Blog Archives

Hump Day, by Michael Roberts

26/3/2021

The alarm went off at just after eight.
Hugo needed to pee but just as he pulled himself out of the bed and haded towards the bathroom, his daughter swooped in ahead of him and closed the door.
“I just gotta pee,” he said.
“So do I,” he heard from behind the door, “ and then I gotta get ready to go. I’m running late again.”
“Seriously,” he said, “go pee, let me go then you can have the bathroom to yourself.”
A minute later the door opened.
“Go,” his daughter said, “but please hurry.”
He did, then as she finished in the bathroom, he made himself a coffee from the single-server, even though he knew he’d get a lecture on global responsibility from his daughter for doing so.
After she left, he used the bathroom again, the coffee having worked its magic, hopped in the shower, shaved and then dried off.
As he dressed, he called up his e-mail.
There were two messages from work waiting for him in the IMPORTANT file.
“Open emails,” he told the computer.
One was a reminder of the upcoming fundraiser for some pet project/startup of the CEO’s wife, which Hugo thought was the very opposite of important.
The other was a notice that there was a staff meeting at nine thirty at Corporate.
Hugo looked at the clock.
There was no way he’d make it before then if he drove.
“Alexa,” he said, “Call an express taxi, going from here to PubliPub Corporate HQ”
There was a pause.
“Done,” Alexa said, “Taxi is 4 minutes away.”

There was already a crowd in the main hall when Hugo arrived, but he managed to find Gregor and Nat in the crowd.
“Any idea what it’s about?”
They both shook their heads.
They all found seats near the back and had just sat down when the lights dimmed.

“Good morning to all,” the image on the stage said.
“Good morning, Dr. Stayler.” Everyone said heartily, almost in unison.
Hugo was sure that there was no way to monitor whether or not he had responded properly, but why take chances, he thought.
The last thing you needed was a note in your corporate file.
“Good news,” Stayler said, “ We have been acquired by Liberty Corps and will, as of next week, be the de facto publishing division for their novelization initiative over the next segment. Guidelines as per appropriate novelization topics have been sent as part of a package to your Divisionals and they will download them to the literature teams to use as templates. I look forward to seeing what great works are created in this new initiative.”
“Great,” Nat said, “We’re back to writing paint by number novels, only this time the only acceptable colors are red,white and blue.”
“At least they didn’t fire us,” Gregor said.
“They could have fired us,” Nat agreed.
They shared an econo-cab back to their office and downloaded the package that their Divisional sent them.

Just Another Tuesday Planning and Zoning Meeting at Town Hall, by T A Ciccarone

26/3/2021

“Can I hitch a ride? I don’t care where.”
“That’s a long way, baby. Hop in if you want.”
“Where was it you said that you wanted to go?”
“Anywhere far away from here. I hate this fucking place.”
“Ask real sweet like baby, or this ride is over.”
“That’s so interesting. I thought I was being real sweet.”
“Say it like you mean it baby, or I’m history.”
“It’s your car. Believe what you want. Are we going?”
“Is it my fault?” He asked with a straight face.
“I knew it.” The fact was that he knew nothing.
“Why is it always my fault?” She smiled at him.
“I wish that I had never even picked you up.”
When she said, “God help me,” she wasn’t really serious.
“If you don’t love me I’m going to kill myself.”
His mouth twitched. He had to think of something quick.
“Say one more word and you’re a fucking dead man.”
“I really love you,” she confessed, nonchalantly chambering a round.
He had never been in a situation quite like this.
“I loved you Bobby,” she lamented, scraping up his brains.
He did it. She found out. Now he is dead.
She whispered, “God help me,” It was God’s day off.
He felt the breeze through the center of his head.
She detected daylight where his lying mouth used to be.
He couldn’t explain. The cat must have gotten his tongue.
The shot that kills is the one you never hear.
“What’s wrong with you people,” she shrieked to the crowd.
She saved a round for herself and squeezed the trigger.
He rose from his grave and haunted the neighborhood residents.
She knew that she would never be free of him.
Together they roamed the streets. The neighbors fled in horror.
Of course the reign of terror happened mostly after midnight.
The issue was eventually turned over to planning and zoning.
Haunting was strictly against zoning regulations in a residential neighborhood.
The Planning and Zoning Commissioner thought he’d seen it all.
“I’ve heard some weird stories, but this one’s a beaut.”
He tabled the item in order to open an inquiry.
“This planning and zoning meeting is adjourned until next Tuesday.”
Bobby was waiting for the Commissioner out in the hall.

Flushed with Embarrassment, by Susan Fairfax Reid

26/3/2021

Receiving an email from a magazine editor telling her a story that she had written was going to be published, Denise jumped off the floor. She was as happy as a child who had gotten exactly what she wanted for her birthday.
"Contact everyone on your email list," the editor continued. "Ask them to read your story and comment on it."
Denise picked up her phonebook and quickly flipped through the pages with her fingers, copying email addresses of her friends and relatives onto her yellow legal pad. She couldn't wait to tell them that she was writing again and was going to be published. Her writing had been reborn like the crocuses and daffodils in the yard
Most of the people she emailed said they were glad she was writing again and agreed to do what the editor asked, including, Julie.
She's Denise's former next door neighbor and president of her neighborhood association.
"Did you know that when you sent that email to me, eighty-eight members of the association got it," she asked Denise? Flushed with embarrassment, Denise groaned. Then, she rushed to rectify the situation, writing that she didn't realize she had sent the email to anyone but Julie. "I have two addresses," Julie explained. "Both begin with Julie. Use the one with my dog's picture."
Today, Denise typed Julie's name in the addressee's line to answer a question someone posed in the neighborhood email newsletter. Only one address appeared, the one with the dog's picture.
Maybe someone else's face flushed with embarrassment, too, after Denise's first email went to the neighborhood group.

