Blog Archives

The Man With The Crooked Hat, by Robert Bermudez

27/1/2018

The man and the boy watched as the old gentleman across the street gave a tiny flower to lady passing by. This action always followed the smile and slight bow.

"He does this everyday? the boy asked.

"Not this exactly. Sometimes it is just a hug."

"What about the men who pass by? He doesn't give them flowers, does he?"

"They get a handshake or a tip of the hat and a smile. Once in a while a cigar. The little ones get a little toy or piece of candy"

"Wow...and he has been doing this for how long?"

"Oh years...since I have been here, over twenty years ago. Funny, he was old then, too"

"And you don't know his name? After all this time?"

"Nope. Another thing: never heard him speak either. Far as I know no one has ever heard him speak"

"Holy cow! Never?!"

"Nope He just comes to the corner every day and gives away his little gifts and smiles, then goes wherever he lives till the next day. Nobody even knows where he comes from"

The boy pondered this for a moment in silence.

"How about his name? Someone's gotta know that!"

The man looked at the boy and smiled.

"No name either, son. No one knows that"

The boy just shook his head. They watched him in silence for a few minutes, smiling, handing out candy and flowers and handshakes and tipping his hat.

"Well" said the boy, "what do YOU call him then?"

"I call him what everyone else does: the man with the crooked hat"

Luck Of A Hero, by Sankar Chatterjee

26/1/2018

Retired Admiral Bruce Smith was attending his grandson Lt. Jonah Smith’s graduation from US Navy’s Nuclear Power Engineering College in Charleston, South Carolina. Junior Smith, a graduate of the US Naval Academy in Annapolis, Maryland already spent two years in a modern destroyer crisscrossing the Mediterranean Sea, as a part of his country’s commitment to the security of the European countries. Now, in a change of responsibility, he had been assigned along with a group of officers to guide one of the nuclear power operated aircraft carriers. Thus was the required training in Charleston.

After the ceremony, while the grandfather was reminiscing about his naval days during World War II, the grandson mentioned that in fact USS Yorktown, a notable aircraft carrier from those days retired in nearby Patriots Point along with a smaller destroyer USS Laffey. Hearing the name Laffey, Adm. Smith felt like a lightning bolt struck him. He spent a big chunk of his carrier on that destroyer, also nicknamed “The Ship That Would Not Die” for her heroic service both in D-Day invasion in Normandy, France originating in the Atlantic Ocean and later in the “Battle of Okinawa” in the Pacific Ocean. But, it was the later operation that flashed in its entirety in his mind.

It was mid-April in 1945. Assigned to fend off Japan’s aerial attack in the Pacific, the destroyer would come under a major assault of more than twenty bombers and kamikaze suicide missions. It would take direct hit from six kamikazes and four dropped bombs. While engulfed in massive fire, more than thirty of its sailors would die, while seventy wounded. But it stayed afloat, firing its onboard guns taking down incoming bombers and kamikazes. He remembered overhearing how a communication officer asking the captain to abandon the vessel, only to receive following reprimand "No! I'll never abandon ship as long as a single gun will fire."

That afternoon, after taking a tour of the USS Yorktown, senior Smith headed towards USS Laffey. He boarded on the restored vessel and would proceed immediately to one of the gunnery enclaves. He vividly remembered that moment he was manning one of the big guns that day when a kamikaze suicide mission delivered the direct hit to his part of the destroyer. The flash, fire, smoke, and deafening sound all reappeared momentarily from that past experience. To date, it has still been a mystery to him how he survived that destructive enemy attack and why USS Laffey didn’t sink in that assault.

Then he murmured to himself “Most probably, I was lucky enough to serve that day on “The Ship That Would Not Die””.

I Always Feel Sorry For The Monster, by Susan Church

24/1/2018

I always feel sorry for the monster, I said to the Steam Punk blond sitting next to me. A Manhattan lunch hour swirled around us and the counter was crowded.

