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Seduced, by Brittany Davidson

28/2/2018

There was a reluctant pause as she tried to place her pen on the page. Sitting millimetres above the paper, it finally fell; the ink drew from her veins far easier than anticipated. She had become frozen. While she had wanted to think it had only been a few days, it had certainly been months since she had last written. It was as though she had no words to utter, nothing to say, or share. She described it as a forced vow of silence that had been placed upon her. A cruel paradox for the writer, the storyteller, and artist. The paralysis from staring at an empty page choked her.

That feeling was familiar, it was almost her reminiscing. It reminded her of when she young. She wondered what might have finally broken this silence, and then it became clearer. Mother's Day was around the corner - watching over her.

She figured that it would get easier. Naively, she had hoped and prayed that the saying "Time heals all wounds," was actually true. However, for her, it remained a myth that she was yet to experience. Time had certainly not healed her, if anything, it had perhaps worsened her; as she had refused to accept anything had changed after her mother died. After moving jobs and cities, she failed to tell anyone that her mother had just died. Everything was raw and salient once again, with advert after advert of Mother's Day. She wondered if the world was taunting her, it felt like it was caving in - not letting her move on from the past, holding her tightly, bound to her thoughts, past, and everything she had attempted to run from.

Perhaps, this was a little harsh, she wondered alone. It hadn't even been two years since her mother's death - and needless to say, it was rather horrific for everyone involved. She tried to move on, as everyone else did - people forget quickly.

So, while she cuddled a scarf that still smelt like her; eyes welling up as she sat on the floor by the window, her friends were living in the present. Caught in a spiralling headspace, constantly changing; she finally submitted. She allowed herself to be seduced by the sound of the music, the music in the wind as it encapsulated the city, the roaring thunder, the pattering rain, and the scratching of her pen's nib on the page.

She fell in love once again.

She fell in love with words. She fell in love with her story.

She smiled for a moment; only a moment.

Old Converse, by Mark Tulin

26/2/2018

“Your closet is a microcosm of your life,” Alison said. “It defines who you are.”

Alison was my girlfriend and a style therapist who was sick of looking at my closet. I never thought about my closet as being an eyesore or affecting the way people saw me.

Closets were no laughing matter to Alison. She didn’t help people who weren’t a hundred percent motivated. “Are you ready?” she asked point blank.

“Of course I’m ready,” I said reluctantly.

“It won't be easy,” she said. "People have a hard time deciding what to keep and what to throw out. They become emotionally attached to their clothing.”

“You don’t have to worry about me,” I said. “I was born flexible.”

But Alison knew better. She told me to remove everything from the closet and throw it on the bed.

The first thing she noticed was that I had ten pairs of sweatpants.
“Which ones do you wear most often?” she asked.

“The black Adidas,” I said with certainty.

She gathered the sweatpants I didn’t wear and tossed them into the donation pile.

I wanted to shout: “No! Those other ones are too precious.” But I realized that would have sounded stupid.

Alison noticed my fretful look. “If you don’t wear them, why keep it in your closet? They’re just sweatpants. They’re not people that you love.”

Pretty soon, I had a massive pile of clothes to give away. We rearranged the closet by colors, packed away the winter clothing, and neatly stacked the shoes onto a chrome rack.

As I placed the donation pile into a large garbage bag for Goodwill, a flood of emotions hit me when I came across an old pair of hi-top Converse sneakers. They had holes in the soles and frayed edges, but I loved wearing them. Putting them in the trash bag made me feel guilty.

“Clothes are not keepsakes,” said Alison. “You can get a new pair of Converse, ones with a more updated style."

I couldn’t do it. Memories of the black hi-tops flooded my mind. I wore them with torn-off jeans and carpenter pants. I sloshed around with them in the snow. I loved scribbling on the white parts.

Alison shook me out of my reverie. “Take a look at your closet and see what I’ve done.”

Like a Van Gogh painting, my closet was perfectly arranged. It was neat, streamlined and colorful. It only contained clothes that I liked to wear and that fit my personality.

I took a deep breath.

I closed my eyes and dropped the Converse sneakers into the large garbage bag.