Sisters, by Phyllis Souza

26/3/2021

Teenage sisters Genie and Mary battled over everything— clothes, food, and Howard. Mary coveted what Genie had, and Howard was no exception.

One rainy night, the sisters wanted to do something different. They took out the Ouija Board. Sitting on the living room floor, they put their fingertips on the heart-shaped planchette,

"Spirit... come." Genie summoned.

Thunder rumbled. The house shook. Lightning lit their faces.

Mary shuddered. "It's here."

The plank moved and pointed at Mary. "Does Howard love me?" She asked and pushed toward YES.

Genie pulled, NO.

The planchette circled the board.

"You're moving it," Mary accused.

"Am not," Genie denied.

The wind howled. Rain pelted against the window.

"I’ll get a candle,” Genie said.

Moments later, Genie returned, shielding its flame with her hand.

"Put your fingers back on the plank," Genie told Mary.

"Does Howard love me?" Again, she asked

"You're stupid! Howard's my boyfriend. He doesn't love you."

"He might."

"Well, he doesn't."

"Liar."

Mary leaped to her feet and kicked the Ouija Board. "Howard does love me. I know he does."

Genie got up and pushed Mary. Mary shoved back. She rushed to the front door. Opened it. A gust of wind blew in.

“It's raining." Genie flew across the room. She slammed the door.

"MY FINGER!!" Mary screamed. "You cut off my finger."

Blood spurted.

"What am I going to do?" Genie clasped the top of her head. "Mom! I'll call Mom."

"Get a towel." She screamed.

Genie dashed out of the room. She returned. Looked the other way and handed
it to Mary.

Sobbing, Mary wrapped her hand.

Genie phoned their mother, Zora, at work.

"Mom, Mary's finger got caught in the door." Genie gasped. "I think it's cut off."

"I'll be right home. See if you can find it." Zora hung up. "Oh, my God."

Genie, eyes flooded with tears, crawled on the floor searching for the top of Mary’s finger. "I... can't find it."

Blood seeped through the cloth.

Their mother pulled onto the driveway, darted into the house, and put her arms around Mary. She glanced at Genie, "Get Mary's coat."

Zora rushed Mary to the emergency room.

Genie stayed home. When she found the fingertip on the carpet next to the door, she vomited.

***

The next day, the sun came out. Its rays shone through the living room window.

When Genie saw Mary, stretched out on the couch with her finger wrapped in gauze and adhesive tape, she had an idea.

Two hours later, someone knocked on the door. Genie opened it and smiled at a delivery person standing on the porch.

"Mary, you got some carnations. You're favorite, pink. There's a note." Genie called.

The note read: 'I'm really sorry, I didn't mean to hurt you.'

A Leader Motivating Another Leader, by Sankar Chatterjee

26/3/2021

Dr. Shantanu Sen, a distinguished professor in the areas of basic human rights, resistance, and nonviolent movements in the Presidency University in Calcutta, India was in the middle of organizing an international conference encompassing his areas of expertise. As the world population has been expanding exponentially, those issues are becoming of paramount importance for the very survival of the societies around the world. As he was researching for some background information, he stumbled into an old black and white vintage photo in a website. In it, Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. and his wife Ms. Coretta King were surrounded by a group of men and women dignitaries. But what attracted Prof.Sen’s special attention was that while Rev. King was dressed in a western-style suit, Ms. King was beaming in joy wearing a sari, usually worn by the women in India. Surprised, Dr. Sen did additional exploration in the virtual world of internet to learn that indeed both Rev. King and Ms. King had visited the country in early 1959. But, Prof. Sen couldn’t remember learning about this historic visit in any history book of post- independent India.

As he dug into more research, Prof. Sen found that the influence of Gandhi-led nonviolent movement against the British colonial power for India’s independence would become the guiding light for Rev. King in his own leadership role in nonviolence struggles of the African Americans for their basic rights in America. Arriving in India, Martin Luther King Jr. commented on his remarkable trip to honor his hero. ..... “To other countries I may go as a tourist, but to India I come as a pilgrim,” he told the dozens of gathering reporters.

Prof. Sen also unearthed the fact that Rev. King drew heavily on Gandhian principle of nonviolence in his own civil rights activism, writing that “while the Montgomery boycott was going on, India's Gandhi was the guiding light of our technique of nonviolent social change. Nonviolence is a more than simply agreeing that you won't physically attack your enemy.”

Ironically, even at the end Rev. King’s fate followed that of Gandhi. Gandhi was assassinated by an ultranationalist Nathuram Godse while walking to a prayer meeting in 1948. His parting words were “Hey Ram (Oh, God).” Twenty years later, Dr. King, was assassinated by James Earl Ray, while standing on the balcony outside his second-story room at the Lorraine Motel in Memphis, Tennessee. In death, he glorified a previous quote of his “Injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere.”

Flames of Uncertainty, by Krystyna Fedosejevs

26/3/2021

Emergency vehicles screeched past Vincent’s bedroom, unsettling night. He longed to resume sleep. His mind resisted.

Hours ago he was with Adriana. She who flaunted elegance in her outlandish way. Accentuated with a floral fragrance he breathed in and held onto.
- - - - - -
“Can’t be,” she gasped.

“What is it?” he asked.

“I must try again.”

As evening progressed, curtains at an opened window fluttered with increased momentum. A Tiffany lamp suspended from the ceiling swayed between them.

Adriana twirled the crystal sphere before her with nicotine fingers. Placed it on the table. Was ready to extract its message.

