Blog Archives

The Pen, by Deborah Shrimplin

24/4/2020

"Hey, guys, wake up! I can hear her in the bathroom. She's up!" Paper snaps.

"I'm always awake. And, I've been waiting for a week." mumbles Pen.

"Such acoustical nonsense, you two! Where's your composure? Persevere. Prevail. Persist. Patience. She'll come to us. She always does." Thesaurus states.

"Well, she's not coming right now. I can smell the coffee." Paper sighs.

"I'm just itching to move. But, I can't do it without her." Pen exclaims.

"She'll never use you before her first cup of coffee. So, stop with the dribble." Paper growls.

"Procrastination, avoidance, goof-off. It's her way of doing things." Thesaurus notes.

"I can't believe you used the word goof-off. All those words inside of you and you said that!" Paper gasps.

"Eloquence, articulate, discourse. So sorry. If I don't get used, I go a little batty, bonkers, dotty." Thesaurus says.

"Never mind, Hang in there, Thesaurus. I hear her walking down the hallway." Paper whispers.

"Yay. Maybe she'll grab me first and get something done." Pen sighs.

"She always grabs you firsts. But, you're no good without me." Paper sounds off.

"You two stop your quibbling, squabbling and bickering. None of us are any good without her. So, cease, desist, refrain, suspend, halt this nonsense." Thesaurus exclaims.

"Shush. She's almost here." whispers Paper.

The trio turn stone silent. Their owner opens the door and sits at the writing table. She places her coffee cup next to Thesaurus. She picks up Pen, positions Paper and smiles at Thesaurus. She begins her essay..........

"Someone said the pen is mightier than the sword.......

Somebody I Used to Love, by Sue Clayton

24/4/2020

Everybody loves somebody sometime. The words of the old tune reverberate through my mind as I stare at my reflection, drool sliding down the deep crevices each side of my flaking lips.
Not too many people would love this body these days; rheumy eyes set in a face that looks like a 100-year old turtle, everything that could sag drooping like a wilted flower, hair as grey as the clouds that had soured my life. But my Caleb used to love me, until we were seized by jack-booted solders, rifles embraced, soulless eyes peering out from beneath upside down helmets.
They gun-butted us into a truck that had rattled down the cobbled street, stopping before doors painted with the Star of David, before herding us onto a train, women and children up front, men and boys at the rear…cattle being loaded for slaughter.

Sometimes, when I look in the mirror, I imagine my reflection reveals smooth, silky skin and raven black hair—I can almost feel Caleb’s caress as he curled my long tresses through his fingers.
I survived to care for another, a body now as timeworn and jaded as my own. But when I shuffle off for a catnap in my faded armchair, before nodding off I roll up the sleeve of my frayed cardigan and trace a gnarled finger along the faded blue number tattooed into my withered flesh. My eyes droop and I dream of somebody I used to love.

The Black Hole, by Sankar Chatterje

24/4/2020

Prof. James Pickett, a prominent theoretical physicist in the Sorbonne University, Paris was following the live e-announcement of the first photograph of a black hole (the holy grail of the field) in a distant galaxy. As the first picture began to appear on his computer-screen, he adjusted all the control buttons (magnification, brightness, and orientation) to feel close to the real thing. The background announcer explained how in the illuminated lower portion, the forceful gravity was bending light to enter into the central death-zone of total darkness from where nothing could escape. What amazed him most was the intergalactic entanglement of light and darkness. Prof. Pickett felt a chill down his spine.

Later that month, Prof. Pickett flew to Mumbai, India to deliver an invited lecture in country’s prestigious atomic research institution BARC. His hosts arranged for him to stay in one of the prominent hotels of the city, frequented by the foreigners, Bollywood movie-stars and cricket-players. However, this multi-religious and multi-ethnic, but secular country had been on an emergency alert, due to a recent border-confrontation with its religious neighbor and subsequent fear of any extremist group’s infiltration.

Due to his tight schedule on the lecture-day, Prof. Pickett came down for an early breakfast to an almost empty dining area. He found a young gentleman drinking coffee alone, while looking into a magazine. Both exchanged pleasantries when the youth, introducing himself as Shahid invited him to join at his table. Prof. Pickett found Shahid smart and curious. He had finished his higher studies in physical sciences overseas and returned home. In fact, he was looking into the recently released picture of the same black hole in a science magazine. That led both to get into a deeper discussion on black holes. Slowly, more hotel-guests arrived and a line began to form for the buffet-breakfast.

