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Real Risk, by John M. Carlson

18/3/2019

November, 1983

Eric didn’t want to fall in love. Not then. Not ever.

He knew he was gay. There was absolutely no doubt of that. And it was not acceptable being gay. Not in the 1980s. Society would never tolerate it. His career plans might be over before he even graduated from college! Then, he was scared of AIDS. It would be best if he stayed single, celibate, and closeted for life.

Unfortunately, however, there was Troy, who sat near him in his college writing class. Troy was good looking, smart, and interesting.

That Monday, Troy read his current paper to the class. Eric listened, feeling almost addicted to the sound of Troy’s voice.

Eric knew that there was a real risk that he could fall in love in love with Troy. And that simply couldn’t happen.

***

At lunch, Eric paged through a newspaper he’d found on the table. There was an article about the AIDS crisis, and “new hope” for “better understanding” AIDS.

I don’t want “better understanding” of AIDS—I want a cure! Eric thought, as he flung the paper aside.

In the distance, he saw Troy walking through the cafeteria. Eric felt a surge of panic. What if Troy sat with Eric?

Suddenly, he wondered. What if Troy were gay? What then?

Troy sat down at a distant table. Eric felt relieved—and sad.

***

Eric suddenly woke up the next morning. He’d just been dreaming about Troy.

Eric got up. It was very early, but he didn’t want to fall back asleep. He might dream about Troy again.

He would get to work on his next writing assignment. He sat at his desk and turned on his Apple IIe computer. As the floppy disk drive rattled to life, he wondered what Troy would think of this paper.

***

Friday night, Eric went to the Student Union to see an old suspense movie. It was a distraction from thinking about Troy. Although he did notice the movie’s characters included a young man and a young woman who were obviously falling in love. Something that will never happen to me, Eric thought sadly.

Finally, the movie’s villain was caught. The man and woman had fallen in love. Everything was right with the world again. And so the movie ended.

Eric got up to leave. Suddenly, he noticed Troy, who was walking out with a young woman. They were holding hands.

At least, I don’t have to worry about him falling in love with me! Eric thought.

Eric headed to his dorm room. He got into bed. It was early, but he was tired and felt lousy. He kept thinking of Troy. Troy with his girlfriend. The happy couple in the movie. AIDS. Society acceptance of gay people.

Eric began crying. He cried himself to sleep.

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The Nobel Dream, by Sankar Chatterjee

17/3/2019

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On a recent evening, Prof. Christopher Lloyd, a Nobel Laureate in chemical sciences, was looking outside from his third floor lab-window. Nearby Harvard Square was covered with at least 10-12 cm of freshly fallen snow, even such late in March. From all indications, this had been an unusual harsh and long winter. States on east-coast were getting snowed repeatedly, while states in mid-America dealing with tornadoes and thunderstorms and states in west-coast experiencing destructive wildfires. There’s no doubt a profound climate-change had happened affecting our universe. And that’s when, the innocent face of the European teenager (he couldn’t remember her name) appeared in his thought. The fearless teenager, not depending on adults, was organizing a worldwide protest movement involving students everywhere against drastic climate change. Just an hour ago, Prof. Lloyd was buying a cup of coffee from the underground café, when the newscaster on the flat-screen wall-TV announced that a few European peace organizations nominating the teenager for this year’s Nobel Peace Prize.

While appreciating nature’s beauty in fresh snowfall, Prof. Lloyd fell into a deep nostalgia. Growing up, he was a brilliant student both in his high school and college days. Both his parents were practicing doctors, but he had chosen a different career-track of a discovery scientist. He wanted to leave behind his legacy by discovering novel molecules that would be useful in fight against human hunger and illness. After earning his PhD, he began his career in academia, devoting time in experimental research as well as training new PhD-s. After initial struggles, success followed. Along came the desire for recognition, fame, and the ultimate dream of a Nobel Prize.

