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The Donor, by Doug Bartlett

27/3/2020

Chuck was taking his young daughter to school one morning when she became inquisitive about his schedule for the remainder of the day.
“So Dad what are you going to do after you drop me off?” she asked.
“Well, my next stop is to donate blood at the center and then I’m headed for work,” he said.
“It sure seems like you give blood an awful lot. ''
“ I give as much and as often that they will allow me.”
“Why do you do that?”
“For two reasons.,”The first is that it helps others. Secondly,” Chuck spoke softly as a tear began to form in one eye it reminds me of when my life was saved by a blood donor and it keeps me grateful.”
“I didn’t know you were in an accident and needed blood,” she responded with a quizzical look on her face.
“No honey, I was never in an accident.”
“ Did you have some kind of disease?”
“No I didn’t have a ……. Well, yes you might say I did.Many, many years ago a very special donor gave his blood so I could have the opportunity to be delivered from that disease. He was special because he was the only one who could do it.”
“Would you say his blood was unique?”

“I’d say it was divine.”

As Usual, by Bruce Levine

27/3/2020

They were sitting at their desk – nothing unusual - their usual morning routine. He had gotten up, as usual, earlier than she because their dog woke him, as usual, wanting to have breakfast and go out. She remained in bed, still sleeping, he hoped, but often she was only resting until he got back and was already at their desk.

They enjoyed the routine of her coming into their study where he was checking the morning’s email and other pertinent websites which set the day in motion – he always immediately got up to share a good morning hug. It was a wonderful way to begin the day.

She’d join him at their desk – they gotten one large enough to accommodate both of them as they worked on their various projects – and she’d check her email and other pertinent websites.

It was all a part of their usual routine and, while to some, it might seem like a rut, it was perfectly natural and comfortable to them; as was the comfortable silence while they both focused on their tasks.

A prelude to the day ahead, a glimpse into the unknown as they both perused their computer screen listings and looked for the news of the day, not the world news, but their own, private news that would set wheels in motion one way or the other.

Would today bring news of a new publication – something to cheer about, to celebrate? Today – yes! A poem of hers was being published, marking a significant goal in a periodical. That alone was enough to fill them with joy for today, and probably tomorrow.

But tomorrow was another day and they’d begin it in their usual way. Today, the sun was shining both inside and out.

Today was a good day.

He Wasn’t Her First, by NT Franklin

20/3/2020

Emily knew he spotted her across the room. The blond wig always did the trick at seedy bars. She hoisted a cheek onto an empty barstool, then seductively crossed her legs. She counted to herself…one…two…three…

“I’m Sam. Can I buy you a drink?”

He didn’t make it to five, she thought. “Thanks. Scotch, neat.”

A nod to the barkeep and a glass with scotch appeared.
“You come here often?” Sam asked.

Is that the best he can come up with? she said to herself “First time. I’m new in the area and I don’t know anyone.”

He watched her throw back the drink.

“Another?” Sam asked.

“Maybe, but I’d like to get out of here.”

“I live around the corner if you’d like a nightcap.”

“You know, Sam, I’d like that.

He really did live just around the corner. Emily took off her coat and made herself comfortable. When Sam came out of the kitchen and set down the two drinks, she stood up. He retuned her warm smile and she went to him. From behind, she put her left hand on Sam’s forehead. Sam closed his eyes and as she pressed firmly on his forehead. He never saw the right hand come shooting up, cupping the chin and snapping his head back in concert with a quick twist of the left hand. This wasn’t her first. In fact, Sam made lucky thirteen.

Humanity’s Dark Forces, by Sankar Chatterjee

20/3/2020

Karen Albert, an US millennial was exploring China, when a spreading flu-virus forced her to change travel-plan. She flew out to Siem Reap, Cambodia to visit Angkor Wat, followed by a trip to country’s capital Phnom Penh. While there, Karen learned about a well-preserved former state-sponsored torture site, now converted into Tuol Sleng Museum. Previously, Karen visited historic Nazi death camps from Holocaust in Auschwitz, Poland. She knew that Cambodia had witnessed its own dark era under ruthless Khmer Rouge dictator Pol Pot.