Soon Prof. Pickett was picked up by his hosts. Later in the day, while he was presenting his lecture, several simultaneous terrorist attacks would rock Mumbai targeting three upscale hotels and the cricket-stadium where an international match was being played. In initial count, 300 people perished, with more unaccounted for. To his utter shock, Prof. Pickett learned that one of the targeted hotels was where he was staying. A “Breaking News” on a flat-screened wall-TV began to display a short video, culled from security cameras from same hotel. From one camera, it appeared that the attacker had waited until the line for breakfast was well-formed. From the shot of a second camera, it became clear to Prof. Pickett that the attacker was none other than Shahid. Pulling out a dark backpack from under the table, he would join the breakfast-line, and detonate the hidden explosives.

Wondering why he was spared, Prof. Pickett suddenly visualized the image of the distant black hole where bright light entering a dark abyss of no return. He also learned the word “Shahid” in local language meant “a martyr”.

How to Get High Blood Pressure in One Easy Lesson, by Bruce Levine

24/4/2020

Felicity Campbell strove for perfection in everything she did, but while she was striving for that perfection she also managed to have an air of nonchalance. How she accomplished that delicate balance was known only to Felicity, but it certainly served her well.

Today, however, was a true test of her ability to maintain her precarious balancing act. Today she got angry, with a capital angry.

She’d used the same insurance company for many years and always had had a very good working relationship with them in that there never seemed to be a situation which hadn’t been easily resolved with a simple phone call. Today, however, she was on the phone, once again waiting to be connected to another person – in this case the department supervisor, to make what she hoped was a formal complaint about the incompetence of completing the simple task of removing a component from her policy.

First she had spent several minutes wading through the myriad array of phone prompts. Finally she’d been placed in a queue to wait to speak with a customer representative. Finally she actually spoke with a human being, went through the entire saga of trying to get the component removed, including the original date of the request, nearly a month prior, and a response that it would be completed within three to five business days – that, as stated, was nearly a month ago.

Ten days before she had made a similar call and, after going through the entire process was told that it would be resolved that day. That was ten days ago and nothing had been completed.

Now she was on the phone with a supervisor, had gone through the entire story once again because the supervisor had not been briefed by the underling, and was again on hold while the supervisor attempted to track down her emails and the company’s responses.

As she waited on hold she attempted to regain her usual sense of composure, but these situations not only exasperated her, but caused her to wonder, once again, about the incompetence of the world today, and about the future of the world.

An hour and eleven minutes into the current phone call and, after threatening to change insurance company, she received a confirmation email and a commitment for the refund plus an additional amount to cover the interest charges on her credit card account for the delay.

Felicity did not feel any better, but felt somewhat vindicated.

Her next step, in her quest for perfection, was to seek a new insurance company and transfer her policies.

The Podcast, by Jim Bartlett

24/4/2020

“So this thing, this thing that you do...it’s like the radio, but not really?’

“Yeah,” I say, positioning the mics. “They’re called podcasts.”

“Pod casts.” He does that little twist of his lip, and shakes his head, the twist becoming a smile. “And folks listen to these here things, but not on the radio?”

“Yeah. Radio’s sort of takin’ a downturn. There’s still a lot of talk radio out there, but music wise, big companies have bought up most of the stations and little by little are starting to toss the DJs, going with automation. The younger folks aren’t listening as much, not with Spotify and Apple Music and a number of other things. Mostly, they just listen to the playlists on their phones. So, podcasts have picked up in popularity.”

He shakes his head again and chuckles. “Listen to their phones.” Reaching over, he playfully pats the mic that I’ve set on his side back and forth between his outstretched hands. “So, you talk to ghosts on these?”

“Pretty much.”

“How’d that all start?”

“Not sure, exactly.” I lean back into my chair, watching as he combs his thick black hair. “I was just trying to make a go of it, when one day Thomas Edison walked in.”

“The electric guy?”

“Yeah, him. We talked a bit, he was a bit defensive when I brought up Tesla, but it was fun. Then, the next week, Ulysses S. Grant and Robert E. Lee stopped by and we had a nice debate on the Civil War. With that one, my ratings ticked up, which I guess prompted interest by the others.”

“Other ghosts?”

I nod. “Yeah. And that’s when things began to happen. Someone new would show up every week. But...wow, Buddy Holly. He was the tipping point.”

His smile broadens and he stands. With a sway of his hips he begins to sing,

“If you knew
Peggy Sue
Then you’d know why I feel blue
Without Peggy
My Peggy Sue-a-hoo...”

His dance brings me a smile. “That was really good.”

“So who was next?” he asks, sliding back into the chair.

“Jim Morrison.”

