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Would I Ever..., by Jim Bartlett

29/1/2021

Stretching his legs over the table’s long bench, Pete wiggles into his favorite corner for lunch. Not that a hard seat or the noisy school cafeteria make this particular spot all that appealing, but rather, from here, Pete can steal admiring glances at MaryBeth Carmichael, who sits at the table’s opposite corner.

But today, just when he turns for that secret peek, she suddenly looks up, catching Pete staring. She smiles, sending Pete’s heart into a flutter, then curls her finger, gesturing him over her way. As if magic were in that call, he finds himself floating around the table’s end, then standing beside her, albeit on wobbly legs.

There, she gazes up at him, her eyes filled with the glow and warmth of the sun and moon.

“I’ve been watching you,” she confesses.

“Would you like to go to a movie?” he asks, his voice shaking.

“Oh, boy, would I ever...”

* *

At their favorite booth, in their favorite restaurant, Pete sits staring at MaryBeth. She seems to know and turns, catching his gaze. She does that little curl with her finger, but, rather than lean over to give her a kiss, he slides around the table and drops to his knee. Taking her hand into his, he soaks in her sunshine eyes.

“Would you marry me?” he asks, his voice shaking.

Her face beams a smile that sends his heart into a flutter. “Oh, boy, would I ever...”

* *

Just home from another long day at work, Pete takes his seat at their tiny dinette table. He’s hungry, and the spaghetti, despite being the third day in row they’ve had it, looks good, but for the moment, he’d rather take in the warmth of MaryBeth’s sunlit eyes. Yet, there’s something different today, as even her face seems aglow.

“Would you like it if I told you you’re going to be a daddy?” she asks, her voice shaking.

“Oh, boy, would I ever...”

* *

Pete answers his phone on the first ring, after all, it’s Lisa, their daughter. As she speaks excitedly, he finds himself, almost as if by magic, floating around their kitchen’s large island and standing beside MaryBeth. Her eyes, though glowing with the warmth of the sun and moon, are filled with curiosity.

“Would you like it if I said that you’re going to be a grandma?” he asks, his voice shaking.

She smiles that smile that makes his heart flutter. “Oh, boy, would I ever...”

* *

Holding hands as they stare at the cake, “50 Years,” iced along the top, Pete turns from the large crowd of family and friends so he can stare instead at MaryBeth. She meets his gaze, her eyes filled with the warmth and glow of the sun and moon, then smiles. It’s then he realizes that even after all these years her smile still causes his heart to flutter.

“Would you do it all over again,” he asks, his voice shaking.

“Oh, boy, would I ever...”

Club Eternity, by Michael Roberts

29/1/2021

So, I remember saying to Tom, the guy in the next cubicle, “I feel a bit hungover, which is strange because I wasn’t drinki…” and then everything went very bright.
I remember hitting the floor and being a bit grossed out because the carpet never seemed to get cleaned properly, Tom saying, “someone call 911” and then…that was it for a few minutes.
Suddenly I’m on a beach somewhere and the sun’s shining and I can hear what sounds like old Gypsy Kings playing over loudspeakers.
The place looks really familiar, but I can’t place it.
Then, out of the corner of my eye, I see a middle aged guy in a yellow Hawaiian shirt and khaki cargo pants coming towards me.
He waves at me and I wave back.
“So, you’re here,” he says with what sounds like a cross between an announcement and pride.
“Yeah,” I say, “Wherever here is…”
“Umm,” he says,” It’s…you know…Heaven…Just like you asked for.”
“Heaven?”
“Yeah, you know,” he says, “The eternal hereafter.”
“Is a tropical resort?”
“Well,” he says, “Obviously it’s different for everyone. This is your idea of heaven.”
“OK,” I say, dubious and still processing it.
“No, but….you said this was your idea of Heaven.”
“Whe…when did I say that?”
“January 25th, 1986…You were back from Christmas Break at Alabama State and Alison Talbot asked you how was your vacation and you said, quote “It was heaven…I wish I could stay there forever….unquote.”
He made a gesture to indicate where we were.
“So, here you go,” he said.
“I didn’t mean it literally….It was a figure of speech.”
“Aww shit,” the guy said, “Seriously?”
“It was hyperbole…I mean I had a great time and all, but here for ETERNITY?”
“Yeah, that’s what we took that statement to mean.”
“We?”
“You know….the sub-angels? The people who arrange the afterlife accommodations?”
“I mean,” I say, “ I appreciate the obvious effort that went into this, but…Can I choose where I can spend the rest of my lif…afterlife? There are a lot of places I’d love to spend eternity.”
“Wow, umm,” the guy said, “ That’s a big logistical thing that I’m not really qualified to answer one way or the other…I mean….where else would you want to go?”
“Uhhh…Grad School in London 1991 was good…The year I was articling for Porter and Levitt was pretty good….New Orleans 1999…I mean N’awlins pre-Katrina? That’d be sweet, am I right? . To be honest, hard to pick one time I’d want to live in eternally. I mean, the whole fun of them was that they were transient, I knew they were just chapters in my life, so carpe diem and all that right? It’d lose all the fun if I knew I had forever to ‘enjoy’ it.”
“You know what?” the guy said, “ I’ll talk to management and see what we can do about an upgrade.”

A Monster by Any Form, by Sankar Chatterjee

29/1/2021

Bruce Jones was born to wealthy parents in the suburb of Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. Growing up, he was always fascinated by the tale of the existence of the Loch Ness monster, called Nessie that reputedly inhabited the water around the Scottish Highlands. Throughout his career in high school Bruce maintained a stellar academic profile. His parents expected that Bruce would be interested in an Ivy League institution like Harvard, Yale or Columbia for his next academic phase. But to their surprise, Bruce announced that he would like to serve his country for a few years before finding his true calling in life. Accordingly, he applied to attend the Naval Academy in Annapolis, Maryland and successfully crossed all the hurdles to get admitted into the storied institution. In the third year of his studies, Bruce had to decide and declare his future interest in the naval operation, whether it be a marine, a jet fighter pilot, or a surface warfare officer (SWO) in a nuclear powered aircraft carrier. He chose to be an SWO on an aircraft carrier patrolling around the world to maintain American supremacy in the global theatre.

