Blog Archives

The Tricks We Use To Fix It, by Steven Holding

27/1/2023

They grew where we buried the truth; fertile lies, her crocodile tears, nurturing deep-rooted resentments. Shaped by jaded prejudice: a topiary of you trees.
Sheltering beneath their shade, seeking relief in amongst such resplendent foliage, each examined fronds venation spells out a guilty name. Another story told, a masterplan mapped out, unfolding within the intricate display of veins. Whispered curses passing through capillaries; a terrible infection spreading out in all directions as a person’s pain and poison is made manifest.
Have you ever seen such a collection of never greens?
Inconsumable to man or animal, it’s clearly understood that such diseased wood is of no-good use, fit for only one singular purpose. It takes a clear and functioning mind, sharper than yours, mine, or the rusted axes we all choose to grind, to chop and cut such a sickening, diseased copse down to a manageable size. Then, and only then, is the tainted timber finally free to be utilised appropriately.
Carve those sticks!
Make a giant crucifix!
And, as impossible as it seems, impale oneself upon the twisted thorns, hammering nails into your palms, arms and fingers until such alarming self-harm, such frightening self-sacrifice, justifies an existence spent begging absent fathers for pardons to unforgivable sins.
Each feeble limb, each branch, and the chance it may finally bring; my warm blood is in its sap, your blood is in the morning dew.
It was then that I knew. It’s not just a you tree.
It’s a me tree too.

Scandal, by Angela Carlton

27/1/2023

When you showed up at my doorstep, the sun was high in the sky. Your grey eyes were bright, shining. It had been 17 months and three days since I’d seen you. You stood there for a moment waiting for the right words before you said, “Can I come in?”

We sat in the sunroom for a while, you and I, and you spoke of your travels. You worked long days remodeling houses but the job was satisfying. When you asked about my divorce, I didn’t mention the cheating scandal, instead, I said, “My Ex is in rehab. Everything fell apart so he’s trying to pick up the pieces.” Your sharp eyes seemed to run all over me then and I found myself looking away to the birdbath focusing on the red cardinal lingering there.

A sense of regret soon followed. I wanted to tell you that I was wrong, the path I chose was rocky. I wanted to tell you that I shouldn’t have let you slip away but a lump formed in my throat, and my eyes became misty so I floated into the kitchen for a fat glass of tea as I fumbled for the vodka.

We drank for a while in the cozy nook until the room seemed too warm, tight. I needed some space. I needed air.

So we walked. We walked on, down by the magnificent waterfall. A group of crows cried out, as flashes of lightning burst between the clouds above us. When the air shifted and the rain fell down-down, like teardrops. It washed all over me.

Masks, by J. Iner Souster

27/1/2023

He wore masks created from the bones of the dead, sent into exile on an island built from hand-carved stones and blocks. The water was surprisingly impossible to pass, as a river ran on both sides.

There was never a cloud in the sky, and the inhabitants were usually smiling and dressed in vivid colours—lots of reds, greens, blues, and yellows.

Snow lay to the east of the island. To the west was the land he came from, but his memories were spotty at best. He has flashes of interiority and thoughts of massive towers interconnected in a mind-boggling and ever-changing maze. The place was very theatrical—the theatre of the absurd. Art, film, sculpture and plays were the norms.

One of the most striking things he remembers is a stop-motion film about a man who wanted to leave this place. The young man, no older than twenty-five, was on a soundstage, and the backdrop was a bustling urban street. He stood in front of the gathering and tried to explain his reasons for leaving, but they did not understand what he was saying.

People on the street became enraged as the man turned to leave after his monologue. There was no comprehension; it was as if he were speaking in a language they had long since forgotten. Are they the players, the spectators, or perhaps a little of both? They were not making it past three steps when the crowd turned.

Everything in this scene, including the young man, was composed of Post-it notes—an entire world arranged into coloured squares. With jagged transitions between frames, the scene played out in stop-motion. As he turned to leave, the enraged crowd set him ablaze.

The man watched as the yellow notes on his head and shoulders slowly turned oranges and reds, then, as they engulfed him, browns and greys, each grain fluttering away in the afternoon breeze, getting lost in a blue sky of perfectly aligned squares.