“You are accident-prone,” she said.

“Yes, I am.”

“Did you have a recent mishap requiring medical attention?” she queried.

“No. Minor injuries.”

“There’s danger in your path,” she gasped. “Need to take precautions.”

A cuckoo clock stroke the new hour with figurines twirling in dance. A black cat on the sofa stretched and recoiled.

“I see a building. People screaming,” she relayed. “Flames bursting through walls.”

“Will I be okay?”

“Not clear. You must leave. Return to the safety of your home.”

Dinner spices infused the dimly-lit staircase Vincent descended from Adriana’s apartment. He reached the building’s exit door. Sighed relief when stepping out.
- - - - - -
Sleep returned, only to be shortened by the shrill of an alarm clock. Vincent sniffed the air. Smoke? Couldn’t be. His smoke detector would’ve sounded.

Following breakfast, he decided on a walk. Striding towards a neighbourhood park, he became increasingly aware of the air’s unusual odour. He changed direction, hastening towards Adriana’s district. He had to talk with her.

“Sorry, no entry. Overnight fire,” yelled a man in uniform as Vincent approached her building.

“Is the occupant of Apartment 203 okay?” asked Vincent.

“No known victims at this time.”

The man answered an incoming call. Turned to face Vincent when finished.

“Fire started by an unattended cigarette,” he stated. “There’s word of a possible casualty.”

The Far Away Man, by Angela Carlton

26/3/2021

You were always there, around a distant corner, the far-away man, in the back of my mind. As my sister lay withering away in a hospital bed, it was you, with those ice-blue eyes, always smiling, that wit, your spark. I could see all of you, still. You were the sunlight and the rain, the thunder and the fire. You were everything rolled into one, and I moved about with those vibrations, that beautiful noise. My feet moved to the rhythm of your noise.

You left me in sweats, aching for something I couldn’t grasp. For we were worlds apart until you sent me that photo. Standing in front of all those tall pines, arms crossed like the forest was your kingdom, and staring fiercely into the camera as if you saw right through me. You saw everything I was and possibly could be. You were the one with the boyish smile I’d seen over and over and over again in my sleep. And this vision stayed with me in a heavy daydream until my sister finally slipped away.

Now, I hold the image of you in my hands teary, rubbing the screen with my fingers and wishing I could let go of everything I’ve lost and let you in, wishing-wishing you could be so much more than the far-away man.

Unspoken Words, by Doug Bartlett

26/3/2021

The massive stroke had left Mark with little energy and not as physically active as before. However, he knew he could be far worse off.He forced himself to do things outside his comfort zone to retain what he had and possibly to regain some lost territory.

He did mental exercises to try and keep what mental capacity the stroke did not affect. One of those activities was to write short fiction stories. He had never done that before and soon realized that this was not a drudgery like some of his other exercises, but was a pleasurable experience and even a true joy. Whenever he finished a story it gave him a sense of purpose and accomplishment. He had a good friend that encouraged him along the journey of this new experience.It also helped him feel good when readers of his stories made favorable comments.

Mark had just finished his 100th story and knew that his friend and the person who posted his stories had no idea how much they meant to him. He decided to write to them to thank them. A task that was long overdue.

He sat down at his computer and began his first of two letters:

“Dear Gordon,

I want to Thank you for gi……”

Mark’s lifeless body slumped in the chair. Somehow it seemed fitting that it was the same chair where he had enjoyed countless hours of joy writing those stories that many seemed to enjoy.

Sherpa, by Neha Varadharajan

19/3/2021

I could feel him stretching on the bed beside me, ready to leave. I was more than half asleep as he kissed the top of my forehead after pushing back my hair and started changing into clothes fit for a raging Sherpa, ready to face the cold and struggle.

“Do you have to go, Mike?” I asked, as he wore his socks.

“I have to, dear,” he said, a tone of regret in his voice. “I know. I shouldn’t have agreed to it when I have a wife and son at home waiting for me. But I pretty much had no choice.”

“How long will you be gone again?”

“Like I said, about two or three months. I’ll be back as soon as possible, after helping those mountaineers.”

He turned to me, and looking at me, added, “I’ll really be home as soon as possible. I promise.”

I cried. Tears fell down my face like nothing Mount Everest might have seen. I was worried for Mike. It would be cold. It would be difficult. He would have to struggle. Climbing the highest peak in the world wasn’t going to be easy for anyone, even an experienced Sherpa like him. It was going to be his first time doing this.

He stopped getting ready, jacket half worn, and hugged me tight. “Don’t cry like this, Ita. When I came to Nepal with you from America to start a new life, and devoid ourselves of life struggles, I never did expect a well-furnished job to do. It’s just a mountain. Yes, it’s the highest peak in the world. But not for once is it bigger than our abilities, our dreams, and our love.”

“I know. I’m just worried.”

“I’ll be back soon. Tell Seamus I’ll be home soon. I don’t want to wake him up, it’ll only worry him more.”

He was ready by now. He picked up his bag and was ready to leave. As he walked to the door, he turned back, came to me, took my hand, and put an ornament on the palm of my hand.

“To be reassured that I’ll be back home very, very soon”, he said calmly. I looked at my palm. A single snowflake was encapsulated in beautiful silver resin. The ornament I wore at our wedding and he loved so much and kept.

“Bye, Mike. Be home soon.”

He kissed the top of my forehead again, and he was gone.

It’s been two years, and Michael shall keep on climbing.

Tax Day, by Doug Bartlett

19/3/2021

Steven had been sitting for fourteen hoursbehind his large, oak dining room table which
was covered with three mountains of paperwork, a calculator, a stale cup of coffee, an ashtray brimming with cigarette butts and three pencils that recently had their erasers reduced to nubs.