Prof. Lloyd was well aware of the fact that the granting of a PhD-degree resided mainly on the final nod from a mentor. He began to accept mostly hard-working international students to do breakthrough research towards their PhD-thesis. Three past foreign students would commit suicide, being unable to cope with pressure, followed by shame of being failures. But he was never investigated due to his world stature. Two of his marriages dissolved in divorce without any children from either one. He remained obsessed with his dream, like many of his contemporaries. Finally, the midnight-call came from Sweden. Now turning around, he looked at the award-medal resting inside one of his bookcases.

However, like the unforeseen destructive behavior of Nobel’s dynamite, Prof. Lloyd’s many discoveries also took some unintended turns. Due to expansion of global terrorism, many of his same experimental inventions found utility in creating new generations of explosives. On the other hand, the industrial-scale production of medicinal and agricultural products proved to be responsible for releasing harmful gases into atmosphere. Multinational companies found cheap labor and lax regulations in world’s poorest countries to manufacture the products. Many of those countries began choking with severe atmospheric pollution.

Prof. Lloyd opened his computer, composed a strong recommendation letter for the brave teenager, and floated the same in ether for the Nobel Peace Prize committee.

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The End of Ageism, by Don Tassone

16/3/2019

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When I was in my twenties, I started running on a bike trail along a river near my house. I ran fast, as I had all my life.

I said hello to other runners as they passed me. The other young runners, that is. Older runners didn’t interest me. In fact, for some reason, they made me feel uneasy.

Every once in a while, I’d see this older man on the trail. I’d watch him jogging toward me, but as he drew near, I would lower my gaze. Close up, I never looked at him or even acknowledged him.

In my thirties, I still ran at a good clip but not as fast. I’d still see the old man from time to time too. Now he was trotting, not jogging, and when he got close, I’d still avert my gaze.

When I hit 40, I dialed back on running and started jogging. My knees began to hurt. I still said hello to the younger runners, although some of them seemed not to see me, especially the women.

And I’d still see that old man. Now he was walking. When I passed by him, I still didn’t look at him.

At 45, my hips began to hurt, and I began to alternate walking and jogging. None of the other runners paid much attention to me. I felt invisible to women.

One day, I spotted the old man in the distance. He was walking with a cane. As I got closer, I decided to look at his face. The closer I got, the more familiar he seemed. When we were just a few feet apart, I realized he looked just like me, and his face was simply an older version of mine.

“Hello,” I said.

“Hello,” he said, smiling.

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Extremes, by Don Tassone

13/3/2019

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George Abbott was a man of extremes. To be more precise, he pushed the limits of everything and everyone, especially himself.

He worked harder than anyone. His company led its industry on every measure. He pushed his employees to achieve more every quarter. He acquired more wealth than just about anyone. His home was the largest in the city. He married five women, divorced them all and sired 15 children. He ate like a horse and weighed as much as a pig.

One night, George had a dream. He dreamed he was a pendant, suspended from a great pendulum by a thread. He had swung to one side as far as he could go. Any farther and the thread would snap. He knew he must stop and swing back or risk flying into the abyss.

The next day, George put both his company and his house up for sale. He instructed his attorney to divide his proceeds equally among his children and his ex-wives.

A few days later, he moved into a one-bedroom apartment with no furniture, except for a mat. He began eating only one bowl of rice a day and drinking only water.

Sitting on his mat, George began each day in prayer. Day after day, he talked with no one and saw only those passing by his window. He had no computer or cell phone. He read no books and watched no television.

Instead, he simply sat and reflected on the excesses of his life. He wondered how his life had veered off to such an extreme.

Over many months, George grew thin and weak. One morning, after prayer, he fell backward, too weak even to sit up. He looked up at the ceiling, which opened, revealing blue sky.

George watched as the clouds in the sky became more distant and realized he was falling. He fell for a long time. Then his fall slowed and stopped, and he began rocking, gently rocking, back and forth, as if he were in a cradle, rocking slower and slower and slower until at last he was centered and still.