He kept walking, without sound or complaint, as the notes he was composed of flapping in the wind, one by one, making their way toward the sky. He seemed content, and the last of him fluttered away.

Broken, by Sandra James

27/1/2023

He made a desperate grab to try and catch it but it crashed to the floor in a dozens of pieces.

He opened his mouth but I cut him off.

‘How could you be so careless? That plate belonged to my mother.’

I stormed from the room, slamming the door. Hard.

I walked for an hour, my anger slowly ebbing but we didn’t speak when I returned. We ate dinner in silence. Watched television in silence. Turned to our respective sides of the bed… in silence.

We spoke only in polite, stilted sentences for the rest of the week.

On Friday, when I returned from work he led me into the garden and pointed to a beautiful mosaic birdbath.

‘Mum would have loved it,’ I whispered, fingering the pieces of the plate careful positioned over the shallow bowl.

The old chipped plate had long been an accident waiting to happen, balanced precariously on the mantelpiece. Now it was part of a work of art and so much better than before.

I slipped my hand into his and looked into his eyes. No words necessary. He understood and, like the plate, we were stronger and better for the incident.

A small bird flew down from a nearby tree and perched on the edge.

Mum adored birds.

The Day Off, by Padmini Krishnan

27/1/2023

Lola did not notice that her clothes were mismatched; she crumpled her red lingerie, her mouth twisting with distaste. She slowly strolled out of the palatial ‘prison’.

‘Wait!’ Leena ran to her. With her shiny eyes and glowing skin, Leena looked more like a high school student. All she needed was a school bag and a uniform to look like one. Lola stood still for a moment as if undecided on where to go. She was already in her thirties. Within a few years, customers would probably find her undesirable.

‘’Hey, what happened?’’ Leena laughed with youthful zeal, ‘’Shall we go to the town fair?’’

Lola smiled back, ‘’Of course. Come on.’’

The dusty streets were a relief from the perfumed, air-conditioned rooms. The scent of petrichor intertwined with the smoke from huge, flat-tired bikes made Lola feel ‘normal’. She wished she was one of those women seated in the passenger seat, leaning on the guy in the front, infusing warmth and responsibility into his recklessness.

Leena skipped as they neared the fair.

‘’Bro, show me those red bangles.’’ Leena pointed to the neatly stacked red bangles in a cosmetics stall. To them, every man was a bro in the daytime.

‘’Sheila,’’ a voice called out. Leena turned sharply around and stared at a little girl running to her mother.

‘’My name was Sheila, you know before I was sold to Dojak,’’ Leena whispered in a childlike voice. Then, within a second, the expression was gone.

‘’Come on, let us go on the Ferris Wheel.'’ They stood in the queue, which comprised mostly of children. By the time they reached the counter, there was only one ticket left.

‘’You go on.’’ insisted Leena, pointing to an empty place in the three-seater.

Lola slipped onto her seat. A young woman wearing red bangles sat near her. She stared covertly at the guy beside her; her face was almost the same color as her bangles.

They are probably newly married, thought Lola.

Lola’s eyes locked with the man’s eyes. He turned away, shocked. Lola looked on, half-amused and half-scornful. Oh yes, she remembered customers. He had come to her a couple of weeks ago. To practice? She did not know.

She glanced around. Dojak was walking around with a woman and two children. Dojak, the man who should have been in jail now. His wife laughed at something he said while his children skipped along happily.

Lola looked desperately around for her friend. Leena seemed oblivious to everything, holding colorful balloons and bantering with some sweet seller.

Lola blinked and turned her face towards the sky as the Ferris wheel moved slowly. She would not think about anything else; this was her day off. She inhaled the salty air, her lips twitching. She wondered if her smile looked as innocent as Dojak’s children's or as naïve as the woman next to her. The Ferris wheel took speed, leaving the ground far behind.

Truths, by Pamela Kennedy

27/1/2023

There were so many layers of lies that the truth could never be told because the truth was an enigma. The mystery which surrounded my mother’s actions baffled authorities as well as myself.

Years ago, I was told that my father, a successful, kind, and generous man, never returned from an adventure trip. “It was assumed he was killed by a bear during his outing in the Rockies. His body was never found.” My birth certificate recorded my father as “unknown”.