One morning she journeyed there. On entrance, she noticed four multistoried buildings that originally housed a high school, later transformed into torture centers. Building windows were reinforced with iron bars and barbed wires preventing escapes and suicides, especially jumping from upper floors. Estimated fourteen thousand prisoners were brutally tortured here and then murdered in killing fields throughout countryside. Most of the original victims were from previous government including soldiers and officials, along with intellectuals and suspected rebels. Later dictator’s own paranoia would turn him on his own ranks in purging the senior members of the regime. The site was liberated by neighboring Vietnamese army, handing over to a new government that converted the place to current museum to educate world citizenry about the danger of the rise of a genocidal dictator in a democracy.

Karen entered the first building, hallway lined with torture chambers. The regime carried out their hellish work here till the very last moment, killing the last victims. Thus, several rooms contained only a rusting iron bed frame, beneath a black and white photograph showing the room as it was discovered. Each photograph displayed the mutilated body of the last prisoner, chained to the bed and murdered by fleeing captors. Recovered bodies of fourteen such last victims were buried in a plot just across from this building. Karen felt a sudden chill flowing down her spine, same kind she’d experienced standing inside a preserved gas-chamber in the Auschwitz complex.

Several rooms in next building were lined with some of the prisoners’ photographs found in regime’s archives. As she strolled past those haunting black and white photos, their sorrowful gazing reminded Karen atrocities taken place here. There were also photographs of the leaders of the regime unmasking the human faces of the perpetrators. In another building, the class rooms were partitioned into smaller cells for imprisoning the victims, both for torture and isolation over a long period of time. Various instruments of torture were displayed in the final building along with the paintings of horrific torture scenes. They were created by a fortunate surviving artist, based on his memory. He was spared to paint the propaganda portraits of the dictator. A depiction of a water-boarding in progress reminded Karen about its very recent use by the American interrogators in the Guantanamo Bay prison sites.

Later, standing in front of an outdoor memorial dedicated to the victims, Karen reflected how quickly the promise of “Never Again” from the Holocaust was forgotten by humanity.

A Drystone Port in a Winter Storm, by Sue Clayton

20/3/2020

Driving along a lonely stretch of road towards Mallam in the Yorkshire Dales I parked my old white Volkswagen next to a drystone wall to sit out an approaching squall.
Ominous steely-grey clouds scudded across the tors and fells before opening their bowels to hurl an icy sheet over the barren moor. Heather and gorse bushes twisted and flailed, their limbs shredded by tortuous gusts from a howling blizzard.
“Baah,” a dejected bleat rose from the other side of the wall trembling in the face of the tempest but standing firm, a testament to age-old skills.
Separated from the flock, the lone moorland ewe, tiny lamb huddled between her legs, was sheltering against the wall. Her grey fleece quivered; it provided little warmth as the biting wind cut through to her tender flesh. A halo of white sleet circled her black face. Occasionally she bent to nuzzle her lamb back between her legs as it stole a look at the bleak landscape.

“Away, Brandy,” the Kelpie sheepdog, nose pressed against the front passenger window, paws gripping the window ledge, leapt to the ground from the farmer’s battered Ute that had pulled up behind me.
Brandy crouched and crept on all fours through a wooden gate and slunk over to the wayward ewe. Too frozen stiff to take flight, the lamb too frightened to leave the sanctuary of its mother’s legs, the ewe could only stamp her foot in defence. Brandy smoothly mustered mother and baby out of the gate and back to the farmer who manhandled the ewe into the stock crate on the back of the vehicle, gently laying her lamb beside her.
“Well done, lad,” Brandy leapt up and down beside his master, in the mad frenzy of a Kelpie, begging more praise for a job well done, his panting breath dissipating into steam as it met the icy air.