History Repeats, Yet Humanity Survives, by Sankar Chatterjee

20/2/2018

Prof. Sam Pulaski, a holocaust survivor as well as a distinguished scholar-in-residence in Tel Aviv University, Israel still teaches a course each semester on the subject of societal injustice, rise and power of dictatorship, and annihilation of minorities throughout the history of human civilization. Though frail in health while nearing to ninety years of age, he also travels extensively to deliver lectures on similar topics on the invitation of the nonprofit organizations worldwide, dedicated to teaching current generation history’s lessons from the very survivors who experienced them.

Recently Prof. Pulaski traveled to Birmingham, Alabama in US to deliver a lecture in city’s Civil Rights Museum. February had been designated as the “Black History Month” in the nation. Students at schools learn, discuss, and debate on the history of African American citizens of the country starting from their slavery days, emancipation, civil rights movement as well as the current status. Ironically, Birmingham itself has a dark history. Once known as the most segregated city in the country, this city witnessed the worst of that practice along with brutal suppression of peaceful nonviolent resistance movements by powerful local law and order authorities.

After his breakfast with the directors of the institute, Prof. Pulaski delivered his lecture to a roomful of audience. During the question and answer period, he touched on the subjects of his growing up in a ghetto, taking part in the resistance movement resulting his arrest and transfer to Auschwitz death camp, built by the Nazis remodeling a previous army outpost of the country. Later in the day, he joined a team to tour the institute that also acts as an archive for historical records, both in texts and images.

He entered into a room displaying exhibits from civil right era and came face to face with a black and white picture. He froze immediately. In that slightly faded photo, a German shepherd dog handled by a white law enforcement agent had been snarling viciously to a peaceful African-American protester. Prof. Pulaski’s memory transferred him to that fateful night in the ghetto. While his next door neighbor of eighteen years was shining his face with a flashlight, a similar German shepherd dog handled by a young Nazi SS officer snarled at him same vicious way. Another officer then put a gun to his head leading him to a waiting prison van.

Around noon, his hosts took him to the place’s cafeteria for lunch. As he tasted the local cuisine of corn bread, fried chicken, beans, and colored greens, the CNN anchor for the international news appeared on the flat screen TV on the wall. In a live coverage from his original birth country, the current nationalistic head of the state was making it illegal for anyone to even suggest that the past citizens willingly took part with Nazis in executing holocaust, the worst crime against humanity

The Procedure, by Mark Tulin

20/2/2018

The doctor didn't mince words. He told me the procedure lasted about 20 minutes and that I would feel some discomfort.

It won't be easy, I thought.

They injected a sedative into my veins. In a few minutes, the doctor turned me over and passed a tube into my rear end.

"We are now putting air into your colon before we insert the camera."

The doctor pointed to the monitor and did a play-by-play description of the movement of the tube. Nurse Linda rubbed my hand to ease the discomfort.

I watched the serpent-like tube traversing my fatty insides like kids watch video games.

Then the doctor found something.

“Hmm,” he said, “this one seems to have something written on it.
Let me zoom in. Yes, indeed. There’s a story on one of your polyps.”

A story?” I asked in my drowsy state. I wondered if it was fiction or nonfiction.

“You must be a writer.”

“Yes, an aspiring writer. Planning to take a writer’s conference right after this procedure.”

“That makes sense,” the doctor said through his mask. “I’m sure the conference will help.”

He was quiet for a few moments. His fingers manipulated the hose inside my colon while his eyes frantically searched the monitor.

"We need to take these boys out,” he said abruptly. “I hope you have a copy of whatever’s written on the polyp?"

“Yes, all my writing is on the cloud,” I said proudly.

“Ah, yes, the cloud.”

The doctor adjusted his goggles. “This won’t hurt a bit.”
I could feel the pressure of him clamping down.

Snip.

He found another polyp with another story and one more that looked like a poem. Snip, snip. He placed each excised polyp into a separate glass jar filled with a liquid substance.

“The polyps will be sent off to the lab, and I will let you know the results in a week.”

My heart pounded as Nurse Linda took me to recovery. Laying under the fluorescent light, I couldn’t help but fear the worse. I worried that whoever read my polyps would think that they were trite or lacked substance.

Less than a week later, I received a phone call from Doctor Larry. His voice was subdued but professional. “Although your polyps were benign, your stories were rejected.”