Tomorrow was April 15th and he had to somehow finish his income taxes and get them in the mail or suffer a severe penalty. There was a glass of water nearby along with a half full bottle of aspirin which was near his blood pressure medicine. He took three more aspirins out of the bottle and immediately popped them in his mouth and downed them with a large gulp wishing he had something stronger than water.

Every year it was always the same. Why did he always wait until the last minute? He kept telling himself next year would be different, but it never was.

His head was throbbing,his neck was sore and his back ached.

“ When will those pills kick in? “ he thought.

He was exhausted and famished but knew he couldn’t stop to rest or eat as time was running out and he wasn’t even halfway done.

He grabbed a small pile of papers and looking through bloodshot eyes began adding up the totals on the bottom of the receipts. He was almost finished with that when he realized he had made a mistake and had to start all over again. This happened more than once. His exhaustion was taking its toll.

He was not only physically exhausted but was mentally exhausted as well. Fear began to set in as he thought if he made the slightest mistake the Internal Revenue Service would come down hard on him with draconian punishment. He absolutely hated this time of year.

His young son arrived home from school and as he entered the house he told his dad they were discussing why April 15th was called Tax Day and none of the kids seemed to know why.

“ Do you know why Dad ? ”

“ Because son, it is very taxing !!! “

A Never Ending Human Failure, by Sankar Chatterjee

19/3/2021

Mark Morrison, a foreign-exchange student from the US was spending a semester in the famous Jawar Lal Nehru University in New Delhi, India. He enrolled in courses in eastern religion, philosophy, and non-violence movement. India just elected a new prime minister who campaigned on the promise of uniting the citizens from various ethnic and religious backgrounds, while leading the nation to be a regional superpower. However, his base consisted of ultra-nationalists from the country’s major religious group. In fact, Mr. Prime Minister himself had been implicated in the past for instigating a communal riot resulting in numerous deaths of the members of country’s religious minority. As a shrewd politician, he was able to evade all charges against him, thus sparing any jail term. Thus, it was no surprise that within a short period of his election, his followers had begun to impose their religious edicts, while harassing, taunting and even gang-killing the members of the religious minority.

However, the news from back home was equally frightening. The US had elected a bigoted strongman to be the next President. His hatred towards minority immigrants gave rise to the re-emergence of dormant white supremacists. Carrying lighted torches, this band of thugs openly chanted hateful rhetoric, while parading in a quaint campus town. The strongman’s muted condemnation signaled his latent support of the group. Like many of his tolerant and secular Indian classmates, Mark started to feel a bit of hopelessness on the state of current world-affairs.

And this was the time, when he got a few days of study-break due to a week-long Indian festival. To explore other countries in the region, he flew to Yangon, Myanmar (formerly Burma). The city has been located in the south-east section of the country. At the airport, he met his pre-arranged tour guide Mr. Uo Thant, a college-educated young gentleman. Over next few days, Mr. Thant led Mark to various places of interests in the city, especially city’s famous landmark golden Schwedagon Pagoda as well as a scenic boat-ride in the glorious Irrawaddy River. However, Mark was baffled when Mr. Thant advised him against traveling to the northern part of the country.

That night, in his hotel room, Mark opened his laptop. To his dismay, Mark found out that all the major international news outlets were reporting on a major “ethnic cleansing” of Rohingya class of minority faith that being currently carried out in Northern Myanmar by the members of the majority class. And the leader of this atrocity is none other than a young monk named Wirathu whom the press had dubbed as the “Buddhist bin Laden”! “What an irony?” Mark thought. The core principles of Buddhism are supposed to be peace, enlightenment and understanding!

Then appeared his epiphany: “Whatever happened to our world’s own promise of “Never Again” after the humanity’s most horrific tragic event of Holocaust annihilating six million Jews during World War II and millions most recently in Rwanda and Balkan countries?”

Leonard, by Phyllis Souza

19/3/2021

Like every other weekend, Leonard slept, ate, and watched television with Virginia.

Seven o'clock on Sunday night, he got ready to leave her flat. He put on his suit coat, straightened his tie, and ran his hand through his straight black hair.

Virginia counted out money and gazed into his sky-blue eyes.
"Take it. I want to help."

"Thank you. I really appreciate it.” He took out his wallet and slid in the bills.

"How much longer to get your divorce?"

"Going back to court this week."

"I hope it's not thrown out for some technical reason, again."

"Virginia, you know how judges can be."

"It's just— you know how much I adore you and want to get married." Virginia threw her arms around Leonard's neck. They kissed.

"Be patient."

"It's been five years."

Virginia drove Leonard to the airport so he could catch a flight to Las Vegas.

Leonard liked to brag about his public relations job at the Mint Casino, which impressed Virginia.

She dropped him at the curb in front of the terminal. Then drove home to wait for his telephone call. Leonard always wanted to make sure she was at her apartment.

As soon as she opened the door, the phone rang.

Virginia dropped her soft leather handbag and keys on the kitchen table and ran to answer it.

"Hello."

"Good. You're home."

"Yes, sweetheart. Safe and sound."

"I already miss you."

"Me too."

"See you on Friday."

"Of course."

"Gotta go catch a plane. Love you."

"I love you, too."

"Good-bye."

A soft, "-bye."

With airplanes droning in the background, Leonard swaggered out of the airport. He lit a cigarette, proceeded to the parking lot, got into his car and hastened across town to go home to his wife.

Bloodwork, by David Walby

19/3/2021

I was due to get my labs drawn again for my doctor. I absolutely hated getting this done. I cannot stand needles and I do not like blood, but it had to be done. I walked into the hospital’s clinic and spoke to the woman at the front desk.