On finishing the academic program, Bruce was assigned to the missile-carrier destroyer USS Vincent to patrol along the Mediterranean Sea as a part of the US commitment to maintain peace in Europe. During one such operation when his destroyer was heading towards the Black Sea in north, two Russian jet fighters suddenly appeared in the sky encircling the destroyer, locking the vessel into their firing range. Though emergency sirens began to blare within Bruce’s warship for a possible confrontation, it turned out be a part of a regular harassment by the Russian air force personnel to the American naval forces in the region.

Next year, based on his commanding performance on the destroyer, Bruce was promoted to a Lieutenant level and assigned to the nuclear aircraft carrier USS Lincoln. His first mission was to take part in a joint naval exercise involving other NATO countries, off the coast of Faslane, Scotland. In the dark of the night his naval vessel slowly approached the naval base there. Bruce, through his night-vision goggles, felt spotting his childhood dream creature Nessie, the Loch Ness monster at the distant. Excited, he burst into the vessel’s control room, announcing Nessie’s presence at the horizon. The intelligence-gathering officer in charge smiled and pronounced “That’s no Nessie, but a Russian nuclear submarine, keeping a constant watch on us from underneath the international water.”

When this mission was underway, a change in political leadership had taken place in Washington, DC. As the morning sun began to appear in the eastern sky, Bruce received a wire report from the central command. It detailed about the secret collusion of his country’s newly elected political leadership with the arch enemy of Russian hierarchy in order to be victorious in that recently concluded national election.

Phantom Class, by Don Tassone

29/1/2021

I awoke, as usual, with a gasp.

Moments earlier, I lay half asleep, unsettled, caught up in a dream so familiar, a dream that was not a dream, a dream of something real, something that happened when I was 18 years old and still haunts me today.

#

I had just started college. I was in pre-med, which was a mistake. Somehow, courses were assigned me. Biology, chemistry, calculus and Latin. Classes only two or three times a week. A light load, I thought. After all, in high school, I’d taken more subjects every day.

I quickly learned how wrong I was. Science and math were intense. Most of my classmates seemed so much better prepared than I was. Even Latin, a breeze in high school, was now a stretch. Translate The Iliad? Give me a break.

Yet something was missing. Hadn’t I also signed up for history? I was certain I had. That class was on the second floor of Alter Hall. Or maybe Albers Hall. At any rate, I was sure I had another course, and I was virtually certain it was history.

Soon I was overwhelmed by all that pre-med entailed. I was falling behind in math and science. Only in Latin was I keeping my head above water. And I was on a scholarship that required a B average. Crap.

Still, the idea of missing a class bothered me. Where was that history class again? As I walked the halls that first semester, I imagined slipping quietly into the back of a classroom for a lesson in history, hoping I still might be able to catch up.

#

Somehow I muddled through a year of pre-med. Then I wisely changed my major to journalism.

I signed up for a history course as a sophomore. I liked it. I wondered if it was the course I was supposed to have taken a year earlier.

There was an easy way to find out. I could go to the registrar’s office and request a copy of my transcript. But just thinking about that made me anxious, being forced to remember all the time I’d spent wandering the halls, looking for my elusive history class, hoping I still might find it in time to catch up, to redeem myself.

I couldn’t bring myself to go to the registrar’s office. So I was left to wonder if I had ever really signed up for that class. I was left to dream about a class that I never attended and wake up gasping.

#

Over the decades, I’ve often wondered if there was any truth to that dream.

But it doesn’t matter because I know that, regardless of whether I ever signed up for that history course, there will always be something, some task or expectation, where I’ve fallen short.

Falling short is my greatest fear, and it haunts me in my dreams in the form of a phantom class.

Yard Sale, by Michael Roberts

22/1/2021

“There’s a community yard sale up north today and tomorrow,” Audra tells me from across the breakfast table.
I smile to myself because, to Audra, anything above Highway 7 is ‘up north’, as if you’d suddenly encounter polar bears and penguins once you got past the suburbs and the industrial parks.
“All right,” I say.
“Wanna go check it out?”
It’s that or mow the lawns before my afternoon zoom meeting with my editor, so sure, I ‘wanna go check it out.’
After breakfast, we throw the dishes in the dishwasher and tell the kidling that we’re going out for the morning.
She barely acknowledges us.
Typical for fourteen.
We take my car because Audra’s tired of her car, after driving it all week.
As we drive over the overpass, she looks to check out the highway traffic.
It’s bumper to bumper and there are flashing lights way off in the distance.
“Poor bastards,” she says to no-one in particular, but glad she’s not taking that to work today.
As we descend into the valley, the houses start giving way to farms and stables.
When we first moved here, we looked at a house down one of these side roads.
Coming from a two bedroom apartment in the city, the fifty acres of hay fields that would have come with the house seemed enormously out of our comfort zone.
It was only years later that we found out that they were probably rented out to the neighbours and we wouldn’t have had to do anything.
The ‘Yard Sale’ is being held at the local fairground up there, inside the Arts and Crafts Pavilion.
I’m pretty sure they’ve had a 4H competition or two in there because it smells vaguely of cow patties.
“Pretty rustic,” I say.
We split up to check out the various vendors.
She’s been talking about getting a new coffee table, something “eclectic”.
I’m not looking for anything in particular.
Some one’s selling hot cider, so I grab a paper cup-full for a buck.
It tastes like someone threw cinnamon in apple juice and I look for a discreet place to dump it.
I’m about to turn around and go find Audra when I see it, in between a CD player and a toy turntable.
An old typewriter/word processor.
The same kind I had when Audra and I were first married.
Her first big gift to me, after scrimping and saving her coffee money for most of that year.
The one I wrote the first book of the series on, in that little nook in the apartment, overlooking the alley behind us.
I have no rational need for it now, but I want it.
It’ll go up on the bookshelf, next to my Dad’s old Underwood, which he wrote his newspaper column on and my Grandfather’s ledger book from the store in Scotland.