Growing up, Mom always had “prestigious” employment…being a cleaning woman in small neighborhood offices wouldn’t exactly be prestigious in most people’s eyes, but she always kept a roof over my head, clothes on my back, and good food on the table.

She had “dates” on weekends. On occasion after those dates, she would treat me to a new book, or a movie, and sometimes a new outfit. It was close to my high school graduation that Skip Malone in front of various classmates called my mother a trampy toilet bowl cleaner. “Don’t worry about what he said…he doesn’t know the truth. The truth is…,” Mom had paused for a few moments and then simply stated, “I love you, my little angel.”

Arriving home one evening, I found Mom in the process of cleaning out her closet and bureau. “Can’t get new unless you weed out the old,” she quipped. Even the tightly taped box kept on the top closet shelf was gone. I was always curious about what was in that box but I never dared disturb its wrapping.

Slowly over several weeks Mom made adjustments to her appearance. A new hairstyle, makeup and clothes did wonders. New found confidence I thought. She explained,
“Abby Gibson, my dear daughter, sometimes a change helps you see things so much better.”

***
Marcia Gibson, traveling as Misty Jones, crossed over two state lines to see Stephan Edwards, a star quarterback, practice for the upcoming season. He so much resembled his father. As she approached him in the parking lot, she calmly spoke, “ I knew your father when he was young. You have a half sister whom you’ll never know because she had never known her father.” Then…One shot to his heart, one shot to his head, and finally one shot to her temple. The cause for Stephan Edwards’ murder remained a mystery as there was no identification found on the perp’s body. The gun used was a German WWII trophy pistol.

***
After two days of not hearing from Mom, I took her note to the Police to file a Missing Persons Report. The note only said, “Gone to help my dying Uncle Stephan. Love you always,now and forever. Mom”

I had never heard anything about an Uncle Stephan. To this day he remains unknown to me. And I never again heard from my Mom. Perhaps she, too, was killed by a bear. The only truth I know for certain is that my Mom loved me.

If Only For A Moment, by J. Iner Souster

20/1/2023

The art of memory is the greatest secret of all time. We stand with our eyes closed, trying to make sense of a past that seems foreign. The stories we tell ourselves about how things were then, as they are now: are the things that help us live through life's difficulties and triumphs, a source of meaning in our lives today. In some cases, still seemingly incomprehensible.

I said I'd be glad to accompany him into that space if he could show me how, and we went together, roaming around that great emptiness. It's simply there, floating in the void, and never changes. The colours are the same, it is always dark, it is always silent, and it never moves.

"Is it alive?" I asked, diverting my gaze from the terrifying emptiness that seemed to move without pause as if it were a massive hole into nothingness. And yet I could feel it still there, an unstoppable force pressing on me from all sides, as if some cosmic law required it.

"No, it's not alive," he answered quickly, trying to sound reasonable. "It's not a living thing at all."

Then he straightened his voice and looked into my eyes as I tried to understand what he was telling me.

"It's an idea, and, as you see, ideas are alive," he said and then immediately returned his eyes to the silent place, trying to avoid further comment.

All creatures come from somewhere else; they arrive injured, having endured loss and misery, yet they persevere, and occasionally, when things become terrible, they come here to heal themselves. Some came here by choice, those who came here by necessity, and those who were never supposed to be here but wound up here nonetheless.

"They tell us that the dead here do not decay," he said as if it were commonplace, "and when we are with them, they tell us that we are not alive either."

So here I stand, looking out at a frozen landscape where no life exists. Once there were trees and fields; now, a barren and monotone wasteland. Once there was water flowing through the land, but now it's dry and cracked, and the air smells like something rotting, something dead.

"These are all still memories of a bygone era," he continued, taking my arm. "How they were then, as they are now. Do you see it?"

"No," I replied hesitantly.

He turned around and continued looking. "It is an area where you can lose yourself, forgetting about your troubles, even for a little while.

The wind howls across a landscape that used to be living. It's nothing more than a past whisper, bringing us back into our minds for remembrance, but in our hearts, we know better. Our souls tell us that this time, what came before and all that follows will soon meet their end.