“You alright?” protected by his thick woolen jumper under a sheepskin coat, the farmer strode over to my car. I opened the door, trying to stop it from being wrenched off its hinges by the shuddering gusts. The sub-zero temperature blasted my face.
“I’m fine, thanks.” I shivered out the words. “I’ll just wait until the worst is over then drive on into Mallam.” I looked at the ewe in the crate. “I’m glad you found her. She’s too big for me to have been able to do anything for her. I don’t think the pair of them would’ve have lasted much longer.” With a wave of his hand the farmer drove away.
“Baah,” a relieved bleat came from the stock crate on the back of the truck where the ewe sat on an old sack; the lamb nestled between her legs. Icy sleet melted and ran down her black woolly cheeks. Her lips curled as she licked away the moisture.
Or maybe it was tears of joy running down her black woolly face.

Postings, by Jim Bartlett

20/3/2020

“Thanks. Should you reconsider, please give me a call.” Andy disconnects and leans back in his chair with a heavy sigh. The only ring on his phone since ten this morning and it went absolutely nowhere. He shakes his head, both frustrated and disgusted. The automation was only supposed to cut into his department’s sales by twenty or thirty percent, but it’s been more like eighty.

At least he still has a job. Two of his close friends lost their jobs when the robotics took over most of the assembly section.

With another shake of the head he flips his screen between Twitter, Instagram, and Facebook, only to see that the scumbag he’s been “arguing” with, “Red Rider2,” has posted yet another incendiary comment.

“Listen you socialist libtard, all your candidate will be doing with his communistic rhetoric is making this country into another Venezuela. Have you noticed how well THEIR economy is doing?”

Andy hisses under his breath. Libtard...he hates that label. Teeth grinding, he again leans back in his chair hoping, praying, that the phone will ring and tear him away from the building anger he feels inside. But it sits quiet and he finds his gaze wandering across to Clarissa Mallow, his favorite distraction.

With the phone to her ear, she stares at her screen, an intense focus reflecting that her department, like his, is undergoing a lot of change. And the stress is showing. The difference for her is that she’s the department’s director, and the pain of the losses of personnel hits closer to home, as she has not only had to make the tough decisions, but worse, be the bearer of bad news.

She’s about his age, maybe a year or two younger, and though her forehead is crunched, he can tell her skin is soft, her heart is big. She’s thin – probably likes to run or workout like him – and wears her brunette hair shoulder-length. He sighs wistfully – he’d love to ask her out, but knows she’s way out of his league. Even the little things, such as the Yale diploma that hangs from the wall of her cubicle, as compared to the Cal State Fullerton he sports, make the possibilities ever less likely.

Besides, as a director, she’s three levels up from him; he can hardly see her “slumming.”

He sighs again and turns back to his screen and types. “You know, you illiterate hillbilly, you really need to take that glowing red neck of yours right back to the 1950s where it belongs. In case you haven’t heard, there are a couple of other countries out there that have socialism.”

* * *

Clarissa sets her phone down – more bad news about layoffs – and, nearly in tears, looks to her screen as a new post pops up from that liberal loser, “Make-a-Left.” Illiterate hillbilly? Really? What a jerk! She slips up closer to the keyboard, her mind racing. This deserves a proper “reply.”

The Visitors, by Marjan Sierhuis

20/3/2020

After lunch, Cosmo leans his elbows on the kitchen counter and looks out the window. He suddenly frowns. He removes binoculars from a drawer, raises them to his eyes and focuses on a mysterious object in the backyard. It emits flashes of light off its body at 3-second intervals.

"Brea was there anything recently on the news about unusual sightings in this area?" he asks his wife.

"Why, Cosmo," she says as she joins him at the window and puts an arm around his waist.

"Well, a strange looking craft appears to have landed on our property."

"That thing," says Brea. "I forgot to mention that the occupants must still be rummaging around in our basement."

"How bizarre." "What are they looking for?"

Brea nudges Cosmo in his side.

Arms filled with paper towels, toilet paper and disinfectant, earthlings pass the couple and exit the backdoor.

"I hope they left us some," says Cosmo with a perplexed look on his face.