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A Pivotal Fix, by Jim Bartlett

10/3/2019

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Grabbing hold of one of the cross arms, Astronaut Raymond Mason pulls himself under the ISS’s solar panel for a better view of the swing hinge. The idea is to get a closer look at the sticky pivot point, but he smiles, for here it is even harder to focus, as the heavenly glow of Earth, 250 miles below, steals both his gaze and his breath. Stretched out before him, it basks in the sun’s light, showing off the varying blues of the oceans, the white of the soft icing-like clouds, the tan of the dry desert sands, and the crusty brown of the mountains, some tipped in bright-white snow. Making it all the more spectacular, the luminescence of Earth, this living, breathing organism, is solidly framed by the deep black of space just behind, its vastness nearly overwhelming. He takes in one last look before turning back to the mount.
The problem practically jumps out at him. A bushing has caught against the rotating arm, leaving metal to rub against metal. He shakes his head at its simplicity, and reaches into his tool pouch, pulling out his wrench. Making sure to lash the lead, he twists around the side and starts to--
“Raymond?”
--loosen the long hinge bolt--
“Hey, anybody there? Earth to Raymond...”
He wants to ignore the call, revel in the moment, but a hand wraps around his ankle and yanks him out from under the Audi.
“Hey, come on, maaaan...that old lady, Mrs. Weathers, is asking about her car. Ya got it figured out yet?”
His boss, Dennis – or, “Rooster” as everyone calls him, with all the strutting he does around the garage – stands over him, hands on his hips. He’s a tall skinny kid, a good 25 years younger than Raymond, who can’t seem to get the hang of shaving or combing his hair, and spits while he talks. But his uncle owns the shop, so...
“Yeah. It’s a bushing on the tie-rod. Just a couple more minutes to slip on a new one. Probably have to check the alignment.”
“Good. So get with it...” Rooster gives a swift kick to the bottom of Raymond’s shoe and disappears back in the office.
With a deep sigh and a shake of the head, Raymond rolls the creeper back under the car.
It’s then, not too far off in the distance, he hears the roaring locomotive fast approaching. As it closes in, the rumble of the tracks reverberate into the trestle pillars, and it shakes him to the very marrow of his bones. Dangling from his rope, 500 feet above the raging river below, Special Ops Agent Raymond Mason realizes he only has a matter of seconds to get the pivot bolt back into the support arm, or the President’s train will go crashing into the canyon in a flaming heap...

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Selfless, by Don Tassone

10/3/2019

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He stepped into the kitchen from the hallway.

“Hi,” she said.

“Hello.”

“Finished?”

“For the morning.”

“Productive?”

“Yeah. I’m putting finishing touches on a marketing plan for a new client. I’ll probably send it over this afternoon.”

“Hungry?”

“Starving.”

“We have that leftover spaghetti from last night.”

“Sounds good,” he said, pulling open the refrigerator door.

“Join me,” she said, walking by him into the family room. She was carrying a sandwich and a glass of water.

He pushed the cold spaghetti onto a plate with a fork and slid it into the microwave.

“Care if I watch the news?” she called to him.

“Nope.”

When his lunch was ready, he joined her in the family room. They sat at opposite ends of the sofa.

On TV, a man anxiously reported on an outbreak of measles because of children whose parents had refused to have them vaccinated.

“That’s terrible,” she said. “Those poor kids.”

“Just wrong,” he said.

“If we had had kids—“ she said.

He waited for her to continue, but she said nothing more. He looked over at her. She was looking down with tears in her eyes.

“What’s wrong, honey?” he asked, reaching over and putting his hand on her back.

“Do you think we made the right choice?” she said, her voice trembling.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean not to have children.”

“Yes,” he said. “Yes, I do.”

“Well, sometimes I’m not sure.”

“Why do you say that?”

“I mean sometimes it feels so selfish.”

“Hun, we’ve been over this,” he said, rubbing her back.

“I know,” she said softly.

“You know the opposite is true. We’re being selfless. There are far too many people in the world. We’re doing our best to lessen the burden on our planet. Our choice is a kindness.”