“How can I help you today?” she asked.

“I need to get some blood work done,” I responded.

She confirmed my information and the labs that I received from the doctors office and pointed me over towards the waiting are.

“They will be with you shortly,” she said.

I went over to the waiting area and sat down. The chairs weren’t comfortable in the least. They were that cheap synthetic plastic that just make you want to sit on the floor instead, but unless you want to look like a fool, that is not an option. My back rose in protest, but that was something that I was going to have to keep for later.

I sat there thinking, “Why is my doctor making me get blood work done in the middle of a pandemic? This is not exactly safe and surely there are better options that—“

My thought process was interrupted by the door being opened to the lab.

A short young woman came out and said, “David?”

I stood up and raised my arm, indicating that it was me that she was looking for. I reluctantly followed her back to the lab and suppressed the urge to make a vampire joke—telling myself that it would come of in bad taste, literally. The woman motions for me to sit down in a slightly less uncomfortable chair, and I obey.

“Is this the first time you have gotten you labs done?” she asked.

“No, unfortunately not, “I responded.

“Well then you know how this goes.”

She inserted the needle into my arm and I looked away. At the same time I was putting down the uprising of butterflies that had appeared into my stomach. I was not going to let them gain independence all over the lab floor—not again. After a few moments in real time and few hours in figurative, the doctor removed the needle and motioned that I was done.

“Alright, all done!” the woman said.

“Thank you, have a good day,” I responded.

I got up out of the chair and left the lab, executing the last of the rebels as I got up. I shook my head and left the lab. Walking quickly, I was soon out of the hospital as well. I looked up at the sky and thanked God that it was over.

“I hate getting my blood drawn,” I said to myself.

Homestead, by Michael Roberts

12/3/2021

The road ended in a sort of tulip bulb shaped driveway.
Between the two driveways leading off of the bulb was a lilac tree which bloomed so ferociously in the late spring that it looked like a pink avalanche caught in stop motion.
As a child, Matthew would often stand and look at it, waiting for the pink to spill out onto the cul de sac.

The last time Matthew had talked with his brother was at his father’s funeral, almost twenty years in the past now.
Now, at the commemoration of what would have been his father’s hundredth birthday, there had been talk of some sort of united thing with all the children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren of ‘the great man’.
Obviously there had been push-back from the various factions of the family, mostly because they wanted some part of the

The house was now a heritage site, generating thousands of dollars in revenue for the town, not just from admission fees to it but from merchandising that the entire town took part in.
T-shirts with a Warhol-esque lithograph of the house.
Commemorative whiskey glasses.
Julian Chapman bobble-heads for God’s sake.
It was a bit pathetic, really, the town basing its entire identity on one man.
But, Matthew thought, wasn’t that exactly what the family had done as well, what he’d done?
The only books of his that had sold were those of Julian’s that he’d helped finish.
Him and his cousin, Jillian.
Jillian Chapman-Moss.
Her mother had been prophetic in naming her after him, as she had turned out to be the only writer in a family full of writers with a career to rival his.

Matthew flashed his lifetime pass at the volunteer at the house’s entrance.
The foundation had spent the last few years re-modeling the house to approximate the way it looked when Julian was still there, writing in the corner bedroom.
Now it looked straight out of an early 70s movie set.
From the looks of it, Matthew observed, they’d gotten most of it right: Julian’s writing room was as he remembered it, although the addition to toys was an odd touch.
Julian would never have allowed toys in his private space, especially the kind that they had there.
That had to have been his sister Adrienne’s influence, trying to remake Julian into this big family man.
How would she have known what he was like in those days, anyway?
She’d disappeared out east to college at sixteen and never looked back.
Her saccharine memoir was the basis for his popularity resurgence as well as family drama, when his other sister’s memoir came out, claiming the opposite of Adrienne’s.

Julian would have had fun with all this, Matthew knew, the creation of a narrative where the fiction mixed seamlessly with the truth.
He would have considered this his magnum opus, the transformation of his life into a grand epic multi-generational novel, giving him the immortality he coveted.

The Traveler, by Janice Siderius

12/3/2021

From his prone position on the bench, Wilfred squinted and saw clouds and tree limbs. He had no immediate recollection of where he was or how he got here. It was the pandemonium around him that broke through his consciousness. A cacophony of sounds assaulted his ears. He covered them
.
He bolted up. His surroundings were beyond his comprehension. There were carriages, but no horses pulling them. Men rode on two-wheeled conveyances. Overhead a metal bird went whup-whup-whup.

At the same time there was a constant humming in the background. As Wilfred became accustomed to the noise, he dared to look around. People! There were so many people! And they all seemed to be in a hurry, scurrying from place to place. He could hear their voices but could not understand their language. Wilfred recognized a few words but not enough to understand what they were saying. Was it English?

Everyone looked so clean. Their teeth were shiny and white, their hair clipped close to their heads. Wilfred noticed that their clothes were immaculate. Nearly everyone he saw was wearing breeches, even the women! And those women who wore female attire were showing ankles and legs. Wilfred shook his head as if trying to clear the cobwebs in his brain.

It was just then that he noticed the buildings. His eyes traveled upwards as he scanned the towers, his jaw dropping open at the same time. They were shiny, reflecting the sunlight and shadows. Wilfred had never seen anything so tall, reaching up into the sky as high as a bird could fly. He closed his eyes, his brain refusing to comprehend what he was hearing and seeing.

Suddenly a woman appeared next to him on the bench.

“Sorry. It wasn’t your time to come. You have not been properly prepared for the future. I will send you back. Good King Richard wants you for the battle with the infidels.”