Audra rolls her eyes when she sees me walking down the aisle with it.
But she smiles.
She knows.
She remembers.

August 13, 1965, by Kim Favors

22/1/2021

“Too damn heavy,” Dad complained, standing in the back of our old red pickup, dragging the secondhand chest of drawers across the tailgate. “You better hope the engine doesn’t overheat or a tire gives out. I’ll dump both of yours crap.”

Jimmy started to snicker but Dad’s nasty glare cut him short.

Once again, Dad had got drunk, lost his job and we were moving. Like before, me and my brother each got two drawers — one for clothes, the other for everything else. Mom used to get two, but she wasn’t with us this time. Now they held Dad’s stuff. And we got to ride up front instead of the back.

I didn’t like sitting next to Jimmy. He elbowed and pinched me. I knew better than to say anything. “You shut up, girl, or I’ll do to you what I did to your mother when she whined too much,” Dad warned.

The last time we moved, we stopped at a gas station after dark, While I was in the restroom, Jimmy pulled out one of my drawers and dumped everything in the trash — diary, stuffed animals and dolls. I didn’t find out until the next afternoon. He laughed when I cried. Mom stroked my hair but said nothing.

That was two years ago. I’m 11 now. Jimmy’s still bigger than me. And Mom’s not here. But I had a plan.

For this trip I hid my diary and the things I cared about most in with my clothes. The second drawer had mostly books — paperback, they weigh less. Jimmy filled his second drawer with knives, games and toy guns.

We finally stopped at a motel off the main highway. Dad liked it because there was a rec hall with pool tables next door. Jimmy went with him. I stayed in our room and watched TV. I finally got snacks from a vending machine in the motel lobby.

“Too bad you didn’t come with us,” Dad said when they got back late in the evening. “We had pizza.” And beer, Jimmy mouthed silently.

“That’s OK, I wasn’t hungry,” I lied.

That night, while I was pretending to be asleep, I heard Jimmy slip out and climb up into the truck. He snuck back in quietly so he probably didn’t figure out what I had done.

****

Megan, writing this as an entry in a diary was a clever idea. However, when I assigned the class “What I Did This Summer,” I wasn’t expecting fiction, which I assume this is. I hope all is well. You’ve missed class now for three days straight.— Your teacher

Dear Mother, by Angela Carlton

22/1/2021

I hope you can find the strength to walk along an endless beach and feel the pull of the turquoise water, the grit of the sand, all that coolness at your toes. I hope you can taste the misty, salt air on your lips, while the sun warms your cheeks and shoulders, your world..

I hope you get to take-in the heartbeat of life, all the children rushing toward the rolling waves laughing, and carrying on, squealing. I hope you lift your head up, and sing again, as the ocean roars to the sound of your voice.

I hope you get to hear the seagulls cry as you watch them rise, rise, rise, to and across the massive sky, flying away with the wind to remind us that we are free.

For now I know, it is the little things.
Yes, one day mother, you and I, we shall be free.

Three Blessings, by Doug Bartlett

22/1/2021

Here I sit waiting for my doctor to enter the room to see me. I had been out of town and experienced a very serious health threat and had to be hospitalized and later placed in rehabilitation.

I have now returned home and will be seeing my family doctor. After examining me and without letting me know that she was concerned I might slip into a deep, dark depression. She wanted me to stay focused on the positive so she prescribed that every night before I fell to sleep I was to think of three things I was grateful for.
My next appointment arrived three months later and she asked how I was doing.

I told her I wasn’t able to think of three things I was grateful for.

She became upset and a tsunami-sized diatribe was quickly headed my way and about to engulf me. That’s when I spoke up.

“ Excuse me, but I am a believer in God and a follower of Jesus Christ. I took your advice of thinking of three blessings in my life but I could not do it. I tried and tried but I could never stop at just three."

When to Say When, by Jim Bartlett

22/1/2021

With an explosive jolt, he bursts up from the depths of nothingness, thrust into a world of thick, murky fog. The engulfing gray quickly steals away his senses, and he’s left adrift, as if somehow he’s lost his anchor to Mother Earth.

He wants to cry out. Not in pain, there is only numbness at the moment, but rather in anguish. Frustration. But he’s not able, as his breath is being forced into his lungs, pushing his voice deep inside.

Where? Why? How? Before he can seek answers, gravity takes hold, and he’s pulled into a freefall. As he descends, he remembers the bike. Racing down the hill. The wind in his face. The sun shining bright. His smile ever so wide. Just as he leans into a winding curve, the beep-beep-beep of a backing truck catches his attention and he tries to swerve.

But he’s going too fast.

There’s a thud as he finds terra firma once again. But nothing more, as the numbness remains.

Yet, somewhere off in the distance the beep-beep-beep of the truck continues, a melodic accompaniment to the slow, steady rhythm of the heavy breathing that seems to fall in sync with the rise and fall of his chest.

He comes to realize his eyes are closed, the gray his own efforts at shading the unwelcome light of reality. He knows it’s time. Time to open them. But a cement-like crust seals them tight. He contorts his face in makeshift “squints” over and over until at last the concrete gives way.

Now, narrow slits. But it’s bright...too bright.

* * *

Dr. Roberts sits across from Mr. And Mrs. Samuelson, his face somber, fingers interlaced. “I know we’ve had this conversation a number of times over the last six months, but, I think, as much as it hurts deep inside your hearts, you two must realize we’re at a juncture where you have to start weighing what’s best for your son. Jasper’s shown no progress since his bike accident, and despite our ongoing efforts, he remains comatose. Having been in an unresponsive state for this long, I fear we’re well past the point where recovery is a probability.”

