma’s house.

The day had begun as a nice celebration of Grandma’s 90th birthday. Then, a couple of my aunts started screaming to each other about the 2016 presidential election. It might be 2019, but that mere detail would never stop my aunts from arguing about Hillary Clinton vs. Donald Trump.

It was now late afternoon. I shivered as the damp Washington state cold cut through my sweatshirt. Still, it was more comfortable being out here than in the overly warm living room, listening to my aunts shriek at each other.

I wandered through the yard, and past the back fence into the woods. How many hours had I spent back here when growing up? I wondered. It had been my go-to place when escaping from family when I was growing up.

I finally reached a small, ramshackle shed. I have no idea why it was first built, but when Jeff and I started a club the summer we were 12, this shed made a handy clubhouse.

I went inside. Everything had a film of dust and dirt. The roof apparently leaked now. The wobbly old card table we had sat at during our meetings now had rusty legs. Pictures clipped from a magazine we'd put on the walls were now faded and brittle.

But one important thing hadn't changed at all. There was a feeling of peace out here. This place was still a good way to escape some of the crazier members of my family.

“Great minds think alike, although that doesn’t explain why you also came here!” came Jeff’s voice from the doorway. I turned and glared at him. He grinned, and stepped in. He looked around a moment. “It looks like this place hasn’t been used for anything since our last club meeting thirty years ago.”

“Probably not.” I picked up a rusty tea tin that had been used for our club savings. I rattled it. It was empty. “Someone seems to have stolen our club treasury, though.”

“Big deal. There wouldn’t have been enough for even a gumball machine.” Jeff glanced at his watch. “Dinner should be on soon. We’d probably better get back.”

Dinner sounded good. Another thing that hadn’t changed: we always made sure we got back to Grandma’s in time for dinner.

We headed out of the clubhouse. I carefully closed the door, and we started walking back to Grandma’s house.

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A Spy In The Camp, by Kim Hare

8/3/2019

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Anna saw Albert approaching through her restaurant’s main window which overlooked the graveled car-park out front. Unable to remember if she’d unlocked the entrance doors and knowing a ‘closed’ sign would not deter him, she hurried through to meet him.
‘Roses looking good today, eh?’ he said, traipsing a great pile of thick mud across her newly washed restaurant floor.
‘Morning Albert. Yes. Maybe today you could weed the..’
‘Saw your Cousin yesterday, tell you what, their new place is a bloody gold mine! They’re reapin’ it in. D’you know, she told me they were fully booked every night last week? Yeah! I know! Even had to hire extra waitresses!’
Anna held herself upright against the bar, watching the trail of mud solidify. More work. She wished he’d just go away. She rubbed at her scar.
‘Yeah’ he said, getting cosy ‘course, you wouldn’t know what with refusin’ to talk to them and all that, but you’ll need to watch out or they’ll be stealing your customers next. S’funny too, cos I remember I was the one wot told them all about your new decor, you know, and how you’ve been doing so well with it all, and d’you know, they’ve had their place done out just the same! I know! Still, must get on, don’t want to get in your way.’
Anna watched him leave and stood for a long moment, waiting for the burning rage to subside and then went to fetch her mop. As she cleaned his mess, she thought of all the hard work she and her team had had to put in to get this place going. She pictured her so-called family’s cold disinterest, refusal to reconcile. All these years, she thought, all these years of hard graft, of trying to do the right thing. How easy it seemed for her cousins and her Aunts to so openly steal away her business, no shame, no remorse. It was as if they could do what they pleased to her. And Anna supposed they could. For what could she do?
They’d always called her the witch. Ever since she was little. Her mother had tried to protect her but had died so young, Anna could barely remember her. Then having to live with her Aunts and cousins had been horrific and Anna had been glad to leave, go to college, train as a chef. She’d barely noticed her cousins had followed her into the trade. She’d been too busy putting a roof over her head and later trying to help other young waitresses, giving them jobs, sometimes even a room. Yes, she’d been rather busy this past twenty years, and now she saw that she’d thought she’d helped Albert too. But Albert was in fact a spy in the camp and not at all the benevolent soul she’d imagined. What a fool she’d been. Well no longer, she thought. She put down her mop. It was time, she decided, to go to war.