Wilfred smiled gratefully and then he was gone.

Alchemical Cleanup, by David Walby

12/3/2021

“I swear, you really are an utter fool.” Alvor said to his friend while mopping the laboratory floor.

“It is not my fault.” Xavier said frankly, “I wasn’t the one that caused the explosion.”

“Ye tried to make dragon’s tonic in the school lab. Since when are the Academy’s labs prepared to handle something like that?!” Faldur retorted.

“For once I agree with the oaf.” Alvor added, a short smirk going across his face.

“Damn elf! Give me that already. I’ll mop, you go organize the vials and be quite about it.”

Xavier turned to Faldur, “He never stops does he?”
“Aye, elves aren’t known for teamwork.”

“I still don’t know why we are being forced to clean the lab? I was just following the experiment.”

“Well then yer even dumber than ye look. Purple smoke doesn’t come from Sinterfang Oil.” Faldur clarified.

“I think I just heated it too long.”

“Next time let me do the brewing.” Alvor said from across the room.

“Either way this room is not going to clean itself…” Xavier said reluctantly.

The teacher looked down into the class room from the over-hanging balcony. He was observing the students, making sure that they were carrying out their assignment. However, he couldn’t help but get lost in thought.

These students… They are such gifted alchemists—when they chooses to follow the instructions. I’m going to have to make a point to start tutoring them individually. The boys are trying to advance too quickly and perhaps some lessons could help them—safely—make some of the progress they are desiring.

Balloon, by Viktoriya Khan

12/3/2021

Once upon a time was an old man. He believed very strongly in God and to secure his place in Paradise, he did good deeds. Many good deeds. And he was very proud of them. Once he was walking home and saw a little girl take a balloon away from a boy. Walking away, smiling at her victory, she did not notice the tree in front of her. Crash! The girl cried as the balloon flew away from her hands. Looking up, the old man saw the balloon fly far away. After a little thought, he bought two balloons, blue and red. He gave one (blue) to the boy, and planned to keep the other for himself, to punish the girl for doing a bad thing. But seeing the crying her, the old man relented and gave her the red. At that moment the girl realized how stupid she was before. She was so happy and grateful that her tears rolled down her cheeks.

The old man died the next day. At the crossroads of hell and heaven, he saw the scales: on the left were bad deeds, on the right were good. But surprisingly, the scales were empty.

"It can't be "It can't be true!" exclaimed the surprised man. "I've done so many good things!"

Then he noticed a balloon, the red one, landed on the scales. And the good deeds outweighed the bad. The man was surprised: "I have done so many good deeds, but they are not visible! Why this balloon? Is it good to help a bad person?"

In response, he heard: "You cannot divide people into good and bad, there are only those who have gone astray. Let for a day or for several years, but they always have a chance to return. You also cannot be proud of your good deeds, for they will be nothing. Any good deed done with self-interest loses meaning and just disappears. But giving that red balloon to the girl, you didn't think about yourself, you thought only of the girl. And only that one selfless act saved you from eternal hell."

Hunkered Down, by Don Tassone

12/3/2021

At last, it was over. No more deadly virus. No more need for masks. No more forced isolation.

When the pandemic hit, everyone scurried for cover. Life changed overnight. No more working in offices or learning in classrooms. No more going to movies or holiday gatherings. No more travel.

What an adjustment. At first, it was all so stressful. But then people grew accustomed to living online. They grew accustomed to social distancing. They even grew accustomed to solitude.

In the back of their minds, people remembered how crowded and hectic their lives had become before the virus. They were overextended, worn out. So many relationships had become fractious. Entering the world every day was like preparing to do battle.

So now that the pandemic had come to an end, most people stayed put. They had grown safe and secure in their own little worlds. Why run the risks of venturing out again? Living online isn’t so bad. Better to stay hunkered down.

There's a Boy Outside My Window, by Artie Kuyper

12/3/2021

There’s a boy outside my window.

He appeared years ago, when I was young enough to believe in mermaids and ghosts and a fairy who sneaks in at night and trades human bones for pocket change.

I’ve watched him grow alongside me with wilting clothes, marred by age. His brown uncut hair darkened to black. And with every inch he grew, his skin stretched tighter around his increasingly prominent bones.

But his eyes? They have never changed. Black like the center of an empty galaxy yet bright as a solar flare, they look only at me. Into me.

Sometimes, when I can’t sleep, I stare back. Maybe to see what he will do, maybe to see what will happen if I can win at this staring contest he initiated all those years ago. Perhaps he’ll finally step closer, or say something, or tell me his real name so I can stop calling him Z.

Or maybe nothing will happen, and our nightly routine will continue unchanged.

I’ve never seen him come or go. But every night, he’s outside, and every morning, he’s gone. I’ve never stayed awake long enough to see him leave despite my best efforts, but tonight, I'm determined. It's the last summer before high school, and I refuse to become a teenager without knowing what happens to him in the morning.

When does “morning” officially begin? When the sun rises, when the stars disappear, when most of the town is awake and heading to work?

Today, I’m going to find out.

Keep staring. Even as sleep threatens to overtake me. My limbs fall heavy and my eyelids more so.

But I keep staring.

Is it three? Five? Barely past midnight?

I keep staring.

A Yellow Haired Man and His Dog, by Virginia Ashberry

12/3/2021

The house, just around the corner, where a very bad man lived in the main floor flat up to a month ago, has a ‘For Sale’ sign on it. So, maybe it is now safe to walk nearby. I step into the store parking lot that runs right along the side of the house and see many scars on the vinyl siding from his removed cameras. He monitored the whole block, and if you ever dared to step anywhere near the house, he would be out immediately, shouting loud and angrily that you justify yourself.