“I suppose you’re right,” she said, wiping her eyes with a tissue.

They resumed watching the news, saying nothing more, and finished their lunch. He stood up, then bent down and kissed her on top of her head.

“I love you,” he said.

“I love you too.”

“I’m going back to work.”

“Okay.”

He began to walk back toward the kitchen, then turned around.

“Would you like to invite Matt and Sarah over for drinks tonight?” he asked.

“No. I’d rather not.”

“Okay.”

He put his plate in the sink and walked back down the hallway to his office. She picked up the remote and turned off the TV. The house was so quiet, and she felt so lonely.

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One Last Ride, by Doug Bartlett

8/3/2019

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Burt Collins was a decent human being, a great husband, a wonderful father and grandfather, and oh yes, he had made millions of dollars in the stock market. Everyone who knew him loved him but didn’t care too much for his wife. Susan, his rich and conceited widow, had fond memories of their life together as she was being wheeled from the chapel, having been confined to a wheelchair the past several years. The quick ride to the cemetery was not quick enough for her as she was concerned about arriving late, but she knew they wouldn’t dare start without her. Upon her arrival at the gravesite she had assistance in getting out of the vehicle and was quickly surrounded by family and friends. She felt sorry for many of them, thinking they were jealous of her and her money, even though they could walk and she could not. She could hear them talking about her, but only her six-year-old grandson would talk directly to her. Finally, the service came to a close and people began leaving until Susan found herself all alone, with the exception of the two workers who carefully lowered her into the ground beside her husband.

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The Basement Chamber, by Jim Bartlett

8/3/2019

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He follows her down the winding staircase, more a rickety pile of ancient boards and rusty nails than a series of steps. By the time he’s at the halfway point, the chill in the air has crept into his bones, and he begins to shiver. He wonders if it’s really the cold that raises the goosebumps on his arms, the hair on the back of his neck, or this place and its past have left their mark.
“Come on, get a move on,” she calls, already to the bottom.
He picks up his pace, coming to the landing where the walls are nothing more than flaking cinder blocks, the only lighting flickering torches that make the shadows sway in a ghostly dance. He tries to keep his focus on the sound of his own footsteps as they clack on the stone floor, because off in the distance he can hear the rumble of thunder; while right here, in this very chamber, he hears the echoes of bygone screams forever trapped in the walls.
As with the floor above, cobwebs fill in the crevices and cracks, they dangle from the archways and ceiling, hide in the swirling shadows. He can’t help but bat the air in front of him as he inches forward, worried that any moment he may walk face first into a giant tarantula.
Or a dead body.
They round a corner – she’s still twenty paces ahead - when he comes upon a thick wooden door that sits slightly ajar. Peeking in he can see a table, chains and pulleys strewn atop, a lumberjack-sized axe stuck in one of the tree-trunk legs. Chain-link bindings hang from the wall next to an open box with a variety of knives and nooses and even a long, thin, sharp stake, something like what his dad might use for a shish kabob.
“There are s-s-stains on this t-t-table,” he stutters out.
“Well, what’dya expect?” she says with a roll of the eyes and a dismissing shake of the head, “it’s a torture chamber.”
From somewhere behind, a tormented moan fills the air, followed by several shrieks of terror.
“AHHHHH! That’s it for me,” he shouts. Ignoring the webs and chains and haunting shadows, he dashes past her and down the hall. Racing by three or four more open doors - none of which he has the slightest inclination to turn his head for a look - he comes to a slow bend in the corridor that finally leads to the exit.
He bursts outside, stopping at the closest tree to catch his breath, gather his wits. Maybe even quit shaking. He’s only there a moment when she pops up behind him.
“That was fun. Let’s do the roller coaster now...”

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The Clubhouse, by John M. Carlson

8/3/2019

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Enough is enough! I thought, as I slipped out of Grandma’s house.