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Clueless in Seattle, Doug Bartlett

2/3/2019

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A small group of strangers were huddled around a long, oak table adorned with two ornate candlesticks that were lit to help provide an ambience of mystique for this particular evening.

The group consisted of:
Tiffany Brown, School Teacher
Georgeanne Cratchett, Nurse
Debbie Spellman, Engineer
John Mustard, Air Force Colonel
Joyce Fox, Psychiatrist
Kristin Tyson, Stock Broker
Mike Manson, Plumber
Mary Johnson, hostess of the bed and breakfast inn.

The table was located in the center of the upstairs dining room in a bed and breakfast inn on the outskirts of Seattle. They had all signed up with Mary to play the murder mystery game that the inn provided for their guests’ enjoyment. Mary’s explanation of the rules for the game was cut short by the lights going off unexpectedly. Mary told the group to stay seated and remain calm. “This happens periodically, and the electrical panel is downstairs in the library. I’ll be right back,” she said as she grabbed her flashlight and rushed hastily out of the room. Fifteen minutes later the agitated group had run out of patience, demanding someone in the group needs to do something. Finally, the Air Force colonel stands up, grabbing one of the two candlesticks from the table, saying “I’ll go, but I’ll need this to see my way down the stairs.” Arriving at the bottom of the stairs, he realized he didn’t have a clue where the library was. He systematically tried each door in the hallway until he reached his goal. As he was entering the room he raised the candlestick higher. At the same time, Mary, hearing his footsteps behind her, began turning around while her face filled with pure, unadulterated terror. She shrieked at the top of her lungs, “No, no…it can’t be…It’s Colonel Mustard…in the library…with the candlestick!!!”

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Prepared, by Jim Bartlett

1/3/2019

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He turns into the short alley, keeping his pace steady, his breaths deep. Training. Running this distance is all about the training. Back when he’d first started, he’d checked this route, time and again – plenty of visibility, no tripping hazards, no dogs, no unexpected delivery trucks popping out – and then began running it three times a week. It took him nearly six months to build up the endurance, even though he was young and it was only a four mile trek. But, with sheer determination, good preparation, and wearing the right gear – top-notch running shoes, loose shirt and pants, and a good heavy backpack - he soon nailed it, the run becoming almost second nature.

Shooting out from the alley, he cuts along a back street, staying close to the fence line and away from the traffic. This is the only section of his route that takes him close to a roadway, and even though it’s a residential area, he keeps his eyes peeled. Watching. Ever ready.

Prepared.

Then, from somewhere behind, seemingly over and above his left shoulder, he hears a rumble in the sky. A forceful stirring of the wind that sends fear deep into his bones. It closes in, the rumble becoming a loud roar, an ominous growl. It churns his adrenaline, and he reaches deep inside, pressing his pace faster and faster, his legs stretching out longer.

He breathes hard. Quick.

It’s right over him now, despite his pace, his training, his preparedness. Its reverberation makes the cement quiver below him, the fence boards along his side rattle and shake. A tornado-like blast of foul heated air crashes into the tress, their branches swaying and rocking, throwing a flurry of leaves onto the parked cars and blanketing the street.

He closes his eyes. Clenches his fists. Pushes even harder.

But it’s not enough. From just above, a voice cuts through the roar, angrily shouting out from a loudspeaker on the helicopter. “This is the police! Stop now! Throw down your weapon and drop to the sidewalk, arms and legs spread out!”

He legs stop on their own, just as two police cars screech around the corner ahead, their lights flashing, sirens blaring. Defeated, he tosses his gun to the side, unhooks his backpack stuffed with the bank’s money and lays it on the curb, and then drops to the concrete, spreading out as if making angel wings in the snow.

He thought for sure he was prepared. Ready.

But so were they...

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The Waiter by, Bruce Levine

1/3/2019

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Fourteen hours ago. Was it only fourteen hours ago?

Thom looked at his watch and calculated again.

Yes, it was fourteen hours since the audition. Somehow it already felt like fourteen days – fourteen years.

He wanted this job. He needed this job.