"People will come to the wastelands and hide here and there, and in time, they will see what they did not see before."

My Life, And Who Do I See To Complain, by Alex Blaine

20/1/2023

I woke up this morning to my girlfriend screaming she was late and it's all my fault. I dropped my phone down the stairs. Now the screen has a big fucking crack. The dog just knocked over the TV, - all I heard was a smash. My Fitbit is on the blink, it seems to have a mind of its own. My neighbour just backed into my car, so now I can empty the boot from the kitchen. I was just trying to explain when I stumbled and my laptop slipped out of my hand and flew through the window. So if you feel like you're having a bad day, I'm quite happy to make an exchange.

Hey, I've not quite finished just yet. The dog got loose and bit the postman on his behind. My Fitbit finally packed up and died the green screen of death. Off it goes to Silicon heaven. And the woman from the insurance department thinks I'm taking the piss.

The Stranger, by Pamela Kennedy

20/1/2023

Rebecca, mature beyond her years, barely left her childhood when when she gave birth to her own child, a product of paternal incest. Once Molly was born, the father replaced his lustful looks for Rebecca with ones of contempt for their spritely playful pleasure had come to an end. His heart harbored hatred for his newborn progeny, and in a drunken rage he cast both of them out of his home.

The deserted country road seemed endless. Rebecca trudged along while protecting Molly as best she could. She was desperately in need of food and shelter. Berries and nuts found along the way helped to sustain her. Not far from a wooden area, she spied a shack not much bigger than an outhouse. That would be her humble home at least for the night.

A short while later, a tall unusual looking stranger came by and asked permission to rest for a few moments. It struck her as odd seeing this man in this setting since she didn’t recall meeting anyone during her journey. Rebecca sensed something behind his calm demeanor. Mesmerized by his deep brown eyes, she granted him entrance.

In an almost hushed tone, he spoke, “I’ve come to deliver a message. Tonight after the sun sets, stay inside and do not open the door for anyone until the sun rises. I must go and warn the others but I will come back later.”

He quietly left. A few moments later Rebecca ventured outside to see which direction the stranger was going, but she saw no one. The road was void of human life. As she tended to the needs of her daughter, she pondered his directive, “...don’t open the door…but I will come back later.”

Darkness was quickly creeping over the sky. She felt safe once the rusty slide bolt slid in place. At midnight, the howling wind whipped up causing the shack to shudder. Anguished groans of men and the wailing of women begging for mercy and forgiveness became overwhelming. During the tumult, she heard the terrified cries of her father. All were pleading with Rebecca to grant them shelter.

Rebecca, herself, was frozen with fear and was grateful that little Molly was oblivious to the turmoil around her. When the cacophony subsided, she heard a knock. “Rebecca, please let me in.” She recognized the soft, exchanging voice as the voice of the Stranger.

The warmth of the morning sun had not yet arrived. His earlier words echoed throughout her already confused thoughts. Rebecca stood by the door before….

***

The Stranger led the cadre of souls along a desolate path and with each step it became bleaker and bleaker. He easily captured those who failed to heed his warning and opened their doors. But those who listened were allowed to remain and repent. So now I ask you, “What did Rebecca do?”

Cracks, by Angela Carlton

13/1/2023

You had me believe. We were two schoolgirls, who believed in that thing called, “love,” all those whispers of heavy dreams after midnight. And so we grew up, under the stars, gliding down back roads, chasing boys around the clock.

We swapped sneakers for heels as the years passed and sashayed around in Guess mini skirts singing lyrics to glam rock with pink lips. Later, in college, a third girl became a part of our scene. You took to her immediately, but I found her to be reckless and loud like a freight train without brakes.

Then that day, the one day, when you and I, found the third girl, in bed with my boyfriend, you just glared at me, with those brown eyes that tend to turn black after too much booze. You didn’t pick up the phone when I called you the next day, the day after that, or the day after that either.

The week that followed was blurry. I was numb until I spotted you, You, driving the third girl around on campus. I saw you laughing at the red light. Both of you were laughing.
‘
Once, yes, you had me believe. You had me believe in friendship, love, the way it can swirl and mold into something grand like wet clay spinning on the pottery wheel until it dries and all the cracks begin to set in.

