Blog Archives

Paradise Lost, by Pamela Kennedy

31/1/2020

The New Year held such promises of joy and just when the holiday season was ending...

Luke 21:10-17
"...there will be great earthquakes...and great signs from heaven..."
How prophetic!

I Feel The Earth Move
Carole King described the situation perfectly.
January 7, 2020 8:24 UTC M6.3

Barbara Ann
The Beach Boys knew the movement with "rockin and a rollin'".
January 7, 2020 8:34 UTC M5.5

Shake, Rattle and Roll
Big Joe Turner got that right.
January 10, 2020 22:24 UTC M5.2

Rock Around The Clock
Bill Haley & His Comets really understood time
8:41, 10:10, 22:26 UTC whenever...they happen when they happen.

The Beat Goes On
Sonny & Cher how did they know? 289 tremblors in a seven-day period and are predicted to extend several years into this decade.

Good Vibrations
Nope! The Beach Boys made a mistake with this one. Not Good! Not at all!

Great Balls of Fire
Jerry Lee Lewis saw it coming
January 17, 2020 4:30 pm a meteorite passes over and lands in the Atlantic.

For a few it may be the best of times, but for so many it is the worst of times. Times which are trying men's souls. For sure, we are living in interesting times.

And we call our island, "La Isla del Encanto". Really? Really!

Bethany's Dream, by Bruce Levine

31/1/2020

Bethany laughed. It was a hearty laugh. She just got up and was having her first cup of coffee. Now she was remembering her dream. She could hear it more than see it. A group of deer were gathered across the street from her apartment when she was walking her dog and they seemed to be talking. Not talking in the form of words, but rather in a language all their own. And her dog seemed to understand it; they even walked toward each other as if communicating by some telepathic language that only the deer and her dog understood.

All she could remember was that it sounded like nonsense syllables, almost like the scat syllables that jazz singers use when improvising vocally so that they can imitate instruments with their voice.

What did it mean? Why had she had the dream? Why had she remembered it so vividly? Was she having a break-through or a break-down? Was it some sign for her future or had she simply had too many cocktails with her friends the night before at the celebration?

The celebration. Maybe that was it. Her best friend, Portia, had just gotten accepted into veterinary school and was all excited because she’d dreamed of working with animals since she was seven and now saw her chance to move to where she’d help farmers with their horses and cows and all of the other animals.

Bethany wondered if she should tell Portia about her dream. Maybe Portia would understand and be able to explain it. Or, maybe, Portia would tell her that it meant that they should both become veterinarians. It would be fun to continue going to school together, but Bethany had no desire to become a vet, no matter how much she loved animals – too much blood and stuff like that, she thought. No. Better to go to the petting zoo when she needed a horse or cow “fix”.

Bethany poured a second cup of coffee and looked at her dog who was now looking up at her with hopeful eyes that clearly read – please take me out again.

Maybe the deer would be there again and, maybe, they’d be having another conversation and, maybe, this time, Bethany would understand it a little better.

And then a new thought hit her. Maybe she could try to write it down and create the first animal language dictionary. Maybe she was meant to be the next Doctor Doolittle.

Bethany laughed. It was a hearty laugh.

Dweller, by J.F. McKnight

31/1/2020

Upon reaching the foot of eastern mountains, I had come the shadow of the Crawford's house. Or at least that was the name of the last residing individual seen in the eerie abode. The hovel came almost as a surprise as it emerged out from between the light-morning fog and the slow rain that had decided to accompany it. Taking shield from the wet along the side of the house I resided to my notebook and scribbled:

At Crawford’s house; building is heavily ruined - several broken wooden panels on the porch floor, windows boarded. Vision clouded due to slight fog.

The door lay almost welcoming as it gently swung open with little more than a slight push and I entered into the shack with a beacon to whoever may be residing within.
With no response I took the cumbersome torch from my satchel and ventured left into what appeared to be a homely dining room. The feint mist which was dwelling outside moved also swiftly though the house, lightly obscuring the bottom of my trouser legs. After but a few steps forward, I felt a light gust of wind crawling along the ground and the little sunlight that still remained within the room quickly scattered as the scrawny door crawled back into its frame behind me. My torch, lighting up but only a small portion of the room at any given time, was all I had of any use – and yet as I clutched it with both hands, it pierced the dark clouds that encircled me.

Nothing scuttered, nothing moved, at this moment it was as though all the room had somehow elapsed. Slowly, a gentle pat began to emerge from a corner of the room. I insist it is human, but to what extent does its calming plod represent its nature I cannot say. As I grew with tension, my torch flickered and dwindled almost instantly to the blackness which surrounded it. Stepping back against a wall, the creature’s movement against the wooden floor seemed almost everlasting and ever more potent as it progressed towards me. As though with every drop of salt from within me caused this creature to gain its strength. Clutching the warm metal light between my hands I closed my eyes and pointed it out ahead of me.
A soothing flash lit the room as my torch came to life again as the creature in front of me fell on the ground, casting the mist back through the crevasses in the house. I stood up and regained my senses before writing again:

Tall humanoid; pale complexion, appears dead.