It had been two years since his last show. Two long years of waiting tables and taking classes and doing everything he could to survive.

He wondered if it was all worth it. Was he just pretending? Pretending to be an actor?

An actor acts and he hadn’t acted in two years.

When customers at the restaurant asked what he really did for a living… Was he that bad a waiter? He’d answer that he was an actor. They’d smile, benevolently and nod, then give him their order without any further comment.

He always guessed that they’d seen through his façade. But which one? The waiter or the actor? He always wondered.

He looked in the mirror as he got ready to go to the restaurant. Maybe it was time to shift gears and do something else, he wondered.

But what?

Maybe he should go back to law school – lawyers were acting most of the time anyway so he could combine his acting skills with his legal prowess and make a fortune. He certainly wasn’t doing that now either as an actor or a waiter.

It’s an idea, he thought.

He began to leave just as the phone rang.

At first he was going to let his answering machine take the call as he usually did because of all the annoying robo-calls and scams.

But something made him pick it up.

It was his agent calling to tell him that he’d gotten the job – he was to play a waiter on a soap opera.

“Well, at least I’m combining a couple of my skills,” he said aloud after he thanked his agent and hung up the phone.

Right now he decided that he’d better hone his waiter skills at the restaurant, at least for one more day – just in case…

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With Bells On, by Tessa Edgecombe

24/2/2019

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Edith was beginning to wish she had not worn her heavy winter coat. She was perspiring profusely, detecting the acrid taint of sweat emanating from her armpits. The tree felt like the crucifix of Christ on her shoulder, and her bag kept on slipping off the other. Her face was slick with sweat and she had to nudge her glasses back up onto the bridge of her nose with her wrist. Why oh why had she decided to do this? A plastic one would have been so much easier. It would have been really crap, but it would definitely have been less of a literal pain.
And the road – it seemed so much shorter commuting into work with Jinny. Then it decided to rain. Oncoming vehicles loomed out of her in the gloom. A lorry suddenly whooshed past, deluging her, with the tree swerving with the force of the leviathan’s tailwind.
Edith was nearly in tears from the pain in her shoulders and she felt so hot she thought she could die. On she trudged, counting her steps, promising herself a quick breather after fifty. But she only stopped when thirty minutes later, she let the tree slide down in front of her and leant it against the garden gate. She felt almost sick with the effort she had made but she dragged her prize in through the front door and along the hall to the front room.
It was dark now, but as a car’s headlights swept across the back wall she could see everything that she loved in the world in this one room. She smiled as she quietly set down her bag and eagerly shuffled off the fetid coat.
Minutes later she was wrestling with the tree and then the lights. In the gloom she hung small decorations onto the spiky branches, their twisted silken threads and the resin fragrance a connection to memories of the past. Earlier times in another small living room, a fire blazing out from an ugly tiled fireplace, the ceiling covered in a hazard of polystyrene tiles, every few years the sofa changing from blue to green to coffee crème leatherette, all faux Ercol and aspiring working class attitude.
Hearing a small sound, she bent down to switch on the tree lights.
On the sofa lay her teenage daughter, a baby half cradled in her arms, the cat curled at her feet.
The young girl blinked and opened her eyes, awkwardly pulling herself up into a sitting position. She looked up at the other mother, bathed in the fairy light as the infant let out a soft wail, making Lily turn to her and gently kiss her face.
Edith bent down to the battered box and added another bauble to the tree. Lily grabbed the moth-eaten crocheted blanket from the back of the sofa and wrapped it around the baby.
“Fire tonight, Mum?”
“I think we can have a fire tonight, Sweetie”.
“Christmas?”
“Yeah, we’re definitely having Christmas, Lily. With bells on.”

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Men of God, by Sankar Chatterjee

21/2/2019

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Mr. Pierre Bernard, a Frenchman was exploring the neighborhood of Belém in Lisbon (Portugal). While searching for a locally famous pastry shop, he noticed the architecturally magnificent Jerónimos Monastery. Taking a break, Pierre decided to explore the monastery, thus entering the associated church. Once inside, he noticed a well-carved tomb with a stone-figure lying on his back with hands folded in a prayer-fashion. The nearby marker identified the tomb as that of famous Portuguese explorer Vasco da Gama. A historian by profession, Pierre knew that da Gama was the first westerner who had sailed around African continent to land in southwest India near the end of fifteenth century. This day, Pierre learned that the initial burial had taken place in Kochi in Kerala (India), only to be re-interned here in later years.