The Fence, by Mary Wallace

20/3/2020

“The neighbours got a dog, a big black brute,” he told his wife.“Saw it yesterday."
“His name's Rex,” his six year old said. ”We play together!"
Jed looked at the high fence between his property and the neighbours, and then down at his son; at the frame which helped support his tiny body. It was unlikely George would ever be able to play with such a large dog.
“How do you play with Rex” he asked, “what about the fence?”
“I’ll show you daddy.” George led his parents outside collecting the 'pick-up-stick' he used to help put on his socks.
“Rex” he yelled loudly and a large black head holding a very dirty looking ball, bobbed up on his side of the fence. Rex dropped the ball and George picked it up with his stick and tried to throw it back. It took three tries but the ball was eventually returned to Rex, who promptly dropped it over the fence again.
“He doesn’t mind if I’m a bit slow,” George said proudly.

A Perfect Sleep, by Bruce Levine

20/3/2020

“See the joy of getting up early,” she said, pointing to the clock. “It’s only eight-thirty…”

“There’s no joy in getting up early,” he answered, sarcastically. “Nine-thirty is normal, ten is better.”

She laughed because she knew he meant it. He never liked to get up earlier than ten o’clock if possible and only got up earlier when he had to. There was even a period that, for ten years, he had to get up at six and he did that, but only because he absolutely had to.

They were both night people. His idea of the perfect go to sleep time was between two and five a.m. He’d actually told her of a period that he’d slept from five a.m. until one p.m. every day and he loved it; he thought that was the only perfect sleeping period of his life.

She watched him working at his computer, struggling to keep the blood flowing through his veins at what he thought was an ungodly hour.

It wasn’t that she loved being up early, but she felt like she was getting so much more done when she did. And today she seemed to be doing that. She’d already finished most of her morning To Do checklist and was on to the next project.

They both had extensive To Do lists daily and they tried to get through everything, but usually ended up carrying things over to the next day. Not because of any lack of effort to complete the list, but because there never did seem to be enough time in one day to complete everything they wanted to do.

Maybe she’s right, he thought as he checked another thing off his list as done. Maybe he would finish everything today – it would be a first… Maybe getting up early was a good idea even though it wasn’t intentional, even today. Today their dog had awakened them earlier than usual. No particular reason it seemed.

He sipped his coffee and wondered if he should go back to bed for a little while. No, he decided, that would defeat the whole purpose of getting up with their dog and starting the day. He’d actually thought of going back earlier and resisted.

The clock chimed nine.

He sat, focusing on his To Do list. He wondered whether completing it was worth feeling his eyes heavy with the desire to be in bed, still sleeping. If he had allowed himself the perfect sleep he would be getting up in about a half hour anyway.

He picked up a pencil and started to write at the bottom of the list – SLEEP…

Now all he had to do was get through everything above that single word and then he could check off the final item for the day.

He’d gotten up early today and was getting a lot done and he was glad about that, but it was not a perfect sleep day.

Maybe tomorrow…

The Rock Climber, by Doug Bartlett

13/3/2020

My buddy, the rock climber, wanted to help me get over my fear of heights by taking me rock climbing. This would be my first time at trying anything like that. He said he knew of a beautiful place which was near where we both lived. It’s called Yosemite National Park.
“The fear of heights and high places is a natural fear. That fear can keep you alive but sometimes a fear of Heights comes from ignorance of our safety system. If you’re afraid, check your knots, your belay anchor, which ties you to the rock and don’t look down. You can build up your tolerance for heights by climbing higher each time you go,” my friend explained.
“Wow,” I thought, “This rock climbing is very similar to my life I have experienced since I began following Jesus Christ.”
It’s natural to experience fear as we go through life.Sometimes fear can be good by keeping us alert. Other times we live in fear because we don’t know about our safety system in Jesus Christ. I need to remember to check my knots and anchor, making sure I remain tied to the Rock and continue to look up rather than down as I climb higher each day.

The Pier, by Deborah Shrimplin

13/3/2020

I feel two men step onto my planks where I touch the rocky shore. Their weight creates a snapping, crackling sound. It is the sound of age. I am over sixty.