“Don’t you love her madly...”

He winks, his lip curling into that twist.

“Then Jimi.”

“Purple Haze...”

He stops singing, turns, and looks away. “I always wondered how he did all that with his guitar.” But then his eyes narrow and he leans forward, setting his elbows on the desk. “Wait...did you say not one of those folks knew they were dead?”

“Exactly. Not a single one. And I made sure to never tell them.”

“Tarnation. They musta been a heap confused on how they ended up here?”

“I’m sure they were. But it’s never come up. So far.”

“Whoa. So, any idea who might be next? Or do they just show up?”

“Mostly they just pop right into that chair. But this time I know who’s next. The King.”

His face goes flush. His eyes widen. His mouth drops open.

“Yup, it’s you, Elvis.”

The Powers That Be, by Stella Gaucher Murovic

17/4/2020

"What am I to do with these people? They're wiping out the earth. So many species-- vanished. Take the caribou. . . "

"What about the caribou?" Gabrielle asked, eyebrows raised like the French circonflex accent.

"They're dwindling faster than glaciers. But you know what these foolish carbon units are saying -- the ones encroaching on the caribou's territory -- the reason they give for the caribou's eventual demise? They say logging is their livelihood; towns will close, residents will relocate and abandon their homes, their schools, their way of life unless -- they continue clear cutting. I sympathize, I really do but I can't believe they'd choose their meagre little lives in exchange for an entire species."

"Well, what can you do? Send another plague to eradicate. . ."

"Hey, that wasn't me. Don't forget, I'm all merciful. That was Lucy. She'll stop at nothing if something threatens her and. . . "

"Well then, there's nothing you can do. YOU are helpless," continued Gabrielle, shaking her head in exasperation.

"Not true. I can leave nature takes its course. Remember the Great Flood? A super way to begin again. But with today's abundance of species, it will take a flotilla of arks. I'll have to inspire more than one person."

"Lucy won't be happy. She'll interfere, make things dicey."

"Leave it to me Gabrielle. I must do something now before my blue planet is doomed."

"What if it doesn't work?"

"I can start over. I made a mistake, I. . . "

"You? Impossible. No such thing," Gabrielle said, ruffling her wings.

"Not exactly a mistake. But even I don't have the power to foresee every eventuality. Free choice is still the right way to go but I must amend, remove or add something to these humans - they should not be allowed to fall into the same trap. Do you not agree Gaby?"

"Oh God, of course I do but I hope the battle between good and evil will remain as an integral part of humanity otherwise Lucifer and I will have no raison d'être."

Pondering on the seat of Time, God smiled benevolently on the blue planet, her favourite in all the galaxies, its occupants made in her image -- somewhat.

"Have you forgotten Gaby, the way I'm described. Let me refresh your memory: ALL powerful, ALL knowing. You my BFF, as they say on earth, have nothing to fear and neither does Lucifer. Your job title and assignments are yours for eternity,"
and God laughed, and all the celestial beings chuckled with her.

Lord Buddha, Smartphones, and Enlightenment, by Sankar Chatterjee

17/4/2020

Mr. Subrata Sen was patiently waiting on an elevated platform to enter into an ancient architecturally magnificent Buddhist temple in the historic temple-city of Bagan in Myanmar in East Asia. Ornate temple doors were closed for the ongoing noon-prayer of the monks. After several decades of self-imposed isolation, Myanmar recently opened its border to international community, while attempting to modernize its century-old infrastructures. In palace-turned-hotels, computers were slow to connect to the virtual world, making fellow millennial travelers Rupankar and Sushmita, his nephew and niece, frustrated for not being able to connect to their Facebook and Twitter accounts.

At high noon, at the sound of a bell ringing inside, two novice monks opened the doors. Maroon-robed monks of all ages started to file out in separate lines. Once emptied, the visitors were allowed to go inside the majestic prayer hall. While some visitors began to explore the painted walls, a few approached the giant enshrined golden statue of Lord Buddha. Suddenly, Mr. Sen realized that Rupankar was nowhere to be seen. Not overly alarmed, Mr. Sen assumed his nephew might have been exploring some historic artifacts that came to his attention. After a reasonable time, Rupankar reappeared, all smiling. He then began to update Mr. Sen on developing global news. Surprised, Mr. Sen inquired how Rupankar became knowledgeable on current world affairs, while inside the temple complex.