Recently Pierre was attending an international conference in Trivandrum, Kerala. One day, he took a bus to Kochi, found the historic St. Francis Church, entered, and located a barricaded spot, covered with wooden planks. The nearby marker noted the area as the original burial-site of explorer Vasco da Gama, thus off-limit to the visitors. He gathered that the church had still been active. Pierre had noticed several churches co-existed with temples throughout the state. He learned that in past, the strict caste-system of country’s main religion forced many members from lower castes to find sanctuary to a foreign religion brought along by the early western colonial powers.

He came out of the church. The main road was impassable; a protest-march was taking place. To his surprise, he noticed that all the participants were nuns from various local churches. He asked the young lady wearing a silver cross and standing next to him: “What’s going on?” The youth replied: “A well-known bishop was in town for a holy communion. But the night before, he violated several nuns. But nobody would believe the sisters. So, in solidarity, they took to the street along with other sisterhoods.” Pierre remembered the scandals breaking out throughout the western world about years of abuses on helpless young children by these “Men of God”. Only now the similar untold abuses on the nuns also started to come to light.

At that very moment, the Highest Authority, thousands miles away opened a gathering of the hierarchy by lowering his head in shame and proclaiming: “We hear the cry of little ones asking for justice.”

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Big Game, by Doug Bartlett

21/2/2019

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The local natives had told Jim that this was the best location to see “big game”. He peered anxiously through the binoculars, scanning the lush, green field below him. He saw a few zebras before he spotted a lion, another, and yes, another. He had come upon a pride of lions, nearly a dozen in all. The next thing that appeared in his view was an equal amount of bears lumbering to and fro. However, they always stayed at least a few yards away as if an invisible wall separated the two groups. All of the lions gathered near the center of the field creating a cluster. The lions dispersed and quickly ran directly to the line of bears. In a matter of seconds, the impact of their bodies crashing into each other made a sound not unlike thunder. A solitary lion was able to make his way through the bears unscathed. He continues running at top speed until he reached the end of the field, at which point the announcer’s voice exited the public address system into the crisp autumn air – “Touchdown…Detroit!”.

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The Unanswered Questions, by Bruce Levine

17/2/2019

Was it a harbinger of things to come or only another entry in the long line of expedience?

There was no way of knowing. At least not with any certainty.

It might even be an accidental coincidence.

Felicia looked at her computer screen and wondered. She’d finally yielded to the pressure. She hadn’t wanted to and had always said that she saw no reason to do it. And now that she had she still didn’t understand why it was so popular, so ubiquitous.

She’d been so comfortable in her isolation. So insulated from what she considered the indolent narcissism of society. So free from the maddening dogma of the ideologues on both sides of the aisle.

The stupidity, she thought, as she scrolled through the miasma of buffoonery, the unrelenting display of stupidity perpetrated by people who thought that they were presenting a series of interesting phenomena to the world.

“Interesting to whom?” she asked aloud.

Certainly not to her!

This was supposed to be an expedient. A tool, a device.

Would it have the anticipated results? Would it have any results?

No one could answer those questions. Give it time, she was told. Time alone could bring answers.

Could? Or would?

There were no answers to those questions either.

Just ignore whatever you’re not interested in, she was told.

Easy to say if one had the personality to ignore whatever bothered them. She envied people who could, at least in a way. But then she wondered about that ability in others and how it might affect them in other ways, ways of their own devising or ways of perception in a broader spectrum.

Was she becoming philosophical or simply reacting to stimuli?

And now she’d come full circle. The whole thing was a reaction to stimuli.

Her disdain, her abhorrence, her constant struggle to maintain her equilibrium in the face of a society she saw crumbling before her eyes.

Was that all a reaction to stimuli?

And now that she’d finally yielded, given in to the pressure wasn’t she only reacting to stimuli?

She tried to rationalize it, but had no answer to that question either.