“Rejected.” I sighed. “How awful.”

“They didn’t work for the lab technician who said in his report that your stories were too predictable and that there was not enough character development.”

“There must be some mistake,” I said. “Are you sure the polyps are mine?”

“Yes, I double checked. But don’t worry, your stories are treatable. I strongly recommend taking a creative writing class as soon as possible.”

There was an awkward pause. I could feel my stomach cramping.

Vietnam Experience, by Sankar Chatterjee

16/2/2018

Mr. Jason Smith, CEO of a successful small business was visiting Charleston, South Carolina to negotiate a business deal. One afternoon, he hailed a cab to take him to the Patriot Point on the waterfront, one of the current top attractions of the city. The place has been the resting place of an aircraft carrier along with a submarine and a destroyer from the World War II era. He learned that, just next to those relics, a separate memorial park called “Vietnam Experience” was also established. The purpose was to acknowledge country’s involvement in a faraway ideology-based war as well as to remember and honor the sacrifices made by country’s young men and women in that war.

At the age of twenty, Mr. Smith was drafted for that war. In the dark of night, the helicopter carrying him and other platoon members would land in the middle of a dense jungle. Immediately intense summer heat and mosquito bites would welcome the team. As he was entering the park, Mr. Smith noticed a similar helicopter was on display accompanied by a time-era military truck that used to ferry them from front to front. To offer the visitors the realistic experience, suddenly the air-raid sirens shrilled throughout the complex along with erupting noise of gun-firing of the tanks, accompanied by red flashes. And Mr. Smith began to remember events in their entirety, buried in the depth of his memory.

As he passed by a model make-shift medical tent, he remembered the night his team was ambushed by a group of young Viet-Congs, suddenly appearing out of a hidden opening, part of their elaborate complex maze-like tunnel system for hiding as well as attacking the enemy forces. A fierce fight broke out. Bruce Levitt, a fellow comrade took several bullets protecting other members of the platoon. Later Mr. Smith would carry him on his shoulder to a similar nearby medical tent. After several immediate surgeries, Mr. Levitt would be air-lifted to a friendly country for additional life-saving surgeries. After his retirement, Mr. Levitt would settle down in Texas, becoming a high school football coach.

After visiting the remaining open-air exhibits, Mr. Smith would watch a historic documentary. He re-lived the last scene. On return, his fellow countrymen would spit on them, while shouting “Baby killers”. By now, he knew that the politicians would never explain to citizens the real reason for going to a war.

After coming out of the park, he took out his smart phone to catch up with day’s news. Another senseless mass shooting took place in a high school in Texas, when an expelled student had opened fire with a rapid-fire assault weapon. Most of the victims were fellow students along with their football coach who threw his body in the line of fire to protect his young disciples. The press identified him as Bruce Levitt, a distinguished Vietnam War veteran!

Dream Sage, by Mark Tulin

12/2/2018

I followed my friend’s sure-footed movements as we made our way into the Santa Ynez Mountains.

He told me that I would be walking on holy ground. "Be conscious of who came before us," he said.

My friend took certain people on tours of the mountain because of its healing powers. He knew that I suffered from a sickness that the doctors could not treat. They told me that it was all in my head, perhaps due to stress or anxiety.

I watched my friend collect several bundles of sage, then he placed one under my nose.

“Fill up your lungs with this aroma,” he said. “It will calm your mind.”

He seemed to know what I needed.

"Dream Sage heals what's troubling you so you can sleep at night and have good dreams. Breathe it in deep," he said.

We walked down a spiraling path of gravel. I could smell smoke as we neared our destination.

At a clearing, there was a fire burning. My friend tossed a bundle of the Dream Sage into the fire pit. It crackled and sizzled once it hit the flames.

I felt the warmth of the flames on my face.

An apparition appeared. A group of women in sheer silks danced around the fire to a hypnotizing drumbeat. My friend told me that these spirits were friendly, like dreams they come to us for a reason.

Although the dancers were very compelling, my mind was elsewhere. I was unable to stop worrying about things I couldn’t control.

“Just relax,” he said, “watch the fire and the dancers. Allow yourself to let go. Do whatever comes naturally."

I was not much of a dancer, but I was caught up in the moment. I took off my shoes and began to sway on the mountain floor. My body moved freely and without pain. I could smell the burning sage.