Tears streaming down her cheeks, her head shaking, Mrs. Samuelson buries her face into her hands. “I...I...I...” She turns to her husband. “What should we do?”

He, too, is crying. “We can’t just leave him on the machines forever. He wouldn’t have wanted that. We wouldn’t want that.” He gasps in a long breath and shifts his gaze to the doctor. “What do you think is best?”

“You, ultimately, have to make that decision, my friends. But I wouldn’t think Jasper would want to live out his existence tied to some machines. I would opt for dignity. I would remove him from the—“

He’s cut off as the door flies open and a nurse, her eyes wide, face flush, rushes in. “So sorry to interrupt, Dr. Roberts, but Jasper Samuelson has just opened his eyes...”

The Ghost of History, by Sankar Chatterjee

22/1/2021

Just before the current pandemic began to overwhelm the nation, Brad Macon, a university student from Pennsylvania was enjoying his two weeks of spring-semester break in sunny Miami Beach, Florida. The town was full of similar students from all over the country. After enjoying a few days of blazing sun, unlimited alcohol, and late-night partying, Brad began to feel bored in his monotonous daily routine. And that’s when he decided to leave the town and make a solo journey through various southern states to get a taste of history, culture, cuisine, and race-relations.

His journey brought him to Metaine, Louisiana. Right in the middle of the Cajun country, the place still maintains its French-Acadian root, reflected in its unique cuisine of gumbo soup, oyster po’-boy sandwich, fried catfish, and boiled crawfish. The elderly hotel-owner suggested to Brad trying out the “Southern Experience”, town’s famous Sunday brunch place with live Zydeco music and active dance-floor.

Next Sunday morning, Brad located the place. The aroma of the Cajun cooking along with the sound of music filled the neighborhood’s atmosphere. Once inside, he noticed all the dining tables were set against the walls, thus creating a dance floor in the middle. On the opposite end of the eatery, there was a performance stage. A local group, appropriately named “Bayou Howlers” was belting out Cajun music accompanied with the sound of guitars, accordions and scraping of a wavy shiny metal piece. The dance floor was packed with locals and several international tourists. While some were dancing alone, a few were continuously changing partners effortlessly.

Brad holding a local cocktail was standing on the perimeter, when a young African-American lady with shiny hair and leopard outfit approached him: “Hi, I’m Monique. Come, dance with me.”

“Not good at it,” replied Brad.

The beauty was persistent: “I’ll teach you.”

She gently grabbed him and began to give him lessons to the rhythm of the energetic music. Soon Brad found his groove and lost into a pleasant happiness amidst all these strangers.

Suddenly there was a commotion, outside. An African-American youth ran inside the place screaming repeatedly “They’re killing us again.” Music and dance halted, a hush silence descended, and the bartender turned on the local channel of the TV on the wall. A “Breaking News” appeared on the screen. A Sunday morning mass in a predominant African-American church was taking place in Hahnville, a few miles away. Somebody heard a knock on the door. A white youth wanted to join the ongoing prayer. The priest brought him in, placing in the front pew. He listened to the sermon for a few moments, stood up and pulled out a loaded-gun firing mercilessly, while shouting racial slurs, recently propagated by country’s governing strongman. The pastor jumped from his pulpit wrestling out his gun, while taking the last bullet. Thirty parishioners, including several children lay down motionless.

Brad hugged Monique. Tear drops were already rolling down her eyes.

Sidewalk, by Michael Roberts

15/1/2021

They were just wheeling him out out of the home when me and Luis came up.
“See that?” Luis said, pointing to the gurney, “the old guy’s dead.”
“How you know?”
“See how he’s all bundled up? They don’t want to actually do the sheet over the face thing, right? Scares everyone else in the old folks home, makes them wonder if they’re next…But you also don’t want people looking at a stiff, cause that’s like some depressing shit as well, right? So, they do that wrapped up tight shit. Like you just cold. But you ain’t. You just dead.”
“How you know that?”
“That’s what they did with the guy on the top floor of my apartment…Wrapped him up like that…Had to take him down those front stairs too. You could hear it too. THUMP THUMP THUMP…Then they’d stop to get him turned around on the landing and then they’d start again…..THUMP THUMP THUMP. Pretty eerie, man, listening to that and knowing that’s the sound of a dead guy getting carted off.”
“So, what happened to the guy?”
“What do you mean?” Luis said, although it came out more like “Wha-dya-mean?”
“The dead guy in your building…What happened to him?”
“Howd’fukIknow?,” Luis said, “they probably carted him off to East Mercy and then out to the funeral parlour and then they stuck him in the ground somewhere and covered him up.”
“Maybe they cremated him.”
“Maybe they stuffed him and put him over someone’s fireplace for all I know.”
I got a picture of that in my head and started me laughing.
“All I know,” Luis said, “ is one day the guy’s thumping down the stars and a few days later his kids I think musta went and emptied out his apartment, because the dumpsters out back were suddenly full of old furniture and lamps and shit. Then the Super paid my brother and my cousin a hundred bucks to re-paint the place and now some Rasta and his girlfriend live there.”

I couldn’t get to sleep and I was thinking about this guy and how he ended up.
I’d been dragged to my Gramma’s old folks home enough times to know how depressing they were.
Just a bunch of old sad people in diapers, all in this strange sort of holding pattern there until they died or whatever.
And I was thinking that the old guy wasn’t always old.
At one point he was like me, some dumb kid in the ninth grade.
Then, like that guy said in the poem we were studying, ‘way leads onto way’.
And one day he was that old man in that stinky old folks home.
And I wondered if that was the kind of place where I’d end up, at the other side of my life.
And thought about all the stuff, cool stuff and not cool stuff, that was going to happen to me before then.
And then I finally slept.