The day had begun as a nice celebration of Grandma’s 90th birthday. Then, a couple of my aunts started screaming to each other about the 2016 presidential election. It might be 2019, but that mere detail would never stop my aunts from arguing about Hillary Clinton vs. Donald Trump.

It was now late afternoon. I shivered as the damp Washington state cold cut through my sweatshirt. Still, it was more comfortable being out here than in the overly warm living room, listening to my aunts shriek at each other.

I wandered through the yard, and past the back fence into the woods. How many hours had I spent back here when growing up? I wondered. It had been my go-to place when escaping from family when I was growing up.

I finally reached a small, ramshackle shed. I have no idea why it was first built, but when Jeff and I started a club the summer we were 12, this shed made a handy clubhouse.

I went inside. Everything had a film of dust and dirt. The roof apparently leaked now. The wobbly old card table we had sat at during our meetings now had rusty legs. Pictures clipped from a magazine we'd put on the walls were now faded and brittle.

But one important thing hadn't changed at all. There was a feeling of peace out here. This place was still a good way to escape some of the crazier members of my family.

“Great minds think alike, although that doesn’t explain why you also came here!” came Jeff’s voice from the doorway. I turned and glared at him. He grinned, and stepped in. He looked around a moment. “It looks like this place hasn’t been used for anything since our last club meeting thirty years ago.”

“Probably not.” I picked up a rusty tea tin that had been used for our club savings. I rattled it. It was empty. “Someone seems to have stolen our club treasury, though.”

“Big deal. There wouldn’t have been enough for even a gumball machine.” Jeff glanced at his watch. “Dinner should be on soon. We’d probably better get back.”

Dinner sounded good. Another thing that hadn’t changed: we always made sure we got back to Grandma’s in time for dinner.

We headed out of the clubhouse. I carefully closed the door, and we started walking back to Grandma’s house.

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A Spy In The Camp, by Kim Hare

8/3/2019

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Anna saw Albert approaching through her restaurant’s main window which overlooked the graveled car-park out front. Unable to remember if she’d unlocked the entrance doors and knowing a ‘closed’ sign would not deter him, she hurried through to meet him.
‘Roses looking good today, eh?’ he said, traipsing a great pile of thick mud across her newly washed restaurant floor.
‘Morning Albert. Yes. Maybe today you could weed the..’
‘Saw your Cousin yesterday, tell you what, their new place is a bloody gold mine! They’re reapin’ it in. D’you know, she told me they were fully booked every night last week? Yeah! I know! Even had to hire extra waitresses!’
Anna held herself upright against the bar, watching the trail of mud solidify. More work. She wished he’d just go away. She rubbed at her scar.
‘Yeah’ he said, getting cosy ‘course, you wouldn’t know what with refusin’ to talk to them and all that, but you’ll need to watch out or they’ll be stealing your customers next. S’funny too, cos I remember I was the one wot told them all about your new decor, you know, and how you’ve been doing so well with it all, and d’you know, they’ve had their place done out just the same! I know! Still, must get on, don’t want to get in your way.’
Anna watched him leave and stood for a long moment, waiting for the burning rage to subside and then went to fetch her mop. As she cleaned his mess, she thought of all the hard work she and her team had had to put in to get this place going. She pictured her so-called family’s cold disinterest, refusal to reconcile. All these years, she thought, all these years of hard graft, of trying to do the right thing. How easy it seemed for her cousins and her Aunts to so openly steal away her business, no shame, no remorse. It was as if they could do what they pleased to her. And Anna supposed they could. For what could she do?
They’d always called her the witch. Ever since she was little. Her mother had tried to protect her but had died so young, Anna could barely remember her. Then having to live with her Aunts and cousins had been horrific and Anna had been glad to leave, go to college, train as a chef. She’d barely noticed her cousins had followed her into the trade. She’d been too busy putting a roof over her head and later trying to help other young waitresses, giving them jobs, sometimes even a room. Yes, she’d been rather busy this past twenty years, and now she saw that she’d thought she’d helped Albert too. But Albert was in fact a spy in the camp and not at all the benevolent soul she’d imagined. What a fool she’d been. Well no longer, she thought. She put down her mop. It was time, she decided, to go to war.