The man in the gray slacks is talking to the man in faded denim. Their discussion is about me. I'm too old, my creosote is polluting the water, and my boards need constant repair. Barefoot travelers remove splinters and rust is corroding my metal joints. I'm very expensive to maintain. The most economical solution is to destroy me.

It has been a good life. I've weathered years of blazing sun, pouring rain and varying depths of tides. Sea creatures have cruised by on their way out to sea. Seagulls have taken respite on my pylons. Children have scuttled, skipped and fallen on my planks.

What I will miss are the lovers. On warm, summer nights when the moon and stars are at their finest, I feel the lovers carve signs of devotion into my wood. Hearts and plus signs connect loving souls. They stand on me holding hands or embracing or stealing a first kiss. They wonder at the vastness of the universe above me and depths of water below me.

It won't be long before the two men do whatever men do to destroy me. It doesn't bother me to end this life. My metal may end up in a junk yard and my wood recycled. It doesn't bother me at all for I know the lovers will always remember me.

Back to the Field, by Sivan Pillai

6/3/2020

There is pin-drop silence in the stadium as the bowler starts running. As he is about to launch the ball, baring his teeth in utter contempt of the batsman, and jumping into the air, maybe about five feet, I brace myself. I drive the ball across the field and start running, but find, to my horror, that I can’t move my legs, both in a heavy cast of plaster! I scream in agony.
Someone shakes me, calling my name repeatedly. I open my eyes to find my mother’s anxious face over me. I look at my legs frantically and heave a sigh of relief as I find them intact. It is my right arm that is in a cast!
“The usual nightmare?” mother asks, helping me to sit up.
I had been haunted by the same nightmare ever since the accident that brought my ambition to play in the university cricket team to an abrupt end.
“Let’s go to a dance programme tonight,” father suggested later in the day. “It’s Mayuri. And afterwards, we’ll have our dinner at your favourite hotel.” I had heard of the famous dancer, the daughter of father’s friend, but had never met her.
Never enthusiastic about dances, father was doing it only to cheer me up.
The hall was jam-packed. At the end of the two-hour programme, the entire audience gave a standing ovation to Mayuri and her troupe.
“Let’s go meet her,” father said.
She was in the dressing room, still in her costume. Patting me affectionately, she said, “I’m sorry about the accident, but such things happen. As the scriptures say, believe that whatever happens is for our good. Now let me show you something.”
Sitting on a chair, she tugged at her right foot and the next moment she was holding an artificial leg that came off her amputated knee!
“Like cricket to you, dance was my life. Just as I was beginning to get noticed, I met with a terrible accident and my leg had to be amputated. I was so miserable that even the thought of committing suicide crossed my mind. It was then that my dance teacher took control, got me fitted with an artificial leg and made me continue my practice as if nothing had happened. And the rest is history. In comparison, your injury is minor and, God willing, you will hold the bat again in a few days.”
Neither am I going to allow an accident to rob me of my ambition, I said silently while leaving.

Monks To Genocidal Leaders, by Sankar Chatterjee

6/3/2020

Vikram Seth, an Indian tourist was exploring the city of Phnom Penh, the capital of Cambodia. One morning, he came out of his hotel on Street No. 21, crossed the road, and took a left turn. He was told by the hotel-clerk about the Wat Botum, a historic Buddhist pagoda situated within walking distance. Looking at his copy of the city map, he followed the street signs, walked a few kilometers, found the entrance, and entered the complex. Looking around, he noticed a few residential buildings from which young novice monks in orange robes were either entering or exiting. He realized that the main pagoda also functioned as an instructional site for future monks. On inquiry, one of the monks directed him towards the actual temple. The exterior of the building was architecturally magnificent. Various colorful statues adorned the elevated platform. Once inside, he immediately became enthralled listening to a melodic prayer, led by a senior monk and repeated by student monks. He became equally dazzled by the interior arts on the walls along with the shining Buddha statue.

