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Clown, by Roberta Beach Jacobson

31/1/2025

Not a huge fan of Halloween parties, I knocked at the door of 806 Poplar Street with little enthusiasm. It was the residence of my supervisor, so how could I not make an appearance?

I glanced around the living room. There were scarecrows, werewolves, pirates, and vampires. I was the sole clown, also the only guest in a ruff collar. This was a last-minute costume choice for me, and the curly wig tickled my ears.

We ate a lot. We drank a little. In between, we chatted and laughed. The hours passed more pleasantly than expected, but soon it was nearing midnight. I was tired of pretending to be a clown. The music was getting monotonous, so I figured I should make my getaway.

I tugged at the yellow wig, but it felt attached. My red nose was stuck fast! I was starting to feel foolish. Was I destined to become the corporate clown?

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Mother Nature, by John O’Keefe

24/1/2025

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The only reason she hasn’t noticed me is the perfect facewind I’m getting. Funniest thing, facewind, the big female and her three pups are less than twenty yards from the bush where I’m hiding and while I keep getting whiffs of their stench they cannot smell me.

The small clearing is their playground. They're wrestling with each other; their mother’s acting both referee and player.

Now the fourth cub shows up, the runt of the litter, visibly smaller than the others. It stumbles on the grass blades but seems twice as fierce as the others. Shrewd politician, vying for the mother’s attention.

I feel the breeze change. She suddenly stands in attention staring at the bush. A gray-brown statue with black-tipped tail surrounded by her four kids tussling carefree. Probably she still cannot see me but she knows exactly where I am. I slowly take the buckshot shells out of my double barrel to remove all temptation. When I look up again her stance hasn’t changed a bit, a stone statue, gazing at me. I slowly lift my hand showing the shot shells. No reaction; her eyes are locked at the bush. Now the runt seeking her love jumps up and grabs her tail. She takes a last glance at the bush and, as if nothing happened, goes back to frolicking.

The wind’s shifting and blowing stronger; it’s on the back of my neck. She knows I am still there, but in the next fifteen minutes she never turns in my direction again. When the kids finally slow down, she collects them and they disappear in the woods.

I am confident we’ll remember each other. She, for another second or two; I, for years to come.

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Take Up the Body, by Nelly Shulman

24/1/2025

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“Not here, Sir!” the call boy shouted. Gas lanterns flickered in the evening twilight, and Max Grenville inhaled a whiff of talc.
“Mr. Landrew used the space next to the Green Room,” the theater manager explained. “This is the ladies’ realm.”
One of the ladies stuck out her feather-clad head but, noticing the somber procession, retreated.
“Here we are,” the manager pointed at the door. “For the record, we haven’t touched anything.”
He added, “An uncomfortable event. We had to hastily replace Hamlet with some dimwit comedy. Needless to say, the audience was disappointed.”
Mr. Grenville had received a telegram from Inspector Digby at Scotland Yard while dining at his club.
“Come at once,” Digby wrote. “A body at the Savoy Theater.”
The inspector met him at the stage door.
“An irregular case,” Digby said, chewing on his red mustache. “Mr. Landrew arrived at the theater in the afternoon and went straight to his dressing room, which he occupied since his Russian tour. Everything was quiet, but then the porter found a letter in the morning post addressed to the actor. He brought it to Mr. Landrew, and about a quarter of an hour later, he heard a bone-chilling scream...”
Running to the dressing room, the porter found Mr. Landrew prostrated on the floor, very much dead.
Stepping into the dressing room of the West End celebrity, Max Grenville inhaled tobacco smoke and some heavy oriental perfume.
Mr. Landrew, in his silk gown, lay on the floor next to the dressing table. Bending down, Max examined the red, puffy face and bulging eyes. The dressing room was lit by gas.
“Next year we plan to install the new Swan lamps,” the manager said. “Would you like me to bring a candle?”
“No need,” Max said absent-mindedly. “Why did he,” the detective pointed at the body, “light a candle if he arrived at the theater in the afternoon? Look at the stump,” Max picked up a candlestick. “This is a new-fangled candle and they shrink almost to nothing. That means it was lit around three o’clock, because when the porter discovered the body, the candle had already gone out.”
“November in London is always dark,” Digby said, and Max chuckled.
“True, but the gas would have been enough. This is the envelope,” he said, putting on leather gloves. “Wait, gentlemen.”
A single sheet with the drawing of entwined hands slid into his palm.
“I have never seen this sign before,” Digby muttered, and Grenville grimly replied,
“I have. This is the seal of the Russian terrorists who organized the assassination attempts on the emperor last year. No doubt that Mr. Landrew was connected with them and was murdered by a poisoned candle, most probably for his disobedience. Where is the porter?” he demanded.
The theater manager shrugged.
“He only works the day shift.”
“And he is most probably crossing the Channel now, because it was he who supplied both the candle and the envelope,” Grenville sighed.
“Take up the body.”

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The End of the Year, by Christa Loughrey

17/1/2025

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The gale blew all evening, gathering up the old year as it passed through the land. Through the twelve chimes of midnight it caught up the very last remnants and swept them off to heaven, where it shook out its billowing folds and dropped its burden at the feet of Expeditus, the patron saint of time.

The saint looked sorrowfully at the soiled, bloated remnants on the floor. Was this the same new-minted year which had been sent out with so much celebration a mere fifty two weeks ago? Look at it! War and hatred tore huge holes in its fabric. Greed smeared it with its pervasive slime; hypocrisy crushed fledgling seeds of hope before they could take root, and the whole was sodden with tears of despair. The lurid scars of those great natural disasters which God had permitted in order to remind Man of the need to act justly, to love mercy and to walk humbly with Himself, merely emphasised how little effect the Holy Word now had on much of humanity.

Expeditus had seen many years returning in this terrible state lately, so much so that he wondered when God would decide to call a halt and do away with time entirely. Clearly not yet, since a new year had already been sent out and had taken the place of the old one. Man was still being given a chance to change his ways.

Sighing, he lifted his charge gently and carried it to the cleansing place. It would be a long process this time. But, as with previous years, he saw small gleams flicker as the fabric shifted and settled in his grasp. Acts of courage and mercy peeped through clouds of oppression and avarice. Under layers of sorrow and deep despair he caught glimpses of real happiness and love. There were other signs, too. Wasn’t that a child kneeling by its bedside, saying prayers, which flashed briefly before disappearing into the folds? And didn’t he just spot people of different faiths coming together in genuine harmony to help victims of misfortune?

St Jude looked on doubtfully as Expeditus gently laid the sad bundle down. Expeditus shook his head.

‘Not yet, Jude. The cause is not entirely lost. See, there is still some good in mankind – look here, and here.’ He stirred the fabric so that the small gleams briefly showed. ‘I can clean all the terrible things from this old year and then present what was good and clean back to God. But I must admit, the task gets harder every year. Perhaps 2025 will be the year that God calls ‘Enough!’

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Clown, by Roberta Beach Jacobson

Mother Nature, by John O’Keefe

Take Up the Body, by Nelly Shulman

The End of the Year, by Christa Loughrey

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Clown, by Roberta Beach Jacobson

Mother Nature, by John O’Keefe

Take Up the Body, by Nelly Shulman

The End of the Year, by Christa Loughrey

LongerStories

Longer Friday Flash Fiction Stories

Archives

Longer
Stories