Retirement Rescue, by Jim Bartlett

13/1/2023

It’s not until he steps into the study does he notice the little wisp of steam trailing behind him. He smiles, picturing his coffee cup as a mini-locomotive, chugging its way toward the couch. Not too many years ago, well, maybe more than he cares to admit, that steam would be rising in the kitchen while he sat chuckling at Calvin and Hobbes, The Far Side, and all the other wonderful funnies that took up a full page in the newspaper.

But the paper’s gone digital, the funnies aren’t so funny, and it’s just not the same staring into a laptop as it was spreading the pages out on the counter, thumbing through the news, the sports, the travel section, entertainment, and, of course, the funnies.

He sets the cup down, letting it cool, and plops onto the sofa, his eyes drawn to the plastic tub of pictures and slides sitting beside the coffee table. He’d brought it up from the basement last week – New Year’s Eve, actually – along with a host of others, spending his night wistfully sifting through a lifetime of memories.

But he hadn’t made it to this one, the crème de la crème. “Adventures” is written on the side in thick black Sharpie letters, and the label really only scratches the surface.

Leaning forward, he pops off the top and reaches in, grabbing a good handful of the 5 x 7s and 35mm slides. He can’t help but laugh – all of these are from film, taken with his new (then), 40-years-old now, Nikon. In today’s world everyone uses their phone, and slides are passé, leaving Kodachrome, like the newspaper, to go the way of the dodo.

He takes a quick sip of his coffee, then settles back in the chair, misty eyes ready to continue his journey down memory lane.

The first is from the rim of the majestic Grand Canyon. Next up, he’s on a boat, preparing to snorkel at the Great Barrier Reef. Then the rainy day on the Galapagos Islands, a wise old tortoise smirking at the silly human. The humid but wondrous trip down the Amazon. The Pyramid of the Moon in Mexico on a hot summer day. The forever hike to the top of Half Dome in Yosemite. The cantankerous mule in Zion. Standing at the Berlin Wall before, then after it fell. Antarctica... beautiful, but brrrr.

He sets the photos aside, a bit melancholy, realizing it’s been 7 or 8 years since he sealed that container. When did he stop taking such marvelous adventures? And why?

Okay, so he’s 72 and retired, does that mean he has to sit here reminiscing about the “good ol’ days”?

Not a chance.

He slips out his phone and pulls up a number looked at many times, but never called. Time for that next adventure.

“Beachside Canine Rescue, home of the waggly tails. How can I help you?”

“Hello. I’d like to see about adopting a dog. One that’s ready for a big adventure.”

Let's Hold Hands and Watch the World Burn Together, by J. Iner Souster

13/1/2023

I stand on the edge of the fields, looking at the endless sea of gold. As the sun sets, its light casts a warm glow on everything. I can see the servants working in the distance, with their backs bent as they toil away.

I take a step forward, then another. The ground is soft under my feet, but I don't stop. I keep going until I'm in the middle of the fields. Then I raise my arms and let loose a cry that echoes through the night sky.

The servants hear me and turn around. They see what I'm doing and run toward me, but it's too late. The flames have taken over. Once filled with life, the fields were now blackened and ruined; the earth was scorched and barren. The servants who had once toiled in those fields were now gone. Their homes had burned to the ground.

As fire consumes the world, all life as we know it will cease forever. Weeping and gnashing of teeth will accompany this event, for this is a kingdom of lies, not truth. We will see if they make a pact with the devil or if he makes one with them!