Later in the day, Vikram would visit notorious S-21 Prison buildings in another part of the city. He knew about the recent dark era in country’s history, when ruled by the ruthless dictator Pol Pot. These buildings used to house a local school that was converted into Cambodia's most notorious torture house. More than 14,000 people were tortured here before being killed at various killing fields throughout the country, en route to annihilation of two million citizens. As Vikram began to read some of the recovered historic documents, he stumbled into following information. At birth, Pol Pot was known as Saloth Sar. He had attended Wat Botum for his initiation as a monk. His teachers always considered him “a charming fellow”, someone who never caused anyone any trouble, never started fights - a lovely child. Vikram suddenly remembered the peaceful prayer scene from his morning visit to the same pagoda.

Vikram traveled to Cambodia from neighboring Myanmar. There his travel guide took him to historic cities of Yangon, Bagan, and Mandalay situated in southern and mid-section of the country. But the guide advised him against traveling to northern section, citing some internal political violence. But Vikram became aware of the truth. An “ethnic cleansing” was under way in that part of the country. Minority Islamic Rohingya population had been summarily persecuted by majority Buddhists, led by a firebrand young monk known as Wirathu whom a western magazine termed as “The Face of Buddhist terror”.

In his college days, Vikram once visited the historic tree in the city of Bodh Gaya under which Siddhartha was engaged in his final meditation before becoming enlightened Buddha with wisdom that would encourage him to start his new pacifist religion.

Now standing inside one of these torture chambers of S-29, he wondered what went horribly wrong with Buddha’s teachings to convert all these former peaceful monks into genocidal leaders of modern times.

The Donkey's Behind, by Doug Bartlett

6/3/2020

Jack grew up in a large village in Europe during the Middle Ages. He was one of those kids that was just a pain in the …….., well, let’s just say a donkey’s behind.
The problem only worsened as he grew older.He now was not only an annoyance but he was flirting with the criminal justice system. He was guilty of several offences but always evaded justice by trickery, deception, a technicality or a loophole. He took advantage of anything and everything he could to get away with what he knew was definitely wrong .He thought he was cute and too clever for any policeman or judge.In fact, he considered it a badge of honor that he could outsmart any judge.
One evening Jack committed a crime which had consequences of him being put away for a very, very long time. He was apprehended by the law and was surprised to find himself face to face with a new judge.
“ This would be a new challenge and should be fun,” he thought.
The judge explained to Jack that a new law had been passed and was now enforced. It involved the process of determining someone’s guilt or innocence.
The judge carefully explained to Jack that he would enter the room next to them. The room was dark and contained a donkey.Jack was to find the donkey and pull its tail. If the donkey brayed Jack would be found guilty. Should the donkey remain silent he would be considered innocent.
Jack headed for the room as his mind began calculating how he would get out of this dilemma. The door closed behind him and he realized what he had to do……. absolutely nothing.
“ By not pulling the tail of the donkey would ensure no braying. He only had to wait a few moments in the dark then he could reemerge in the next room with that stupid judge and be ptonounced innocent. He could then go on his merry way and think about his next crime/” he thought, “ This is way too easy.”
Jack walked back in the courtroom, wearing a defiant smirk.
“Did you do exactly as I instructed you to do?” questioned the judge.
“Yes your honor. I did everything you said,” lied Jack.
“Jack, approach the bench and let me see both of your hands,” demanded the judge.
Jack walked forward as he wondered what in the world was going on. He showed the judge his clean , well manicured hands.
“Jack,” the judge declared,” I find you guilty as charged and sentence you to a life sentence!”
Jack was totally shocked and he had just barely opened his mouth to let the judge have it when the bailiff walked the donkey out of the room and by Jack. There it was. The explanation of it all. When the donkey turned Jack could see the donkey’s behind. There it was. It explained everything.The entire tail had been coated with soot and coal dust.

The Abyss, by Bex Gooding

6/3/2020

As I reached over the edge of the sinkhole that dropped at least a hundred and seventy feet the hand that grabbed mine was Beth’s. How ironic that she should be hanging on the edge of the abyss waiting to be rescued.

I’d worked for Beth when she had nothing and built the business up for her over the next fifteen years. She was always self-centred and arrogant but when I helped the company make its first million she turned even more sour. Jealous of my intellect she talked over me in meetings, passed off my ideas as her own, dumped more and more responsibility my way until I said if she didn’t hire more staff I’d end up having a breakdown.