Advice Column, by Susan Fairfax Reid

15/1/2021

ADVICE COLUMN

Dear Alice,

My husband is a very smart man. He got grants to go to graduate school. He reads and watches the news. He knows what is going on. He is not an anti-masker. He is a Covid-19 risk-taker.

He buys vintage cars. He and his friend work close together in our garage, rebuilding them to sell.

Race car driving is another one of his pastimes. He loves speeding along the track in his black Monte Carlo, wearing a helmet with a face shield and a fire suit, pretending he is a NASCAR driver.

Like a lot of people, his macho friends who are at the track and in the garage with him don't think masks are necessary.

We bought a recreational vehicle. I cleaned and sanitized this little home on wheels. I was excited about our planned day trip to a beach about two-hours away. Other than Heubeck, Home Depot, and a couple other stores, we haven't travelled from our ranch in Texas since the pandemic began.

The plan to go to Corpus Christi ended fast when my husband told me three of his friends would be joining us. Two of them have girlfriends and wives who have or had Covid 19. "Are you crazy," I screamed? "They could be spreaders, and we could die.

"You can keep that RV as your play toy. I'm not getting into it. You can clean it too. And, since you insist on allowing these friends around you, you can move your belongings into the guest bedroom."

Mumbling to himself, he resentfully stuffed his clothes and hygiene products into a duffel bag and lugged it upstairs like a little boy being put in the corner of the classroom.

I can't understand why he doesn't understand this novel virus is very contagious and that he's jeopardizing our health. We both have comorbidities. I have high blood pressure and asthma. He has a stent in his heart and diabetes. What would you suggest I do to protect us?

Debbie

Dear Debbie,

If your husband continues his perilous behavior in the garage, on the race track, and in the RV, I think both of you should get tested for Covid 19.

Then you should quarantine separately until the results come back. Stay in the house, and ask him to move into the RV. You can put his food outside of it.

If he stops associating with his friends, and you both test negative after quarantining, I would invite him back into the house and bedroom. After the brief separation, you could create a dating ambience by putting candles on the dinner table and playing his favorite music in the background.

He can stay in touch with his friends by phone, gmail, and zoom.

If he doesn't give up his risk-taking behavior of prolonged contact with anti-maskers, leave him in the RV until both of you are vaccinated and his friends start wearing masks.

Alice on Advice

Syndicated by SFR, Inc., ©2021

The Attendant, by Doug Bartlett

15/1/2021

The woman pulled into a full -service gas station ( remember this is fiction).

The attendant began filling her tank with gas and checked her engine fluids. They struck up a conversation while he worked.

“ I’ve just moved to this area. What are the people like around here?” she asked.

“Well, what are the people like where you are from?”

“ Oh, they’re very nice and pleasant.”

“ That’s the way you’ll find them around here also.”

“ Oh, that is so good to know. Thank you sir.”

She left and ten minutes later another woman came in with the same routine.

“ I’ve just moved here and I was wondering what the people are like,” she asked as the attendant was cleaning her windshield.

“ Well, what are they like from where you moved from?”

“ Oh, I’m afraid they’re not very nice. They’re rude and obnoxious.”

“ I’m afraid you will find that they are that way around here too.”

“ Oh, that’s what I was afraid of?”

What's in a Name? by Gordon Lawrie

15/1/2021

Recently, my new personal assistant, turned up for her first day working with me. We'd simply been allocated to each other by HR; previously, she'd been working on a different floor. She said her name was Karen. Nothing else. I introduced myself.

"Yes, Mr Lawrie, I know," she said. Except that she called me 'Mr Lowrie', not 'Mr Lawrie'. I hate that, and I corrected her.

"Oh sorry, Mr Lowrie, I'll try to remember" In the course of the next five minutes, she called me 'Mr Lowrie' seven times.

"Karen," I said finally, "please get it right. My name rhymes with 'sorry', not with 'How now brown cow.'"

"Oh," she said, "sorry, Mr Lowrie."

She continued to mispronounce my name as 'Mr Lowrie' for a further two hours, but good managers don't execute their workers. Remarkably, she survived all the way to the end of the day.

As she got up to leave, I casually asked her what her own surname was.

"Oh, it's Karen Law – you know, as in 'against the law'?"

I waited until she had closed the door and assumed she'd set off down the corridor before I screamed.

Suddenly, Karen reappeared through the door, looking extremely anxious.

"Mr Lowrie, I heard you scream – are you OK?"

I buried my head in my hands and asked Karen to leave as soon as possible.

Karen didn't budge. "I'm sorry, Mr Lowrie. Was it something I said?"

The Touch of a Stranger, by Mary Wallace

15/1/2021

There was a faint lightening of the sky signalling the end of night, but not of nightmares. Sunrise did little to disturb the grey clouds or the fingers of mist that unfurled over the now silent battlefield.The snow, once white, held a pink tinge not painted by any dawn.
Bodies, clad in uniforms both green and black, having bled their life essence to colour their surroundings, lay still, stiffening in the snow. Frank, wounded but not yet dead, could picture the carnage. It was the silence that he felt the most. The guns finally quietened; the softly falling snow deadening the sound of footsteps. Frank lay still, knowing he would soon be among the dead.
He was unable to turn his head to see his nearest neighbour, so he lay not knowing if he would die with friend or foe. It didn’t matter. They were all men of honour; young men filled with the adrenaline of youth, their signatures given in a wave of patriotism.
Frank chose not to call out to those silent footsteps. He was too wounded to last as a prisoner and he had no desire to feel a bayonet in his chest. He was tired, but he was not in pain although he could recall the machine gun bullets entering his legs. Frank lay as if dead. If the enemy found him, there would be pain; If his comrades found him he would be a patient for months, and a burden for life. The bayonet would be the quicker choice.
His hand slowly inched towards a vestige of warmth, whoever lay beside him was not yet dead. Their fingers locked and lay still. Perhaps it was an enemy who would share his final moments. Visions of two bicycle riders struggling through bombed out streets, to deliver death notices floated through his mind. Would their parents open the telegrams with stoicism, having expected the news each day since they had enlisted, or would grief and despair rise from both sides of the channel? He wished he could tell them that their sons weren’t alone at the end. That they had comforted each other.
The strangers fingers relaxed their grip, taking the last vestige of warmth and leaving Frank bereft. He closed his eyes once more against the pink glow. Images of childhood and the touch of a stranger, were enough to lead him gently to the other side.