For a moment I stood, and doing my job, inspected the creature with my light. Yet the longer I stood with it under my spotlight, the smaller the thing became – almost as though it was carried off by clouds of mist until nothing remained.
I revisited to my notes:

House inspected – empty.

Between the Darkness and the Light, by Kim Favors

25/1/2020

Is it true, the elderly man’s latest version of his first marriage?

Were neither of the two babies his? And did both die as infants?

Listening to this story is his adult daughter from a second marriage. Told she’s his only child, she wonders if she’ll ever know the truth. Her father’s tales change with the telling, and she’s experienced the painful consequences of asking questions he doesn’t like hearing.

Later that night, back at home, her restless sleep is punctured by an odd dream:

She is driving, alone, up a hilly street and into darkness. Her car lights illuminate only faint fog-like reflections. As the blackness begins enveloping her, she passes a building’s large window, with bright lights and people inside talking.

She stops, grateful to have not struck anything. But she wonders now — in the blackness — what to do with her car. She’s also wondering what might await her behind that window, in the light, if she’s willing.

More than anything, she wants to see the sun rise.

Not Even Horses, by Bobby Warner

25/1/2020

Hershfield sauntered into the brand new store and looked around, amazed by the three walls covered with gleaming coolers filled by cartons and cartons of eggs.

"Help you, sir?" the tall, ruddy faced proprietor asked.

"Need a dozen eggs .How much for these?"

"Those are a dollar and eighty cents. But our Opening Day Special is a dozen free eggs if you'll promise to let me have your soul when you die."

"Hah, hah," laughed Hershfield. "I'll take 'em," he added, playing along with the joke. "Gotta warn you, though. My doctor says I'm healthier than a horse and will probably live forever!"

The proprietor handed Hershfield the carton of eggs, which promptly vanished in a puff of smoke as Hershfield dropped dead on the immaculate floor. Smiling, the proprietor stooped, thrust his hand into the other's chest and drew forth a small dark fluttering object. "Not even horses life forever," he said with an amused smile, then went quickly into a back room to process his newly acquired treasure.

Like a Rolling Stone, by Jim Bartlett

24/1/2020

Outside, the clouds gather in groups of gray, working together to push aside the last of the blue and make good on the promise of rain. Rose watches their threatening march across the sky from the kitchen, though her focus is mostly on the last batch of chocolate-chip cookies. At the moment they’re not quite ready to come out, rather, they seem quite content basking in the warm oven.

“Nana, what did you say this was for?”

Rose looks across the counter. Her granddaughter, Carmen, 6, stands before the makeshift shelves on the wall opposite the fireplace holding an album she’s pulled from below the stereo.

“It’s how we used to play music. Well, some of us still do.”

Slowly, the tiny girl slips the vinyl record from its sleeve, careful to hold it by the edges. “Let. It. Bleed,” she reads from the blue center label, just loud enough for Rose to hear. “What does that mean? Is that like a boo-boo?”

Rose laughs. “No, not at all. It sort of means let it go. Don’t just hold it in. Like today, there was so much to worry about back then, and people, particularly the younger folks, were looking for peace and hope.” Rose stops, looks into the Carmen’s curious eyes, and smiles. “Never mind me, it’s just the name of the album. The groups were always coming up with really cool names. Hang on and I’ll show you how it works.” Rose pulls the cookie sheet out – perfect – and sets it on the range to cool.

Sliding around the edge of the counter, she moves to the front room next to her granddaughter. “Let me see it.”

Carmen, still holding the edges by her fingertips, hands over the record. “What now?”

“Watch.” Rose turns on the stereo, lifts the dustcover, and sets the vinyl on the turntable. She holds her breath, then sets the needle on the edge of the record. There’s a crackle, but only for a moment, as the room fills with the sound of Keith Richard’s guitar opening Gimme Shelter.

Carmen smiles and begins to sway with the music, grabbing Nana’s hands and spinning in a quick little dance as the music builds. But after a couple of moments, she stops, pulling her iPhone from her oversized pocket.

She looks down at the phone, then up to the turntable. There’s a pause and she repeats the back and forth again. “But...what else does it do?”

Rose stops her dance, her eyes falling to the phone. With a sigh, she shifts her gaze to the turntable, Mick still singing for peace at 33 1/3 rpms. “Well, I guess it makes you feel old...”

Go on, admit it... how many of you readers let that track run right through to the end? – editor

Kaos and the Rat Pack, by Michael H. Brownstein

24/1/2020

The two legged animal—at least I only see two feet (not four like my pals and me)—has divided us into a two rooms. He is one side and we are on the other. It’s not because we’re too loud though we do like to bark and howl when we hear sounds that interest us. It’s not because we play hard and rough and sometimes squeal. It may be because we always beg for food or to be petted. I can’t tell you why he divides the room. He just does.

But that’s not here nor there. What is here is my plan to break out of the room and then figure a way to get outside. I tell the rat pack watch and learn.When he opens the sliding door to get on our side, I make a run for him and he closes his legs so I can’t get by, but then he turns sideways at the last second and I’m in the other room. I bark a few barks and the rat pack barks a few barks and then we giggle back and forth and I bark again because he is opening the door and coming to my side and he’s heading to the door to the outside.