Out of the smoky air, the Chumash ancestors began to chant. The beautiful dancers swirled and spun to a soothing drumbeat.

The louder the drums, the faster everyone danced. I could feel the Chumash energy take my worries away.

Soon I was too dizzy to stand. I collapsed with exhaustion to the ground. I made a pillow with the fallen leaves and slept as if I were drunk on wine.

I awoke the next morning from the bright sunlight. I looked up at the sky and could see a glowing orange sun.

The powerful and regal hawks soared overhead. A woodpecker pecked a nearby tree. Squirrels rustled in the leaves. The gentle winds whispered words of comfort that would stay with me years after I left the mountain.

“All you have to do is look up at the sky and see the Chumash spirits riding on the backs of the hawks, and they will guide you. No matter where you are or what trouble you are in."

Just Deserts, by Ian Fletcher

6/2/2018

Never a good son, Martin had dropped out of college, done odd jobs, married, divorced, and now lived in a rundown flat on meagre benefits, unemployable in his late 50s.

He’d only survived from handouts from his parents, whom he visited in suburbia solely for that end.

When Dad died his hopes were raised. Mom was in her 80s and surely wouldn’t last long.

A couple of hundred grand would come his way!

Then, she was diagnosed with dementia. Marge, his well-off happily married sister and dutiful daughter, took control.

The house was sold, and Mom was put in a care home.

Christ! Forty grand a year from her savings!

Three years pass and he visits for the first time. Mom doesn’t even know who he is, but to his dismay appears in good physical shape.

Realizing his inheritance is dwindling away, Martin goes to the pub to console himself.

No one wants to talk to the miserable fellow at the bar.

Five pints later, he’s skint, and walks out into the bitterly cold night cursing the world.

Armechius – Who Was He? by Robert Plumlee

6/2/2018

“Do you remember him?” asked Armechius.

“Yes, I remember him. According to the record, he was sentenced to earth. It must have been six, maybe seven, millennium zones ago. He was banished from here, to that place we call ‘the earth world’. They still tell the story of his thunderous arrival. His appearance was sudden, ’a bright star streaking across the heavens,’ they say.

“To the earthlings, it was apparent he came from far away. Some ancients of that world said he came from the little blue star not far from dog star, Sirius, the bright star. But we know he came from our world, the world of Zodiaha.

“The Ancient Ones, the TaNawShaw from earth world, carved his name in the rocks near the old canyon not far from ‘The Valley of the Gods.’ You know the place. The story of his thunderous earth arrival is still told here on Zodiaha. And also, his inspiring story is written upon the stars.

“The ancient earth ones say his chariot of fire slowly circled, then rapidly descended from the heavens—burning trees, overwhelming men, and cattle. They say it landed not far from God’s place, near ‘The Valley of the Gods.’

“It is said. ‘When that man stepped from his shiny craft, his radiating countenance was brighter than a thousand suns. White doves circled his head. His piercing eyes turned night into day. He walked the earth, healed the sick. He reprimanded demons and harmful spirits. He comforted many, showing them the right path to redemption. Thousands traveled from afar to hear him speak. He walked freely among people. He forgave all and judged no soul. Some say he was a God. Others say he was the Son of God.

“Today, nobody on earth knows if he was the promised one. The one who said he would someday return. Thousands of earth years have passed. That question is still open for debate. It remains a mystery on earth and too here on Zodiaha.

“Yes, I remember him, Armechius. He was a good friend. I could never figure out why the council sent him down to that wicked earth. He was doing such good work here on Zodiaha and Epicurius. Why they sent him down there to that dreaded ‘earth place’ is beyond me?

“The last time I saw him was when I visited earth a few cycles ago. I was walking along a dirt road when I passed a nearby hill. I saw him and two other fellows hanging from a wooden cross. I cautiously walked by.

“Suddenly, a violent storm came from the East. The wind and lightning were fierce, the thunder deafening. I looked away. In fear, I started to run. I ran as I had never run before. I never looked back.

I have often wondered what happened to them. Why they were put to death on that hill? For me, here on Zodiaha, and from my days walking on earth, It is still a haunting mystery.