Back to Freedom, by Sivan Pillai

6/1/2023

Ramu lay writhing in pain, looking at death looming large before him. He was mentally prepared for this moment ever since the doctor had shaken his head grimly after going through the clinical reports. The uncertainty was only adding to the misery. Thankfully, no one was going to miss him except, perhaps, Tom, his constant companion and breadwinner.
A much sought-after construction worker, no one would have imagined he would soon be living off a poor monkey. It was when the frequent spells of pain and the loss of strength had made him unfit for any physical exertion that a friend had told him about a trained monkey, available for free, as the owner was returning to his village. If he was careful to keep away from the police, he could earn enough from the street-corner performances of the monkey. The only option was to keep his pride intact and die of hunger.
Tom, who should have been in the forest with his troop, was caught in a trap by a man who had not believed in earning his bread through honest work. He had subjected Tom to untold mayhem during the so-called training. Always bound in chains, it was made to go hungry and thirsty for long periods to make it obey its owner. Finally, it graduated to a performing street-corner monkey, doing antics like forward and backward somersaults, jumping through a ring held high, imitating a drunkard or a shy bride, and doing many such things, earning the applause of the onlookers who threw coins on to the sheet spread on the ground.
Sorry for the dumb animal, he had never treated it badly. Now that his days on the earth were coming to an end, his only worry was the future of Tom. He wanted the monkey to return to the wild and live a free life.
During a break in the agonizing pain, he noticed that Tom, chained at arm's length, was gazing at his groaning figure with concern. The pain was spreading rapidly, limbs getting paralyzed and vision blurred. Suppressing an urge to scream, he beckoned Tom to come closer and sighed in relief when his fumbling hands succeeded, after repeated efforts, to remove the chain.
He struck Tom's back once, none too gently, and urged, "Go!"
When the vehicle carrying the body moved away the next morning, Tom sat among the thick foliage of a nearby tree and followed it with moist eyes till it disappeared around the corner.
He was not worried about one of Ramu's friends searching around the hut, holding a chain in his hands.

Mr Richard, by David Dumouriez

6/1/2023

Her eyes sparkled throughout. In Paris. Now here, in Casablanca. Daytime, night-time. Anytime. It’s all the same.

I thought I was the only one she looked at like that. Now I know … oh, what do I know? Always, those eyes! That im-imploring voice. ‘Richard, Rick, Richard, Rick …’ In Paris I was Richard. Here I’m Rick. It rhymes with sick.

Searchlights and shadows, night after night. Searchlights and shadows, never out of date …

What did any of it mean to her? She comes here with him. And then she comes here again. Alone. With all her hogwash about men who put her on a path to some kind of enlightenment. Men she maybe loved. I suppose she says that about all of them, to all the other ones. The ones who come after. Maybe she even said that about me. If I was even worth that much.

The music’s done. There’s just the sound of the bourbon hitting the glass. Like this. Like this!

‘Kiss me. Kiss me as if it were the last time.’ That was a good line. I wonder who got it first. I’m sure it got diluted in the telling.

‘No questions.’ That makes it easy. More smooth. Another kiss. Another look. Another bottle of Cordon Rouge. ‘We said no questions.’ You said no questions. I had any answer you wanted, honey. I thought that was what love was meant to be. If love was anything.

Oh … This place … Night after night, after night … My head’s fit to … Why … why did you … Ilsa … the name, it’s …

Downsizing, by Michael Roberts

6/1/2023

On the way out, she pauses in the doorway.
“Remember we have the guys coming next Wednesday to look at the basement.”
“Yeah, OK,” I say somewhat absently.
“No, seriously,” my wife continues “You were great about cleaning out the garage.”
“Thanks,” I said, knowing where this was going.
“Now I just need you to keep up that momentum.”
She can’t resist that little bit of nagging mixed in with the praise.
“Yeah, I’m on it.”
With that, she’s gone.
I contemplate smoking the last of that joint that Tom brought, but know that if I do, my day will be sucked under by watching Joe Rogan on Youtube.

I get most of the stuff in the actual ‘TV Room’ organized.
Sitting under a layer of dust is Tom’s old game console.
I text him.
The Playstation? Still want it?
A couple seconds later he replies.
No thanks.
So now I’m in a quandary.
If he doesn’t want it, do I?
How are things? I ask.
I haven’t talked to him in a while.
The text comes back.
Busy…
For what seems like a full minute, the phone says he’s typing something, then it disappears, then starts again.
Yeah…busy.
I wonder what he was about to write.
I could call him and ask but I get this feeling that’s not something I’d want to get into over the phone.

So, now I have a Playstation that might or might not work.
And the games… about a dozen of them.
And while I have no desire to play them, it seems like a shame to throw them out.
I doubt the kids down the block want them.
To them, I imagine these games are ancient.