When he opens it, I make my move, and he almost catches me, but I slip past him and I’m outside. I can hear the adoring barks from the rat pack caught on their side of the room. I can also hear the large booming voice of our friend who feeds us and gives us water. He’s calling my name, but I’m outside and I’m not on a leash and I’m almost to the corner and now I’m at the corner and I’m turning so quickly, there is no way he can keep up and then--

Across the street from where I live is a giant graveyard. A spooky place. I never go day or night. Nor do the rat pack. And here is why:

THE GRAVEYARD DOGS!

My friend is calling me and I’m not looking and then I do look and I put on my speedy four paws skids because directly in front of me are THE GRAVEYARD DOGS! I turn as fast as I can and the race is on. They are right behind me.

I’m running as fast as I can, but it’s not good enough. I need my friend to have the door open so I can get inside before I become food for THE GRAVEYARD DOGS and here is why I like my friend so much. He knows exactly what to do. He reaches the door before me, opens and then slams it shut. I run to the window and watch them run to the door, pause, and then run back to the graveyard where they belong.

Can’t wait to tell the rat pack about the time I beat THE GRAVEYARD DOGS.

The Great Exchange, Doug Bartlett

24/1/2020

Jason was a natural born trader. It began when he was just a child. He started by trading his toys for baseball cards, went on to exchanging vehicles and eventually ended up to his presently doing tax free 1031 real estate exchanges. At thirty-two years of age he had amassed a fortune. Yet his greatest exchange was yet to happen.
Jason was not a religious man but he went to church occasionally to appease his wife. They always sat in the back for a quick getaway. However, this time they were a little late and there was no room for them to sit in the back. They ended up sitting about halfway down and near the outside aisle.
Jason knew his wife had been a Christian for many years but what he didn’t know was that she and her friends had been diligently praying for his salvation for years.
The church service started like any other service he had attended, but dramatically changed when the pastor began to preach. He spoke about forgiveness, redemption and God’s grace. He had heard sermons like that before but this time was different. This time it was like the pastor was speaking directly to him. Not only that, he felt a strange warming of his heart and a gentle tug on his spirit.
The pastor then gave people the opportunity to come forward to exchange their old sin-stained lives for one in which they could have a personal relationship with God now and continue to be with God even after death.
Jason knew he was not a bad person, in fact he considered himself a good one.He also knew That no matter how good he was, he still wouldn’t have that relationship with God he needed and now wanted.There was unconfessed sin in his life and he knew that would have to be dealt with.He went forward and had a private conversation, not with the pastor, but with God. He gave God his old life and God gave him a new one.
As Jason walked back to his seat with a massive smile on his face, he realized that this was the best exchange he had ever made. What he didn’t realize was that it was only going to get better.

Coffee and Donuts, by Kathleen Trocmet

24/1/2020

Every day they came in and talked about the same thing, word for word. Michael arrived first. Theo arrived exactly three minutes later. They each ordered one cup of coffee and a plain glazed donut. They never got a refill on the coffee or another donut, stayed for exactly thirty minutes, and paid by card. Both of them got up at the same time and left together. No tip. They have been doing the same routine for eight days straight; I was getting a little pissed, especially about the tip. I couldn't take it anymore.

On day nine I scanned them with my cell phone and sent a text to the number that came up: "Your Ro-Bo's are stuck in a loop, either you get them to give me a decent tip or I'll call the Ro-Bo Rehab Squad -- and you know how anxious they are to get their hands on your new tech."

Day ten, Michael and Theo arrived, as usual, talked, as usual, placed their order, as usual, stayed thirty minutes as usual, and paid by card as usual. As they were leaving, Theo pointed to the table. On it was my tip, a one-ounce solid-gold coin. Now, that was a decent tip. Looking at them I said, "Tell George, he can continue his testing at my restaurant, and thanks for the tip. I look forward to both of you coming again tomorrow.

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.

Late Night Longings, by Mary Wallace

17/1/2020

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.

Escape at Midnight, by Vlad Leus

17/1/2020

“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.

Desperate, by Marselienna Von Eschen

17/1/2020

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.

Life Lesson, by Doug Bartlett

11/1/2020

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.

Better Late Than Never, by Jim Bartlett

10/1/2020

“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...”

No Peace-Time, by Nicky Johnson

10/1/2020

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.

The Encounter, by Pamela Kennedy

3/1/2020

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.

New Year's Resolution, by John M. Carlson

3/1/2020

"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!"

Sidewinder, by Sterling Warner

3/1/2020

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.”

A Bratwurst A Day…., by Sankar Chatterjee

3/1/2020

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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Friday Flash Fiction is primarily a site for stories of 100 words or fewer, and our authors are expected to take on that challenge if they possibly can. Most stories of under 150 words can be trimmed and we do not accept submissions of 101-150 words.

However, in response to demand, the FFF team constructed this forum for significantly longer stories of 151-500 words. Please send submissions for these using the Submissions Page.

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