"Huh'?, she said ,like something was caught in her throat.
"Take Frankenstein, for example. I said . He's stitched together with stinking dead body parts, his creator rejects him, the villagers attack him and his bride hates him. You gotta feel sorry for the guy."
By now the spiky-haired babe had morphed into an old lady with skin the color of paste. Her blood colored lipstick was crooked. "Take King Kong , for example, I said. One day he's a god, the next he's chained up and treated like a freak. Then they shoot him down and gape at his bullet-riddled body. You gotta feel sorry for the guy.
Now take the Creature From the Black Lagoon, for example, I said. He's peacefully swimming along and there these scientists come and shoot him, try to make him breath air and finally kill him. You gotta feel sorry for the guy.
I looked over, a long skinny tear escaping down my cheek. The seat next to me was empty.

No... We Are Real, by Sophie Fleetwood

21/1/2018

Growing up, you realize that monsters didn't exist.
They aren't real.
They never were...right?

No longer having monsters at the end of the bed,
nothing in the closet, and nothing in the darkness of a doorway.
Yet as adults we rock back and forth with hands clapsed over our face.

The monsters still fester inside our head.
We still lay paralyzed in our bed, afraid of the dark.
It's not the boogie man,
nor the locknest monster.
This one has a new name and an even stronger power.
Come out, come out, wherever you are...
The three-headed beast, that left us with many scars.
Depression, Anxiety and Addiction.

We used to shiver under a blanket with a night-light on, but we had safety as mother was never far from the door.
Now the brighest of lights are off.
We are on our own.
Rocking back and forth in a darkened room.
The three-headed beast chuckles, 'We are very real.'

Father's Love, by Adam Smith

19/1/2018

Traynor swung the refrigerator door, knocking Conrad aside. Conrad pushed back, slamming it on Traynor’s hand. He threw a punch that missed and Traynor responded with a right hook. Conrad saw double until a boot crashed into his ribs. He stayed low and opened the refrigerator. Before Traynor could react, he reached in and dashed the vials to the floor, breaking them. Traynor slid in the insulin and went to one knee, his face a twisted mess of anger and fear. He looked up slowly, “You just killed my boy.” Conrad squinted, “I think that’s on you. Where’s my daughter?”

Traynor’s anger was apparent in his pursed lips and unblinking eyes. Conrad did not back down, “Where’s my daughter?”

Traynor’s lips turned upward at the corners. “She’s with my son. If he dies, she dies.”

“You let her go, and I’ll save your boy,” offered Conrad.

Traynor wore a full smile now. “How can I trust you?” He motioned at the broken insulin vials on the floor.

“There’s more. In a place a small body can get to. I’ll need Elizabeth.”

“You take Ben, he’s small, and I’ll keep the girl here.”

“No deal.”

“Then how about we all go?”

Wedding Bands, by Doug Hoekstra

18/1/2018

For them, their love was like no other, so they had special wedding bands made; gold with Chinese turquoise, ribbons of blue circling around and around, like the river that leads to the sea, meant to symbolize perpetuity. The basic idea was his dream, his romance, his vision. She shared it, at the time. Or so he thought. But, try as you might, you can never stand in the same river twice. She had known this all along.

Five years after she left, he rediscovered his ring in a small jewelry box amidst tie tacks and cufflinks he never wore, in a dark and dusty corner of the bathroom closet. He turned it over in his hand curiously, as if he’d never seen it before, put it in his pocket and drove down to Cashville, where he gave it to a disheveled clerk who weighed it, punched numbers into a calculator, and fished out a hundred dollar bill for his troubles.

“I’d pay you twice that to take it off my hands,” the man said joking. He felt odd selling the ring, although he could see no reason for keeping it.

“We get a lot of that,” the clerk said, deadpan.

Maybe somewhere someone kept souvenirs of car accidents or train wrecks. But, he was already feeling a little lighter, bad karma shed like ballast thrown overboard in a storm.

“It’s funny how the things you have the hardest time parting with are often the things you need the least.”