She’d opened a Facebook account and now witnessed her own reflection.

Bijoya and Swapan, by Sankar Chatterjee

15/2/2019

Mr. Swapan Kundu was born to a family engaged in agricultural farming in the village of Sahapur, 75km outside of Calcutta (India). Family’s economy depended on two seasonal crops. But, the global climate-change over past decade was causing havoc for the small farmers like Swapan’s parents. Growing up, Swapan the eldest child would help his father in the field, even attending the village school. He was smart, curious, and dreamed of attending a college in Calcutta. In one hot summer, a deadly drug-resistant bacteria spread through many parts of India, unfortunately taking away the life of Swapan’s mother. Swapan would graduate from high school with distinction and earn a scholarship to attend a prestigious college in Calcutta, majoring in economics.

In college, Swapan fell in love with Ms. Bijoya Mukherjee. She came from a wealthy and educated family settled in Calcutta over past several generations. In addition, in India’s ever-flowing caste-system, the Mukherjee-family belonged to the highest caste of Brahmins. However, the love between Bijoya and Swapan blossomed throughout their college years. On graduation, Swapan would land a job in financing in a major bank. He proposed to Bijoya “Marry me.” She said “Yes.”

Growing up, Bijoya, a millennial was a free-thinker and independent. But she also knew her parents’ generation still remained stuck in old conservatism of a “Babu-class” from colonial-era, especially when it came to mingling of castes in matrimonial arrangements. She expected some resistance breaking the news to the family. But when she did, all hell broke loose. The elder extended family members couldn’t believe “How could she bring such a shame to their respectable family”? Her father Mr. Shambhunath Mukherjee kept murmuring “How did I raise such a daughter?”

Two days later, in the evening, Mr. Mukherjee was driving back home from his business in the middle of a torrential monsoon rain, still preoccupied with the thought of his daughter’s regrettable decision. He missed a red traffic light and collided forcefully with a truck, moving across. His car flipped throwing him out. Soon the family members received a call from the ER of a local hospital, informing them the seriousness of the accident. The family rushed to the hospital and waited patiently outside the ER, the surgery already began.

Soon, a few surgeons came out of the ER and informed the family that Mr. Mukherjee had experienced severe blood loss, thus needed to be infused immediately. To doctors’ surprise, he belonged to the rarest class of “AB-negative”-type and the hospital didn’t have any in reserve due to its scarcity. All the gathering family-members lined-up to donate, but none of their type would match. The last person in queue was Swapan who rushed to the hospital, getting a call from Bijoya.

Next, the entire family observed the doctors were drawing the blood from Swapan’s left arm, while Bijoya was holding his right arm gently.

Madame Divine, by Jim Bartlett

15/2/2019

Taking a deep breath, Madam Divine fluffs her wig, checks her caked-on makeup, and then takes her seat in front of the crystal ball. For twenty years the ball had been nothing more than a prop at the table in her “Room of the Psychic Realm,” but two days ago that all changed. While her client sat through her well-practiced routine, an image – a somewhat foggy one – appeared in the ball. In it she saw a plane fall from the sky, an explosion of flames as it crashed into a parking garage. She gasped at the horrid sight, surprising the man across from her. It was stunning enough to see the destruction, but the fact that something, anything had appeared within the ball sent cold chills down her spine.
“What is it?” the man had asked.
“Are...are you planning to fly somewhere?”
“Why yes...a business trip to Chicago tomorrow morning, as a matter of fact.”
“Don’t go. You must cancel. It does not bode well.”
The man stood, pushing himself away from the table. “Enough of this nonsense. I should have known better. I can’t just cancel a meeting with my director because some psychic...or maybe, psycho, warned me off.”
He turned and left, the door slamming behind him.
The next morning she stood in shock as the breaking news flashed on her television. A Chicago bound plane lost power on takeoff, crashing into the nearby parking lot, killing all aboard.
Later that day, when a young women had come to see her, worried about her husband’s fidelity, she sat again at the ball, this time in dreaded anticipation. The ball quickly came to life showing a fuzzy scene of a busy intersection at the bottom of a hill. Several cars were stuck out in the middle when a gas truck – its brakes not working – came barreling down the grade.
She turned away.
“What did you see? There’s another woman, right?”
“Do you drive a black BMW?” Madam Divine asked.
“Yes, why?”
“Stay away from Elm and 30th Streets tomorrow.”
“Wait...is that where they’ll meet? It is, isn’t it?”
“No, no, that’s not it...you can’t go there...”
But it was too late, the woman had shot out the door.
With this morning’s news of the fiery accident, killing ten as the truck’s load of gas exploded, still fresh on her mind, she rubs the ball, this time all alone. It wastes no time with its response, the scene obviously one from her television. The announcer is reporting tomorrow’s headline story: a tragic killing at 1577 Juniper Street.
Her heart stops. That’s her address.
It’s then the front entry bell rings. Panicked, she reaches under the table and grabs her small pistol. As she does, there are footsteps in her lobby. Someone is coming.
Taking no chances, she throws open the door and fires the gun at the intruder, emptying the chambers.
The mailman drops in a heap to the floor, several envelopes falling from his now limp hand.