Beth was unsympathetic; said the business needed me full time especially with the move to the new premises. I advised her not to build on that particular site, it was unstable and knowing a thing or two about geology I was confident in my recommendation for an alternative; we argued but Beth knew better and pushed on with the project.

Eventually I couldn’t take any more; if I didn’t cut my hours, the pressure would cut me back permanently. When I told Beth she fired me, just like that. No notice, no severance pay, no reference. I was left with a family to support and bills to pay, hanging on the edge of the abyss, metaphorically speaking.

Ten years later, I’m successful, happy and my children are thriving. I’m also a volunteer rescue worker which is how I ended up here today.

Beth’s building collapsed like a house of cards into a deep sinkhole, just as I had predicted. Beth was on the seventh floor when it happened, others had not been so lucky. Had I still been working for her I’d have been one of the dead at the bottom.

As she dangled on the edge, I looked into her brown eyes and recognition of whose hand held her fate dawned on her. She was too weak to pull herself up, it was my hand between her dropping to the depths of the pit and most probably dying as her body was dashed against the rubble, or survival.

‘Please Ann.’ Beth said, her eyes full of tears.

Had she cared about me all those years ago when I’d asked her to give me a few weeks to find another job? With a husband and baby twins to feed, my salary the only source of income in our household.

‘Please Beth.’ I’d said as she’d turned her back.

My hand was sweating, my grip slipping, should I reach out my other hand and pull her up, or should I let her fall?

I remember saying to Beth that a person’s actions said more about them than their words.

This was the moment that determined what sort of person I was. Could I let her drop to her death? I don’t know.

I looked at her one last time….

We Know You Had Choices, by Sterling Warner

6/3/2020

“This is your captain speaking….sssssssss….fasten those seat belts; this turbulence won’t last.....sssssssss." Click!

“Damn, why the hell can’t Southwest afford a decent intercom, Shelly?”

“Chill, girl. At least we can quit tossing puny peanut packs for a while.”

“Not long enough, Shelly.”

“Well, it gives me enough time to use the bathroom.”

“Okay, I got your back; enjoy.”

“I will,” Shelly smirked.”

Click! “This is your captain speaking; sorry for the bumpy ride, heh, heh!...ssssss…ssssss…No seriously. Hope all is well. Things will smooth out soon, but stay in your seat and keep buckled up for now.”

“’Oh Captain, My Captain,’” Shelly sang out loudly and clearly from a toilet in the tail of the aircraft.”

“What the hell you talkin’ ‘bout in there? Ya’ gotta get back in your seat.”

“Mind your own business; I’ll take care of myself,” Shelly replied with a groan.

Ten minutes later, Shelly walked out of the restroom and hung an Out of Order sign on the door. “What’s up Shelly? Constipation?” Tina snickered.

“No, I would call it engaging in an act of mercy, relieving a man who’s been sporting a raging hard-on since taking Viagra three hours ago.”

Tina smiled. “You little devil! I always sort of had a fantasy about getting in on with someone seven miles in the air in an airplane bathroom. It must have been great?”

“Hardly fulfilling, I assure you, Tina. The sexy stranger just had a heart attack while making love to me.”

“No way!”

“Way!”

“Oh God, how cliché, Shelly: Death during sex.”

“That all you got to say Tina?”

“Dunno—guess we should confirm his death and tell the captain.”

“Hey, girl. I’m not going near him again.”

“Why did you leave the door open, Shell?”

“I didn’t, Tina. What the hell you talking about?”

Tina stepped forward, pointed to the partially open door, then pushed it in. “The bathroom’s empty, Shelley; there’s no dead guy....You little shit!”

“Got cha, Tina!” Shelly jeered, licking her finger and drawing an imaginary #1 in the cold air.

“You bitch!” Tina shouted loud enough for first class passengers to hear. Tina and Shelly looked at them, then at each other and smiled. “Buckle up,” Shelly added. “You’re all in for a bumpy landing!”

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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 some of 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.

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