And as I sand there, still in the parking lot, still afraid to step too near, a man wearing jeans, leather and lots of meatal, with cropped yellow hair that looks like he’s stuck his head in a bowl of turmeric appears from the upstairs apartment. His large dog leaps out past him and races down the open metal stairs.

I turn sideways as the dog comes to a halt just inches away from me, where it remains growling.

The man doesn't call the dog off and he’s near me now, demanding what I’m doing on his property.

I can’t help but point out in as pleasant a voice as I can muster, that I am actually in the parking lot for the store, but…., “fair enough” I tell him as I start to walk away.

The dog continues to circle me.

And I observe to the yellow haired man, that the nasty man has left the main floor apartment.

“Yeah, I’m glad” he snarls, but now the dog has headed back up the stairs, so he follows.

Son of the North, by Sky Park

6/3/2021

I had a great life, and one day it came to a screeching halt. My father was a great general in the North Korean People’s Army. His rivals were spreading rumors about him, but I dismissed them as petty lies. One day my father did not return from work. The next day, my father was still not back. Getting ready to search for him, I received a phone text from my father’s oldest friend: father was arrested for allegedly consorting with the United States, and the secret police would arrest me as well. I would be killed unless I immediately left the country. But first, I should dig under the stump of a tree, near our favorite pond.
I ran away and reached the mountain I used to hike, as a child, with my father. I looked and saw the pond where my father taught me where to swim, and knew that this was the right spot. I didn’t have a shovel, so I got down on my knees and used my hands to dig underneath the nearby tree stump. As I cleared the dirt from a root, I found a small bag. Inside was a piece of paper, a passport, and a notebook. The paper was a letter from my father:
My dear son: If you are reading this I am dead. My enemies have become too powerful, and the Great Leader has become corrupt. You must cross the border to safety, even if it is without me. I thought my position would protect me, but I was wrong. You must escape to the land of the free, where you will not have to worry about who will betray you next. You must experience the joys and freedoms I never dreamt to have. Use the passport to cross the border, and the red notebook to gain American citizenship.
I looked at the passport, and saw the gold lettering spelling out the words, Republic of Korea.
I knew crossing the border to the South Korean was suicide: too many guards (and landmines!). I settled for crossing the Chinese border. I found a broker with the little money I had left. One day, while in the broker’s apartment, a police officer visited and asked who I was. I handed him the South Korean passport, and he flipped through it, and after checking, he left. Both the broker and I collapsed on the floor, relieved,
When I finally traveled across China to Mongolia, I was sent to South Korea. The South Korean officials asked me for any information. I said I would gladly give top secret information in exchange for passage to America. I handed over the notebook, filled with details about North Korea’s nuclear development sites. One week later, I was flown to America. Today, five years later, I am now swearing my oath for American citizenship. I will always remember my father, and the chance he gave me.

Birthday Trip, by Michael Roberts

5/3/2021

FOOD, TRAVEL

Ruth and I are on the patio at Cafe Du Monde, drinking the coffee and trying to keep the sugar from the beignets from getting all over us.
Tomorrow we leave.

“I wish we hadn’t come.”
“Why is that?”
“Because this place has been every thing I thought it would be but better and I don’t want to go back to nine to five and I don’t want to have to deal with laundry and grocery shopping and office bullshit politics being a normal person again. I have a proposal due in three weeks and I haven’t even really started it. I was supposed to be working on it while I was here. Supposed to be emailing the team with ideas. That was the only way I could get Hopkins to sign off on my vacation. I sent him like one half-assed idea the second day and then I sort of gave up, gave into this place.”
“Yes, it was a bit of a distraction.”
“ It’s more than that…I want to live here.”
“Woah, “ I hear myself saying, “I get what you mean. I mean, this place is incredible, but we can’t just move here. We’re not nineteen anymore. I have a job. YOU have a great job. Both of them are back home.”
“Don’t you want to write your books?”
“Of course I do.”
“Write them down here. Get a job down here and write. You really want to grow old in some HOA- controlled bedroom community in freaking Nebraska, re-cycling the same “Intro to Novel Writing” class over and over until you retire.”
“Tenure and full benefits,” I remind her.
She shrugs and turns back to her lunch, but I know from experience that this conversation isn’t over with.

Our dinner in The Garden District feels more like a funeral reception than the highlight of the week it was supposed to be.
We had managed to snag a reservation at Commander’s Palace and they’d sat us by the west facing window, so that we overlook the cemetery across the street.
Past that we can see the apartment building where F Scott Fitzgerald supposedly wrote his first novel.
Remembering that bit of trivia isn’t helping us feel any better about having to leave in the morning.

The taxi ride to the airport is much less interesting than the ride had been driving in. I imagine that is pretty much the case for most vacations.
The plane is crowded and by the time we land in Dallas for the connecting flight, I have a cramp in my leg from being jammed in my seat.

A week later, in the outer sleeve of Ruth’s suitcase, I find a real estate brochure and glance through it.
It’s a snow day so I’m at home, puttering around and doing laundry.
On a whim, I sit at the computer and look up house prices in our area.
The difference would pay for moving expenses.
Fortune favours the brave, I tell myself.

Jonathan, by Sergio Nicolas

5/3/2021

FOOD, TRAVEL, SPORT

Young Jonathan loved his stays at grandmother's house. She was an old lady who loved him dearly. She lived in a small town, far away from the city lights. He usually visited her on summer and winter holidays and every time he was there she showered all her love on him. The town where she lived was peaceful and close to nature. Since it was far away from the place where Jonathan was born, it would take at least five hours to get there by train. He was a little young to travel alone but he wasn't afraid, he had done that many times before. She lived alone in the house and despite being old she did all the household work by herself. Whenever he was there, he always helped her in cleaning the house, washing dishes and clothes and cooking. She often told him not to but he would do it anyway. She cooked delicious food. Everything she cooked was good but the tomato soup was Jonathan's favorite. He too was fond of cooking and he always stood next to her when she cooked so he could see and learn the recipe. She cooked a new dish every day for him and told him to eat more because he was very thin.