A Chocoholic's Credo, by Bruce Levine

14/2/2019

Valentine’s Day to a chocoholic isn’t just a holiday celebrating love and romance, but rather a symbol of the extreme joy of the wondrous state of euphoria one can obtain through the ingestion of oodles and oodles of chocolate.

Valentine’s Day is a day when diving in and luxuriating in mounds of dark chocolate is not only expected, it’s mandatory and with no guilt attached.

Valentine’s Day is a day when the whole world feels like it’s covered in chocolate like a banana split covered in hot fudge and whipped cream with a cherry atop the very apex of the Mt. Everest of white fluff. A day when swimming in liquid milk chocolate would be looked upon as a glorious experience to be partaken of with all of the joy of tasting that strawberry, fresh from dipping in chocolate fondue, dripping chocolate as it passes through the air on its way from the fondue pot to the mouth.

Valentine’s Day is the singular day in the course of the year when all life stops for the inhaling of the essence of life, leaning back in comfy clothes, soft, warm and cuddly, and tantalizing the taste-buds with the smooth, creamy flavor of chocolate as it caresses the tongue in ecstasy.

Happy Valentine’s Day to my love and to the chocoholics everywhere.

Teletubbies, Forever, by Sankar Chatterjee

10/2/2019

Among all the little girls and boys, Ms. Marsha Sussman was the eldest kid in the neighborhood. She had an illuminating personality enabling her to lead other kids in organizing fun activities. Marsha had an elder teenage brother Mike who was more serious. He would tease his sister still playing with “the babies”. One summer morning, Marsha noticed a moving van pulled in front of a recently vacated house, two doors away from her own home. A young couple with two little children in tow disembarked, opened the backdoors of the van, and started unloading furniture. Always friendly in nature, Marsha rushed towards the new family and welcomed them in the neighborhood. She then introduced herself to the children, five years old Keri and two years old Neil. Later, Marsha would introduce the new kids to other neighborhood children.

Six months later, the newcomer young couple planned to celebrate their wedding anniversary with a candlelight dinner. They inquired Marsha whether she could babysit their children for a couple of hours one evening. Marsha agreed, showed up at the correct day, listened to the specific instructions, and immediately engaged the kids with fun activities. Later, as the couple was enjoying a lovely dining experience, the lady jumped out of her chair. Her motherly instinct would alert her “something worrisome happening in the home”. They left the restaurant, rushed home, and parked the car in driveway. And that’s when both heard a banging noise emanating from their basement room and feared the worst. Entering the house, they found Neil who was undergoing proverbial “terrible twos”, locked both Marsha and Keri inside the basement room, while tormenting them from outside. He explained to his parents that this was due to their refusal allowing him to watch his favorite show “Teletubbies”, a British invasion to American TV at the time.