I remember him having more, but I also remember him taking the bus to the mall then coming back all excited about some new game.
I suspect he was trading them in at some exorbitant rate to get a new game.
Still, among the dozen here are some that I remember.
League of Heroes ‘15.
That was the one set in Greek Mythology, if I remember correctly.
I’m still reading when I sense something.
Looking back over my shoulder, I see Nina looking at me.
“Interesting read?”
I put the box down.
“Just…thinking about when your brother got this.”
“Long time?”
“You were six.”
“Long time, then.”
“You interested in having this?” I say, indicating the box.
Nina shakes her head.
“Not my thing.”
“What is your thing? You seem to have so many ‘things’ these days. Swimming, school play, work.”
“Swimming season was over three months ago.”
“Oh,” I say, “OK.”
“ I don’t know if I have a thing currently”

I feel bad that the same thing that happened with Tom is happening with Nina; I seem to be perpetually playing catch up with whatever they’re into at the moment.
By the time I finally got around to buying her that rainbow loom thing when she was seven, the craze had already passed.

One Way Mirror, by Mark Kuglin

6/1/2023

Ross loathed the hallway leading to Dr. Crowe's office. Each step felt like that of a condemned man on his way to the gallows. On this day it was worse. Ross made the trek accompanied by a cacophony of voices.

That's just great...The idiots are crazier than usual...

Ross stopped in the doorway. The cause of the raucous sat directly opposite, a new girl. A long platinum haired, deeply tanned, violet-blue eyed beauty who had the men in his therapy group vying for her attention, the previously desired women fighting for their property and the rest shooting hateful stares.

Ross uttered a sotto voce curse and looked for an available seat. He found a corner chair and once ensconced he shot surreptitious glances at the new girl.With each, he saw her either uncrossing and recrossing her legs, shifting her weight from one hip to the other or pulling her short, skintight dress down. All of which made her ample chest bounce.

Why are you here?…A smile here, a bounce there and every door opens…

Ross rebuked the girl after the session and was thrilled that it left her speechless.

******

One Year Later

Ross startled at the sound of his name. He stood and angrily tossed his newspaper aside. He was about to chastise his disruptive interloper, a conservatively dressed brunette, when he noticed her violet-blue eyes.

"I'm so glad to see you," she gushed.

“I couldn't care less.” Ross interjected before he stormed off.

The following day's therapy session started with an announcement. “Kari Swenson, a former member of this group, was killed yesterday by a hit and run driver." After a pause, Dr. Crowe added, "We'll have a short meeting at the cemetery after her funeral...That way I can be available to those who need me and I can give my mandatory clients a session credit."

******

Ross feigned illness the day of the funeral. He employed this ruse so he could stand apart from everyone, in a place he could avoid grief filled interactions and where he could endure the goings on, mostly out of earshot of any sobs or wailing, and kill the time until his hated meeting.

After the service, an elderly woman--one of the few females present-- cleared her throat and said in a shaky voice, “I am Helga...Kari's grandmother.”

“Kari had been a wild child," Helga continued. "But over the past year, she'd cleaned up her act…She wanted to thank the boy who caused her change and then ask him out."

Helga's revelation infuriated Ross.

Dammit...All of the idiots are going to claim he's the one...

Ross's anger was so consuming, he didn't notice Helga's approach.

"Hi...,"

"Dammit, don't...,"

"Sorry...You're...,"

"No...It...,"

"I'm not mistaken...You're...,"

"Dammit lady...It isn't me...I couldn't stand her."

"Shame on you...I don't know why Kari even tried," Helga huffed. "She was right...The damage to your psyche occurred long before the burn marks on your face and hands."

Longer
Stories

Longer Friday Flash Fiction Stories

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.

Stories to the 500 word thread will be posted as soon as we can mange.

Please feel free to comment (nicely!) on any stories – writers appreciate it.
Just at the moment, though, we're moderating them so there might be a slight delat before they appear.

One little further note. Posting and publishing 500-word stories takes a little time if they need to be formatted, too.
Please note that we tend to post longer flash fiction exactly as we find it – wrong spacing, everything.

LongerStories

Longer Friday Flash Fiction Stories

Archives

Longer
Stories