Despite getting immense love from his grandmother he still felt the absence of his father. No one could be his father's substitute, no matter how much they tried to. He wished his father could be with him. He had never seen him or heard his voice. Grandmother had a photo album in her wardrobe filled with his father's photographs, from childhood to adulthood. He would spend his afternoons flipping through pages of that photo album, staring at the photographs of his father. There was no resemblance between him and his father. His father was a charming man and Jonathan took after his beautiful mother. Grandmother would tell him stories about his father and he would listen to them for hours. Not only their physical appearances were different, their personalities were different as well. Some things that he had learnt about his father from those stories were that he was very naughty when he was a child. He often sneaked into other people's backyards with his friends to pick fruits from trees. He was not fussy about eating whatsoever and ate everything that was served on the plate. He spent most of his daytime playing with his friends. He was in the local football team with his friends and had won every single match held annually at the town. He was a strong, cheerful boy, full of energy. Jonathan, on the other hand, was a very shy, emotional and sensitive boy who hardly talked or showed his true feelings to others. Sometimes he would go upstairs in his father's room. He would lay in his bed, close his eyes and see himself and his father happy and smiling, holding hands, walking on the street, heading to the park.

Curve Ball, by Charles Gray

5/3/2021

SPORT

Richie threw a curve ball, but it stayed high and inside. The home plate umpire yelled, “Ball four.” The batter ran to first base. It was the third batter Richie walked in a row. Bases loaded. Richie hated that he couldn’t throw a proper curve ball. He thought by playing high school baseball he would have been taught the proper techniques from his coach. A flick of the wrist was all Richie knew. The coach had put him in to finish the last inning of the game. But Richie had let a three-run lead dwindle down to one. One more walk or hit and they’d lose the game. He needed two more outs.

Kicking sand around the pitcher’s mound, Richie looked over at his coach. The coach’s head peered over the cement divide from the dugout, his hand covering his mouth. As the next batter came to the plate, his coach walked out toward the mound. Richie took a deep breath and thought finally he’d be taken out of this fiasco.

“How’s your arm Richie?” coach asked, placing his hand on Richie’s shoulder.

“It’s kinda sore coach.”

“Uh-huh.”

Richie looked up with sad eyes. “I can’t find the plate coach.”

“You wanna come out?”

Richie’s eye’s widened. “Yeah.”

“Well guess what.”

“What?”

“You got us in this mess, you’re going to get us out.” Coach turned and walked back to the dugout, kicking grass on the way.

Richie watched his coach hoping he’d turn and come back. The coach reached the dugout, turned and smirked, stood there with his arms crossed. Richie scanned the field. His teammates stood impatient, their gloves on their hips. The second baseman yelled, “Don’t screw this up.”

He threw three more pitches, each missed the strike zone. Another bad pitch and he’d walk him. Lose the game. He felt the strike zone had shrunk so small that it was like trying to throw a marble into a soda bottle. His only way out of this jam was to let the batter hit it. Whatever happens, happens. Just, no walks. He didn’t want to risk throwing another fastball, so he lobbed the ball like he was playing slow pitch softball.

To Richie’s surprise the batter swung and hit a ground ball to shortstop. He scooped it up and threw to second for one out, then the second baseman relayed to first for a double play. Game over. They won. Richie looked up, brought his two fingers to his lips and threw a kiss at the sky.

The coach approached Richie after the game and gave him a light kick in the behind, “I knew you could do it kid.”

Richie thought to himself, oh really, who’s he kidding. It seemed like coach wanted him to fail. Richie attributed the win to Lady Luck knowing it could have gone either way.

Richie patted his glove and looked up at his coach, “Yeah, you’re right coach. I thought I could do it too.”

Latchkey Holder, by Thea Buen

4/3/2021

TRAVEL

The train arrives as the sun is waking. Having barely slept, I’m still overcome with elation and energy. Walking out of the station, cigarette smoke and coffee aroma clears my foggy brain. A cool breeze introduces autumn as I cling onto my thin jumper.

I’m finally here.

While waiting for a taxi, directions to the hostel on a napkin in hand, I go over what to say to the driver. Comment dit t’on… I used to get excited whenever those Muzzy commercials appeared. I perfected my accent daily by reading out loud the French translation of the car’s manual. I even defied my parents when I decided to take French and not the more useful Spanish in high school. “I want to visit Paris one day,” I explained to them. When a friend said that his aunt used to live in Paris, I was instantly jealous. He meant Perris, California.

I mumble in English as the taxi driver opens the back door, perplexed by my handwritten map.

As a latchkey kid, opening the door to an empty house after school was my first taste of freedom. My imagination overflowed with boundless vitality. As key holders, we gave ourselves permission to dream without fear nor consequences. During those uneventful, hot summer days, my air-conditioned house was a haven to watch Lucy, Ricky, Ethel, and Fred finally make it to France. They brought French culture to my living room, but I yearned for more. Counting down the days until I was “old enough” seemed infinite. Daily life was boring but the future looked bright.

I’m finally here.

The driver doesn’t go. He motions me to get out. An older, sophisticated lady steps inside my taxi. As they drive away, the sun peeks from the clouds to say, “bienvenue à Paris.” I grumble, “je t’encule.”

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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.

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