Twenty five years later, recently Marsha was getting ready for her upcoming wedding. After a stressful day of wedding-planning, she fell asleep on her sofa. In a nightmare, the scene from her being locked inside a basement room during childhood appeared, with the added twist of her now being a prisoner of all the characters from that show. She woke up sweating and screaming “Oh my God, I forgot to invite Neil.” Next morning, Marsha called Keri (they remained good friends over the years) and learned that Neil, now being a high-ranking naval officer was in an assignment somewhere in the Indian Ocean. She sent him an invitation through US Navy’s high-security mail system. On her wedding day, Marsha, gorgeous in her white wedding gown, began walking down the aisle along with her father. She noticed seated Neil, clad in his white naval uniform decorated with badges and medals for bravery.

As she passed him, he tipped his hat, whispering “Teletubbies, forever.”

Is The Grass Greener? by Bruce Levine

8/2/2019

He came from the planet Plexathorious. He didn’t remember the trip because the distance was so great that he was in a coma/trance throughout. Now that he was here he had to complete his assignment, go back into the coma/trace and go home. Easy. He was the first to make the trip and no one at home knew what effect being in a coma/trance would have. No one but him, since he was the first and only. He settled in a garden to watch. Rain fell and planted him where he stood.

Two people came by and plucked him out of the ground – an interesting new green plant, they thought, maybe something new for their salad.

“No”, the girl said. “Too risky. It could be poisonous. Probably just a weed anyway.”

The boy looked at her, nodded, and threw him onto the compost heap.

The rain fell again and he got washed further down into the heap.

Two days passed.

The two people returned with a funny looking thing with metal spokes on the end of a wooden handle. Suddenly he felt his entire body being ripped to pieces by the metal spokes. He didn’t know what was happening, but he certainly didn’t like it and he was certain that this was not part of his assignment. If only he could remember what that assignment was – the coma/trance seemed to have erased it from his memory. And now he was here, a dismembered mess with no way to pull himself together and get home.

Maybe he’d been better off on Plexathorious. Maybe he shouldn’t have volunteered to be the first to make the trip.

Maybe the grass wasn’t greener here because now he “was” the grass.

Bird's Eye View, by Tessa Edgecombe

1/2/2019

Here above this ancient port, my home, I am king of all I survey. Black-backed and black-hearted, my wingspan is broad, my beak, sharp. I give no quarter to the other gulls. Just as the sea captain below will give none to his enemies. I glide above the tiny streets, the timbered houses and shops so close that they could almost embrace, all the way to the mighty Barbican, big-stoned, high-walled, surrounding Drake’s fleet. Barnacled by age, the ships wallow in the harbour, eager to set forth into the open sea. I swoop down around him and the other fellows, engaged in a strange dance with large round pebbles which they roll across the green. Over on Hamoaze Point, the brazier is set alight, signalling sighting of the Spanish Armada. But Drake cannot sail until the tide turns. I dip a wing and turn off towards the quay where the fishing boats are moored to see if there is any bounty left from that morning’s catch. Often there are shellfish that the other gulls cannot enjoy. They are not as clever or strong as I. Landing on the glittering warm granite quayside, I scoop up a forgotten scallop, fly to the height of the nearby fishermans’ cottages and drop it back onto the stone below. After three attempts I manage to crack it open to reveal the tasty morsel hiding inside. As I finish it, I hear shouting from across the water and see Drake and his crew clambering into the jolly boats, and rowing off to the galleons, rocking like sea horses out in the Sound.

After snatching a fish out of the jaws of a herring gull’s victory, I glide over the rippling pennants atop the ships’ masts and circle as the men heave the canvas up into the air, the ships flapping their wings in due deference to me. The teams of sailors work the capstans, drawing up the great anchors, in readiness for the tide and seawitch wind to catch them up and throw them forward into the open Channel.

Further out on the horizon is a brewing mass of ships. The great galleons of the Spanish come to meet the tiny ships of the English fleet. But the great galleons of the south are slow and cumbersome. The Albion craft are quick to manoeuvre, and clever, blasting their guns broadsides onto the great hulks before them. The smoke starts to obscure my view but I can still see the Spanish, battered and bruised, still holding the line. Until the fire ships come into play. The flames are too much for me. King of the ocean skies am I, but I will not take them on. And neither can the Armada. They beat a retreat further up the Channel, the English fleet nipping at their heels. I wheel around back to the shore, Smeaton’s Tower my beacon, back to lord it over the feathered fraternity settling to roost.

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