Mustapha Somebody to Love, by Linda Hibbin

8/1/2021

Baa-bra had fallen headlong in love with Baa-ron before she saw him for what he was. The great pretender.
She watches the man on the prowl, calling all the girls, even the fat bottomed girls. ‘I only wanted ewe to love me like there’s no tomorrow,’ she sighs as Baa-ron circles the flock, homing in on another innocent. She can tell by his body language he is wooing her with words she wants to hear. ‘I need your loving tonight.’ ‘I was born to love ewe.’ ‘Ewe are the love of my life.’
Liar.
She waits for the hammer to fall. There it goes. Another one bites the dust. In a flash, Baa-ron drags his conquest into the seven seas of rhye. In a short time, she will emerge, dishevelled, smelling earthy, ears of rye threaded through her wool, tainted with scandal. It’s a hard life.
‘You don’t fool me,’ Baa-bra thinks. ‘I won’t play the game any longer, even though I’m going slightly mad with jealousy.’ She wanders away, head down, blinded by tears. ‘I’m better off living on my own.’
She collides with softness and looks up into smiling brown eyes. Baa-rry, the black sheep. Not a reprobate but a misunderstood creature. Cast out because he is different. He survived, however. He kept a low profile, became the invisible man. Such staying power. Admirable.
‘Save me. I want to break free,’ Baa-bra bleats, reaching out.
Baa-rry offers her some kind of magic. ‘I want no-one but ewe.’
He whispers sweet nothings in her ear with none of Baa-ron’s innuendoes. She knows he will never put her under pressure. Baa-rry believes in that crazy little thing called love.
‘The show must go on,’ Baa-bra thinks.

Obsessed, by Candace Arthuria Williams

8/1/2021

Leave me alone. Get out of my life. I don’t want you anymore. Why must you torture me?

I am lying. I have tried to live without you. But the others couldn’t compare. I am weak in your presence. Full of shame. Without control. When you are gone, I live on the possibility of your return. I am addicted. Drunk with expectation. How can I go on without you? Please, don’t ever leave me.

I can’t allow anyone to see me like this. How can they understand what you do to me? Every time you thrill me, I long for the next time. Without pride, I beg you to stay. You’re the worst thing that’s ever happened to me.

But I have no strength to fight. I am a helpless harlot. And so, I give in to temptation, overwhelming desire. My secret is laid bare. I love you. The very scent of you makes me quiver. Turkey wings smothered in gravy, cornbread stuffing, macaroni and cheese. Candied yams. Collard greens. Potato salad. Take me. I am yours. Then please….get out of my house.

But don’t forget your key.

In heartfelt appreciation of Southern Cuisine.

The Value of Each Life, by Sankar Chatterjee

8/1/2021

Mr. Edgar Killen, a young sawmill owner as well as a part-time Baptist preacher in small Churches in rural Mississippi, also clandestinely belonged to the local section of the violent KKK-gang of white supremacists. In the summer of 1964, Mr. Killen would learn about three youths, two white and one African-American organizing voter-registration drive among poor African-American farmers in the area. He brought it to the attention of the local sheriff and a fellow closeted KKK-member. One evening in mid-June, the sheriff called Mr. Killen to inform that he had detained the youths that afternoon for allegedly violating traffic rules and was about to release them from the police station. Mr. Killen passed the information to fellow KKK-members, while supposedly heading towards a funeral home to attend a wake, more likely to create an alibi. The youths were never seen again.

Six weeks later, after an intense search by the federal authority, the bullet-ridden bodies of the youths buried under an earthen dam would be located. The case galvanized the country. At the trial, one confessed avoiding jail-term, seven were convicted (but none served than more than six years) and eight would be acquitted, Mr. Killen being one of them. One lone dissenter from an all-white jury had famously proclaimed that she did not believe that a “Man of God” could participate in such a crime! The case lingered on country’s conscience for four decades, when it was reopened based on new evidence and re-analysis of old testimony. In a re-trial, the presiding judge finding Mr. Killen guilty imposed a sentence of a total of sixty years, twenty years for each victim, while opining that each life has value. To the judge, it did not matter that by now Mr. Killen had become an old fragile gentleman.

Recently, the country has been reeling from fresh waves of racism and bigotry from higher levels of leadership including the strongman himself. Ironically, soon an annual remembrance day in the memory of the slain civil rights leader Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. will come on January 18th. He was also assassinated by another white supremacist Mr. James Earl Ray. Rev. King famously reminded us: “In the end, we will remember not the words of our enemies, but the silence of our friends.”

At the end, Mr. Edgar Killen drew his last breath in a prison cell in Mississippi. He was 92 years old.

The Green Fairy, by Andrew Carter

8/1/2021

“There’s two stiff drinkers fertilizing the olive grove,” says Sallow.

Sallow knew imbibing in his own product was foolish. Absinthe is a potent mix of wormwood, hyssop, lemon balm and aniseed macerated in alcohol. Bohemians and creatives named it, The Green Fairy. In the early twentieth century, absinthe was banned in America after reports found it had psychedelic properties that led to violence.

“What for?” says Cash.

Sallow pours him another. “They were sniffing around for free product.” Sallow spits.