Spirit In The Subway, by Mark Tulin

5/2/2018

The little boy could hardly keep his eyes open. He lay on his Uncle's lap during the subway ride home. He always liked resting his head on his lap; it was safe there. He looked up at the ceiling of the train and stared at its empty space.

His mother died fifteen months ago. He heard someone say that she had cancer, but he didn't know what that meant. His Uncle didn’t want to explain it because he was too young.

The boy knew in his heart that his mother would return one day. He hoped that his Uncle would believe that too, but he kept saying, "Your Mom is dead. You have to move on.”

When the train went underground, it felt like he was taking a haunted house ride with lights flashing and weird screeching sounds that made him think about ghosts and goblins. When the lights flickered and got dark in the subway caverns, it felt like he could hear a familiar voice.

As the subway screeched along, the little boy saw his Mom drifting above his head like a weightless astronaut. He could see her looking down on him. Her facial features were blurry, but he was sure that it was her.

"Mommy, I see you,” the little boy said without talking. “I can see your curly hair. I can see your hand reaching out. You're here. I knew you would come back.”

He heard his Mom say not to worry about her because she's doing well. “Although I am content now, I still miss you. You will always be in my heart.”

He wanted his Mom to come back home and sit in her favorite chair, to hold him and rock him in her arms. He wanted her to rub his back and stroke his hair. He didn’t want her to drift off to some unknown place where he couldn’t see her anymore. Tears fell from his cheeks as he lay on his Uncle’s lap looking up at the ceiling.

He could barely hear her say, "Listen to your Uncle because he's your only family now.” She told him that she’s watching over him and that she'll keep him safe. His Mom slowly evaporated into nothingness before he could say goodbye.

He fell asleep for the remainder of the subway trip home. When they got to their stop, his Uncle carried the sleeping boy in his big arms out of the train station and a few blocks to their home. Careful not to wake the little boy, he slowly climbed the stairs to put him to bed. The boy's eyes opened.

“I saw Mommy tonight,” he told his Uncle. His Uncle smiled, kissed him on the forehead. "I know. I saw her too. Now get some sleep."

In An Instant, by J. J. Landry

2/2/2018

They say everything can change in an instant. For me, that instant was tonight. I’d been sitting by a fogged up window of a small downtown pub awaiting her arrival. I was watching the flights come and go, to and from the airport across the harbor as a cold winter wind crept in and rain fell all across the city. I was dressed up for the occasion, wearing a gray pin-striped suit with a black necktie and matching shoes. I was drinking Jameson Irish Whisky, my favorite. I felt nervous for the first time in a long time. The palms of my rough hands were sweaty and my heart was beating faster than normal. I had just returned from my final deployment overseas and completed the terms of my enlistment. I had her diamond engagement ring in my pocket and our future mapped out in my mind.

I watched as her car arrived and the driver’s side door slowly began to open. Our eyes met for the first time in close to a year and her smile said it all. Finally, I thought, now we could be together. It was then that it happened. My entire life was destroyed before my eyes. Tires screeched outside and people started to crowd around the crash site. The glass I’d been drinking from slipped from my cold, clammy hands and shattered in what felt like slow motion. Tiny shards of glass ricocheted off of the black marble-top table and scattered all over the place. I rushed to the door and dashed out into the street. My heart was pounding really fast inside of my chest; I feared it was too late. I took her soft hand in mine, slipped the diamond ring on her finger, and watched helplessly as she spoke her last breath; “yes”. A drunk driver had crashed into the side of her car and in one fell swoop had taken everything away from me; from us.

I pulled out my .38 snub nose revolver and everything went blank. I stood there motionless for a long moment lost within myself. Warm tears streamed down my sullen face. I stared into her cold blue eyes as they lifelessly stared back into mine. I imagined what our wedding day would’ve been like. I pictured what our children would’ve looked like. I took a deep breath and aimed my pistol at the frantic drunk driver standing just a few feet away, but I didn’t pull the trigger. I must not have heard the sirens. I must not have heard the commands to lower my weapon. Then it hit me; the stinging fire of a 9mm round had planted its way deep into the middle of my chest. I collapsed onto the cold, wet pavement and lay in a pool of warm crimson slowly dying next to the love of my life. One moment our young lives had been so full of hope and promise, and the next…