Bob Dylan sang the words, ironically over the tiny speakers, cutting through the shop like a sage. The deal was sealed when the proprietor dropped the ring into a glass jar where it made a tiny clink, resting among a bed of gold promises, some false, others true. In some, there was young love gone awry; in others, old couples going the distance. Most, like the man and his wife, had run the race for a while, but fell short, without enough caring, listening, or luck to make it. Yes, the man thought, in reality, their love had been like most others.

The door swung open behind him and a mother and her daughter crept past, cat-like, with fixed eyes that landed on the opposite wall which was, lined with guitars, mandolins, and banjos, lost promises of another kind, probably hocked for drugs or a ride back home to where home had once been. The daughter pointed excitedly and the mother shushed her. The man turned his attention from the jar to their faces, which likely had no idea what was before them. Sometimes it’s a struggle to be free, he thought, but he had quit being sad a long time ago. After all, it was early on a Saturday, and outside the sun was shining like a promise.

Even The Dogs, by Robert Bermudez

14/1/2018

The two dogs were together in the corner of the yard, the big brown one laying on his side and the smaller white one sitting up. Their masters were sitting on the patio across the way.

"I am telling you it's true" said the white dog.

"'t don't believe it. I have lived here all my life."

"Man I can feel it. I see those looks. The other dogs don't like me cause my owner is black"

"Astro, I know them guys since I was a pup. There ain't a racist hair in their fur.You are imagining things again"

"Man, I wish we could be like those dogs.They don't stress about the nonsense we do", said Marcus.

"Ain't that the truth!", said Wally.

The Fishing Trip, by Robert Bermudez

13/1/2018

¨We got a bite, boss! Feels like a biggie!¨

¨Okay get him up on deck, let´s see what we got. Hope to hell we can use this one¨, said the captain, pushing back his weathered cap.

The catch landed on the deck with a thud and flopped violently, the big steel hook lodged in it´s mouth. The eyes bulged in pain and terror.

The captain peered down from his perch with a look of dismay.

¨Ah! Another useless one! Too small, ain´t gonna bring nothing at the market. Where the hell are all the good ones lately?¨
The captain shook his head. ¨Toss him¨

As the captain returned to his perch the two great whites hauled the human up and threw him overboard.

Gift To Bloom, by Tori V. Rainn

8/1/2018

A breeze sways my stem ever so slightly, flexing my petals like a tease. The neighbor flowers rock in the same movement, a welcome dance that often greets us before the sun sets.

My thick layers of petals resemble silk. The color is a deep blue, but lucid enough to see my filaments. At the chance to dance and blossom among the rest is a gift given every day.

Something with pointy ears is moving about between my sister flowers. If only I could walk and have a closer look, but I need none, the fiend comes too close for comfort.

A tiny gray goblin stands, the tail of his clock flapping, as his claws takes aim at me. I’ve no power to react when a black ink spirals out from his wrist and drenches me.

The goblin sprints off as the liquid burns me. I want to scream but lack a mouth. My sisters watch in horror as the ink slowly claims me until I am the only black flower.

Night falls and not even the moon can see me. I’m a hole in the field, the place no one will look. My petals swell up into a bud, trying to protect me from the chemicals that stain me. But I can’t breathe. I’m not meant to be bound, to shrivel into flakes. If the deadly toxin does not leave me soon that’s all I’ll be. Decay.

My stem slumps, failing to support me. I’m dying.

I can’t see the sun peeking over the horizon. My tightening petals keep me smothered, scratching the most delicate parts of me. No longer soft, they cut me. The agony is like no other.

Pieces of me float away to the ground. My body is crying, shedding the last of its tears. Humiliation is within reach when beauty surrounds me, looks on as I grow to something close to a corpse.

The sky rumbles and I pray for rain.

Please.

Help me.

The first raindrop lands on one of the four remaining petals. Its cooling presence relieves some of the stinging. Another plops down. Then another.

A sheet of rain pelts me, washing the black ink away. What’s left is a hardened bud. It’s twisted and rough, spiraling up as if desperate for light. I don’t know if I have a chance, or how long it’ll take to resemble my sisters.