A few more swills, then Cash’s tongue flops out of the side of his mouth. He looks like a tired puppy. His eyes bulge, and an explosion of excrement soils his pants. His lifeless body slumps forward. .
---
Eva raps on Sallow’s door. “Hey, Sallow. It’s me, Eva. Is my husband around?”

Sallow’s gunmetal eyes peek through the peephole. His mouth breaks into a rictus grin. He opens the door.

“He’s not here,” sneers Sallow.

Eva lowers her voice. “Oh, I see.”

Sallow offers her a drink. She slowly nods. He fetches a bottle of absinthe.

“Say, that’s a strange place to keep..."

“La Fe`e Verte… The Green Fairy. I keep it for special occasions.”

Sallow’s hands tremble as he measures shots into Tarragona glasses. He pours water over a sugar cube resting on a flat slotted spoon. The contents turn from natural green to opalescent white.

Sallow gestures towards a cream chaise lounge. A dusty painting of Camellias hangs crooked against paint-blistered wall. He hands her a glass.

“How sweet.” Eva smiles. “And, an afterglow of herbal aroma.”

“Doubles.” Sallow adds.

“Sounds wild,” Eva teases. “Do you often have friends over?” she inquires.

Sallow smiles inward.

“Rarely. Some appear, for various reasons. And some remain underground.”

“Ahh… absinthe makes the heart grow fonder.” She twirls her hair like a schoolgirl.

If she keeps wringing her hair, I’ll hang her from the chandeliers, Sallow muses.

… ever married?” Her dark eyelashes flutter like butterfly wings.

“My ex tried to poison me forty years ago. I don’t know why… I was busy poisoning myself.”

She jiggles her empty glass. Sallow pours.
.

“Thanks, you are so kind.” Eva’s voice scales the walls. She slips off her shoes.

Sallow remembers a similar tone, years before.

“And yourself, Eva. Ever married?” Sallow inquires.

“Oh, my shex-husband was alcoholic. The current one is, shoo. The firsh was dirty rish.”

Sallow envisages a coat hanger around her neck.

They stare at the fireplace. Sallow goes to the kitchen and pours her The Extra Green Fairy, and himself, The Green Fairy.

He returns and hands her a glass. “There you go.”

Sallow stokes the fire. He hears the clink of a glass and catches a blurred motion of Eva’s hands in his peripherals. He hesitates before returning the stoker to its holder. He sits then takes a deep slug.

“So, you’ve been married twice.” Sallow affirms.

“Yes, twice. It’s me, Evonne.”

Sallow’s jaundiced face shrivels with recognition. He collapses before he can reach the stoker.

Two Cheerios and a Corn Flake, by Janice Siderius

8/1/2021

“Good morning, sweetheart. Today it is our turn to leave home. Are you ready to go?” Mr. Honey-nut asked.

“As ready as I’ll ever be. Do you think there will be any pain?” Mrs. Honey-nut queried.

“Not at first. Remember what it was like when we moved here? Kind of fun on the slide, wasn’t it? It will be like that.”

“OK. I guess I’m ready.”

Suddenly the house began to shake. Mr. and Mrs. Honey-nut held hands as they began their final journey. They swiftly descended until they were flying through the air. Suddenly they plopped into a liquid.

“Whew. That wasn’t so bad was it?” Mr. Honey-nut asked.

“I guess not. But look over there. What is that strange looking morsel? It doesn’t look like us. I haven’t seen anything like it.”

Mr. Honey-nut peered across the bowl. “Neither have I, but my guess would be it is some sort of flake. Maybe we should swim over there; we could learn more.”

“Are you sure we should? Flakes have a bad reputation. I mean, what if a flake is dangerous? Or maybe we won’t understand it?” Mrs. Honey-nut worried.

“Maybe you’re right. I think we should just stay here with our cheerios.”

The bowl began to vibrate; Mr. and Mrs. Honey-nut held each other tightly. A large metal object scooped them up, along with other cheerios and the flake. There was panic all around them. As the spoon dropped Mr. and Mrs. Honey-nut in the boy’s mouth, Mr. Honey-nut said, “I guess all of us end up in the same place in the end, whether we are cheerios or flakes.”

Unfinished Business, by Don Tassone

8/1/2021

His accomplishments as CEO were unparalleled, yet his business was unfinished.

As a boy, he’d nearly drowned in a river near his home. Since then, he’d been terrified of the water.

Now he drove to his hometown and went down to the river. He stood on the bank and looked out at the spot where foam-lipped eddies had pulled him under, the spot whose memory had haunted him all these years, the source of his greatest fear.

He had come back to face it. Looking at it now, he realized how small and tame it really was. He realized he had let this one little spot deprive him of so much.

The river looked so beautiful to him. He had never really seen a river.

He sat down on a big rock, took off his shoes and socks and rolled up his pant legs. Then he got up and slowly waded in.

Chums, by Phyllis Souza

8/1/2021

Pee-Wee had freckles sprinkled over his nose and wore his hair in a flat top. He was quick. He was smart.

Dakota, tall and friendly, could sit in a chair and wrap his legs behind his neck. He made the kids in his class laugh.

Pee-Wee and Dakota were chums.

Their seventh-grade teacher, Miss Hatchet, wore horn-rimmed glasses and she had a braid coiled on top of her head.

One day, when Miss Hatchet was writing a sentence, conjugating the verb shoot on the blackboard, Pee-Wee stood at the left side of his desk, lined up his slingshot, and fired.

Miss Hatchet clutched her posterior and turned. Squinting she yelled, "Who did that?"

She grabbed a ruler off her desk. Smacking it onto her palm, looking this way and that, she marched down the middle aisle. Her wide nostrils flared. Miss Hatchet would sniff out the culprit.

Pee-Wee slumped in his seat. Hiding his guilt behind the pages of a book he pretended to read. After all, she gave him an "F" in English, hadn’t she?