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Clueless in Seattle, Doug Bartlett

2/3/2019

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A small group of strangers were huddled around a long, oak table adorned with two ornate candlesticks that were lit to help provide an ambience of mystique for this particular evening.

The group consisted of:
Tiffany Brown, School Teacher
Georgeanne Cratchett, Nurse
Debbie Spellman, Engineer
John Mustard, Air Force Colonel
Joyce Fox, Psychiatrist
Kristin Tyson, Stock Broker
Mike Manson, Plumber
Mary Johnson, hostess of the bed and breakfast inn.

The table was located in the center of the upstairs dining room in a bed and breakfast inn on the outskirts of Seattle. They had all signed up with Mary to play the murder mystery game that the inn provided for their guests’ enjoyment. Mary’s explanation of the rules for the game was cut short by the lights going off unexpectedly. Mary told the group to stay seated and remain calm. “This happens periodically, and the electrical panel is downstairs in the library. I’ll be right back,” she said as she grabbed her flashlight and rushed hastily out of the room. Fifteen minutes later the agitated group had run out of patience, demanding someone in the group needs to do something. Finally, the Air Force colonel stands up, grabbing one of the two candlesticks from the table, saying “I’ll go, but I’ll need this to see my way down the stairs.” Arriving at the bottom of the stairs, he realized he didn’t have a clue where the library was. He systematically tried each door in the hallway until he reached his goal. As he was entering the room he raised the candlestick higher. At the same time, Mary, hearing his footsteps behind her, began turning around while her face filled with pure, unadulterated terror. She shrieked at the top of her lungs, “No, no…it can’t be…It’s Colonel Mustard…in the library…with the candlestick!!!”

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Prepared, by Jim Bartlett

1/3/2019

4 Comments

He turns into the short alley, keeping his pace steady, his breaths deep. Training. Running this distance is all about the training. Back when he’d first started, he’d checked this route, time and again – plenty of visibility, no tripping hazards, no dogs, no unexpected delivery trucks popping out – and then began running it three times a week. It took him nearly six months to build up the endurance, even though he was young and it was only a four mile trek. But, with sheer determination, good preparation, and wearing the right gear – top-notch running shoes, loose shirt and pants, and a good heavy backpack - he soon nailed it, the run becoming almost second nature.

Shooting out from the alley, he cuts along a back street, staying close to the fence line and away from the traffic. This is the only section of his route that takes him close to a roadway, and even though it’s a residential area, he keeps his eyes peeled. Watching. Ever ready.

Prepared.

Then, from somewhere behind, seemingly over and above his left shoulder, he hears a rumble in the sky. A forceful stirring of the wind that sends fear deep into his bones. It closes in, the rumble becoming a loud roar, an ominous growl. It churns his adrenaline, and he reaches deep inside, pressing his pace faster and faster, his legs stretching out longer.

He breathes hard. Quick.

It’s right over him now, despite his pace, his training, his preparedness. Its reverberation makes the cement quiver below him, the fence boards along his side rattle and shake. A tornado-like blast of foul heated air crashes into the tress, their branches swaying and rocking, throwing a flurry of leaves onto the parked cars and blanketing the street.

He closes his eyes. Clenches his fists. Pushes even harder.

But it’s not enough. From just above, a voice cuts through the roar, angrily shouting out from a loudspeaker on the helicopter. “This is the police! Stop now! Throw down your weapon and drop to the sidewalk, arms and legs spread out!”

He legs stop on their own, just as two police cars screech around the corner ahead, their lights flashing, sirens blaring. Defeated, he tosses his gun to the side, unhooks his backpack stuffed with the bank’s money and lays it on the curb, and then drops to the concrete, spreading out as if making angel wings in the snow.

He thought for sure he was prepared. Ready.

But so were they...

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