I lose count of dawns. Each day brings back a new petal. Parts of me are reborn. But not the same. Never again.

Petals are no longer vibrant. Not as soft. Not as buoyant. Never again.

My stem acquires barbs. Fresh leaves with jagged edges sprout along the outside of my petals. It doesn’t take me long to learn I can protract the razor-sharp leaves to enfold me like a shield, but it’s not in my nature to do so.

When I bloom, my short, coarse petals do their best to thrive on each ray of sunlight that’s brought to me.

From Snake To Software, by Sankar Chatterjee

6/1/2018

Ms. Becky Smith, a young IT professional from the Silicon Valley in US, was assigned to a collaborative project that would take her to organization’s overseas operation in Bengaluru, India’s Silicon Valley. On arrival, she met fellow millennial IT professionals who would be her colleagues as well as friends for next few months. Soon they introduced her to bhelpuri, a traditional street-food. They also exposed her to modern Bollywood movies, love-tale fantasies spiced with morality, and packed with innumerable song and dance sequences. She learnt to appreciate the game of cricket, while becoming comfortable wrapping herself in a traditional saree. She also found the new generation young Indians to be quite engaged in their leisure time in outdoor activities, especially hiking, overnight camping, and traveling to remote places.

Soon, over a long period of holidays due to a religious festival, Becky would join a group of her colleagues to one such hiking trip on mountain trails in the northern state of Himachal Pradesh. In between extended hikes, they would stop in small quaint villages or small towns with unique history. One such stop-over brought the group to the town of Manikaran on the banks of fast-flowing Parvathi River, a holy place to two religions of the country: Hinduism and Sikhism.

First, the group would visit the Hindu Temple, erected next to a boiling hot spring. As circulated steam was creating a mystic appearance, Becky noticed that several tied-up big bags of rice were getting cooked in that boiling water. She learned that though a hot spring, there was no sulfur contamination. Thus following their tradition of everyday service, the disciples of the Sikh religion were cooking rice in a most natural way to feed the poor people of the neighboring towns. “What a peaceful coexistence of two religions,” thought Becky. Subsequently, her group would visit the Gurudwara of the Sikh religion.

But for Becky, the mystery of how water from a hot spring not contaminated with sulfur still remained puzzling. Most of her colleagues were busy taking selfies and immediately posting on their social media sites. She was aware that many of them created popular software, now being integral parts of a modern-day smart-phone. She got hold of Mithila, a brilliant woman from the group. Mithila heard various myths, but the most wide-spread one involved Shiva, the god of destruction and his wife Parvathi (the namesake of the river). They were taking an evening stroll along the bank, when she lost a piece of her jewelry. All efforts failed to recover the piece. And that’s when, Sheshnag, the serpent god appeared in the scene. He hissed, thereby giving rise to a flow of unadulterated boiling water creating the hot spring with the emergence of the jewelry. Then with a skeptic’s mischievous smile, Mithila opined “Now Becky, it is up to you whether to believe this myth or not!”

Becky returning a friendly smile and staying neutral responded: “Indeed, the country made a long journey from snake to software.”

Morality In The Time of Globalization, by Sankar Chatterjee

5/1/2018

John Barry, a photo-journalist from London arrived in Yangon, Myanmar, taking a connecting-flight from New Delhi, India. Myanmar, long ruled by a military dictatorship, recently opened its border to outside world. Global tourists began to arrive in this Far-East Asian country to explore its natural beauty, famous Buddhist pagodas as well as unique cuisine. And that’s when a dark chapter from the country’s recent history came to light; an ongoing systematic “ethnic cleansing” of the minority Rohingya population of Islamic faith by the Buddhist majority. In a shocking twist, the leader of this annihilation program had been a fiery young Buddhist monk. In Yangon, John needed to apply for a travel permit to visit the northern part of the country where major atrocities were taking place.