Maybe because Pee-Wee was a wealthy farmer's son, Miss Hatchet passed him by. She zeroed in on Dakota, a poor double-jointed Indian boy. "Did you shoot that spit wad?"

"I… I didn't do it." Dakota's dark eyes stared into Miss Hatchet's magnified ones.

What did Dakota do? He faked a grin-full of crooked teeth.

Pee-Wee hated Miss Hatchet, she was mean.

So, he imagined himself as a superhero. He drank a cup of courage. And he grew. But Miss Hatchet, like a ball of wool, washed in hot water, shrunk.

His eyes turned into lasers and cracked her magnified lenses. Miss Hatchet's pupils became specks in the center of a web.

Feathered, in full Indian gear, Dakota flew like an eagle. He landed atop of Miss Hatchet and pecked. The twisted hair pinned on her head made a perfect nest.

As visions of triumph faded, Pee returned the scene in front of him.

He watched Miss Hatchet grab Dakota and jerk him out of his seat.
Dakota's arms went limp at his sides. When Miss Hatchet raised her hand and was about to slap Dakota on the face; Pee-Wee stood, took out the slingshot stuffed in the back pocket of his jeans.

Straight as an arrow, he aimed. He pulled back on the elastic band. "Stop! Let go of my friend.”

Miss Hatchet dropped to the floor. It’s justice.

Love One Another, by Doug Bartlett

8/1/2021

John sat in a darkened room as he waited for his escort to arrive. He reminisced back to a period of time when he was younger, much younger, over half a century younger.John sat there thinking of all he had been privileged to experience in his lifetime. He was the youngest of the original followers of Jesus Christ. He felt honored and blessed because of that.

However, sometimes he felt guilty because all the other apostles, his friends, had been martyred, dying a violent death. He was now in his eighties and was the last surviving apostle. He knew how important it was to continue to share with others the lessons he had learned from Jesus.

A group of people that shared the island of Patmos with John realized how significant it was to sit under John’s tutelage. They knew he was the last living apostle and no telling how much longer he would be around. Jesus loved all his apostles but for some reason John got the reputation of being called the “apostle Jesus loved".

The people were honored to have John speak at their meetings. They were followers of Jesus and to think of having John, an original apostle, in their midst. Someone who personally saw Jesus, talked with him, ate with him, lived with him and saw miraculous signs performed by him was almost unbelievable for them to take in.

John’s escort arrived and as they departed they struck up a conversation as they walked to the meeting.

“You know John, we all appreciate you and the relationship you have with our Lord, but we’ve noticed all you talk about, week after week, is loving each other. Do you think you could move on to something else?”

“I’d love to. As soon as you guys get it and start putting it into practice, I’ll be glad to move on.”

Here it is two-thousand years later and we still haven’t “gotten it”.

“This is my command, love one another.” John 15:17

Come Home, by Barbara Wheatley

8/1/2021

That’s where Dad sat. In the re-upholstered armchair, in semi-darkness, by the windows. Crosswords left attempted with a rubber-topped pencil alongside a tube of sweets instead of cigarettes. He kept many stories, much knowledge in his head.

Mum could be found in a mist of cooking smells that enveloped us, and infused the walls as soon as you walked in. Or she’d be bent over, head down and heavy - fabric at the ready, feeding the sewing machine.

The oh-so-small, magical garden had enough space for a butterfly to land, a spider to weave its web, ants to crawl through cracks, for a hedgehog to cross the grass. And Mother Bird to throw her chick out of the nest.

What goings-on must we have inherited in our terraced house, before making our own?

Everything finds a home. Letters posted through the letterbox. Litter in the bin. And illness, the greatest intruder of all, always finds a way.

Here, the stairs lead down the narrow corridor, but it’s where music plays loudly and you can dance quietly.

The Shamrock Family Moves, by Susan Reid

8/1/2021

I am the caretaker and guardian of the Shamrock family, jobs I relish and have been doing for more years than a queen honey bee lives. Because the Shamrocks have outgrown their round, green plastic-sided home, I decided it was time for the family to move to a larger house, a brick-colored mansion. They were too close together in the cramped home, didn't get enough light, and were dominated by the older family members who hindered their growth.

I worried that the move might be too stressful for the Shamrocks because they are sensitive to wind, temperature, and light. Knowing I would cry and blame myself if the vulnerable babies or the grandparents got sick or died, I continued to pursue the moving plan with a mixture of determination and fear.

Because of the Shamrocks sensibility, I could not let them know my heart was palpitating and I felt shaky. So, in a calm, quiet voice, I said, "You're moving to your new home today. Because it's a mansion, you'll have five times more room than you do now."

"Why are we moving," Emerald Shamrock, a teenager, asked?
"We need more room," I replied. "You and your sister need your own space, so you won't be crammed together in a small area. "Cool," said Emerald. "Will Pinky be nearby?" "She'll be next to you," I answered. Her sister got that nickname because she hides her fuchsia coloring under green clothing. And your brothers, the toddlers, and babies need more room too.

"Are the flowers moving with us," asked Grandmother Shamrock? Some of her color had faded to a yellow, and she had brown spots from age. "They have been part of this family since my husband and I started it." "Of course, the white flowers will move," I said. "I wouldn't leave them anymore than I would leave you."

The mansion was waiting for all of them, with fresh potting mix smelling of pine. I tapped the old, torn green sides of their house on a piece of furniture, spilling the Shamrock family onto the floor. Picking it up, I placed the family, roots and old soil, into the brick-colored planter, Then with my hands, I scooped more of the soft chocolate-colored soil from a two-foot yellow plastic bag and patted it around the Shamrocks. My hands smelled like Pine Sol. The thirsty family quickly drank the water I poured into their mansion.

For the rest of the day, the family members closed their three green and fuschia leaves to adjust to their new home. I opened a bottle of burgundy and ordered a pizza. No cooking for me today.

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