While waiting for the paperwork, John would decide to explore Yangon and its surroundings. As the country’s major port, the city sits on the banks of the Irrrawaddy River. One morning, John came to the ferry terminal to catch a commuter boat to go to the other side of the river to explore the ancient villages there. There was a long line of school children of all ages, near the entrance of the terminal. John assumed that the children were in a class-trip to visit some places of interest. As he approached to the front of the line, he noticed a few gentlemen were handing over two western brand-named sugar-rich soda cans free to each student. From that first line, the recipients were then heading towards a second line to receive a pair of brand-name salt-rich snacks, again free. Surprised John admired the free publicity stunt of the manufacturers.

Just before leaving UK, John came across to a report in one of the leading newspapers about the effect of NAFTA (acronym for a free-trade agreement among various nations) in poor countries like Mexico. There, the younger generation has been becoming obese with accompanied health-related issues. While waiting for his connection in New Delhi, he came across to a medical report in city’s daily newspaper. The report detailed how the consumption of salty snacks and sugary drinks sky-rocketed in country’s teenagers, bringing obesity and diabetes in their younger age.

Now, John began to connect the dots. As the health risks from those junk foods became apparent in the western societies, restricting their sales in school cafeterias as well as in their lunch programs, the multinational corporations targeted new sets of consumers. Under the umbrella of free-trade agreement, they started flooding the markets of the poor nations, hooking the younger generations to these unhealthy food-products leading to subsequent health issues and thus jeopardizing the countries’ futures.

Next day, after receiving his travel-permit, John embarked on his mission of collecting the photographic evidence of atrocities. But the irony of an unfolding religious genocide compared to an unfolding economic slow-poisoning of the poorer citizens of the world was not lost in his mind. He wondered “What should be new definition of morality in a globalized world?”

In Search Of Peace, by Sankar Chatterjee

3/1/2018

After a long absence, Barry Greenburg returned to India. It was in his youth when he had traveled here to find peace and experience its mysticism. Also, he wanted to escape the reality. Involvement in an unjustified war in a faraway country was tearing his nation apart. Soldiers were returning home in body-bags, students were getting shot at protest rallies, while politicians were clueless how to end the conflict. While here, he had spent several months in a Guru’s ashram, nestled inside the Himalayan Mountains. There he had learned the practices of yoga and meditative mindfulness. And now, the physicians of western societies have been advising their citizens to incorporate those practices in their daily routine to cope with stress and welfare of mental health.

Barry landed in New Delhi and took a connecting flight to arrive at Kullu, in the state of Himachal Pradesh. From the airport, he took the local transportation to arrive at picturesque village-turned-small town Kasol. From his online search, Barry learned about Kasol situated on the banks of the Parvathi River with flowing emerald-green to blue water, originated at the high mountains from ancient glaciers. As the bus was entering the town, Barry noticed almost all the billboard signs were in Hindi (local language), English and Hebrew. In fact, one of the billboards even announced (in English and Hebrew) the presence of a Chabad (a religious institution of Jewish faith) in the town. Dumbfounded, Barry got down from the bus at the town-centre, asked a local gentleman for the direction of his hotel and started moving. And that’s when he saw Ari Levi, a young Israelite again inside a cafe. Surrounded by his friends of both genders, Ari was enjoying a cup of evening coffee with some pita bread and hummus.

Just a few months ago, Barry was in Jerusalem on a business trip. In between meetings, he would take breaks to visit the city’s historic places. One day, he went to visit Mount Herzl, site of Israel’s national cemetery of Jewish faith. During his tour, Barry would notice several groups of young men and women in uniform and carrying their weapons spread throughout the complex. He was able to strike up a conversation with Ari and learned that they were all high-school graduates who had to join the armed forces under the country’s mandatory draft system of serving for a few years. They were there to pay respect to past heroes.

Barry stopped to say “Hello” to Ari. At Barry’s inquiry, Ari explained that the entire group had just completed their mandatory military service. Before heading back to normal life, they were allowed to “decompress” from the stress of military training as well as deployment. The past recruits found the serenity of this Himalayan village, the practices of yoga and meditative mindfulness, and availability of home cuisine (thanks to the Indian chefs) was a perfect combination to help them in their “re-entry” process.

New arrivals here then became normal.