It turned out that while all the monks were coming out from the sanctuary, Rupankar noticed that the elder senior monks were still praying counting on their old-fashioned bead necklaces. But the relatively younger ones who might have joined recently went towards a different direction, while recovering their smartphones from underneath their robes. That’s when Rupankar would decide to follow them, keeping a distance and soon end up under an old banyan tree on the perimeter. Young monks formed a cluster there and started to use their devices. To his surprise, Rupankar himself was able to connect his smartphone to internet and check out his favorite sites, convincing him that it was no miracle but an active Wi-Fi zone existed nearby. It must have been deliberately created by the wise elder monks, taking advantage of that tall banyan tree. For the millennial generation of monks, to give up their smartphones will be the first hurdle to cross towards their eventual enlightenment. Until then, they are allowed to keep in touch with earth’s materialism via their mobile devices.

The Diner, by Doug Bartlett

17/4/2020

Alice Johnson, a young lady with a sharp business mind, had always wanted to own her own business. Today her dream would come true. She had just purchased a recently closed diner. She would completely remodel the inside, give the outside a fresh coat of paint and replace the sign with a new name.
She hired a local band for the grand opening which was a huge success.
Two of the band members, Mick an old rocker and Arlo who was more into folk music, became regular customers and got to know Alice quite well..
One day Arl0 was sitting at the corner table talking to Alice while he waited for Mick to show up. Mick came dragging in late with a long face.
“What’s wrong with you?” Alice aked.
“Did somebody die?” asked Arlo with a concerned look on his face.
“Not yet but I’m about to, “ Mick responded.
“What in the world are you talking about?” Alice and Arlo replied together.
“ I just came from the doctor’s office, that’s why I’m late. I have a substrain of the Covid 19 Virus. It’s not contagious but just as deadly. I’m at high risk due to my age and past lifestyle. I need to be put on a ventilator soon or I’m a goner.”
“Well, why aren’t you in the hospital on one?” asked Arlo.
“ I need a ventilator but there are none available. My name’s on a list but it’ll take four months to receive one. I need it now.”
“ Calm down Mick, I think Alice can help you out.”
“ Alice, you’re not a doctor . How can you help me ?”
“ Come on Mick. Everybody knows,” she says with a sly grin,” You can get anything you want at Alice’s Restaurant.”

Where Is(n't) He? by Doug Bartlett

17/4/2020

Little Timmy was walking home one day when he decided to lie down in the lush, green clover and gaze up at the formation of the billowy clouds above him. Later he got up and kicked at the ground until worms began wiggling up through the dirt. Then as he watched a bluebird fly into a nearby tree and land in a nest to feed her babies, a leaf dislodged and floated down to the ground. He went over to pick it up and saw how intricate it was.
He continued walking and upon arriving home his neighbor asked him where he had been.
“I’ve been to Sunday School learning about God?”
Wanting to have some fun with little Timmy, the neighbor said, “ I’ll give you a shiny, new quarter if you’ll tell me where God is.”
Without hesitation Timmy responded, “ I’ll give you twenty dollars Mister if you can tell me where He isn’t.”

Connections, by Bruce Levine

17/4/2020

I never had the right connections. And I didn’t have the right parents. If I’d had I’d have been a star – but I didn’t and I’m not.

I’m not complaining – well, maybe I am, but it won’t do me any good.

And since it’s been this way since the Garden of Eden I doubt it will be changing any time soon.

It’s the lucky few with the right connections, or born into the right family, or had the right college roommate who go from obscurity to stardom in one quick step – or seem to. And who knows whether it’s true or not or how they got there – they’re there.

Am I jealous?

Yes and no.

Sure it seems like it would be a lot easier if I had connections, but since I don’t I’ll just have to do it the old-fashioned way and make my own connections. And when I do, I’ll leave it to others to wonder if I were born with the right connections, or with the right parents, or the right roommate.

Good luck.

The Girl with Fruity Chewing Gum, by Sankar Chatterjee

10/4/2020

On a summer evening, Sam was sipping a cup of local coffee grown in the highlands, sitting in a corner café situated on the perimeter of the centrally located marketplace in Antigua, Guatemala. The city is surrounded by a number of dormant but active volcanoes that had erupted several times throughout the history, thus destroying the habitat many times.

However, the resiliency of the populace helped them to rebuild the city from ashes. The city also survived the brutal occupation by the Spanish Conquistadors. Currently, Antigua, a UNESCO World Heritage Site, attracts many westerners for its historic past. The entire market area was humming with all kinds of business activities. Though Guatemala survived a long-running civil war, its economy has been laggard, especially for the population in the lower rung.

While drinking his coffee, Sam noticed several colorfully dressed indigenous women had been trying to sell different handicrafts, while either carrying newborn babies on their back or tagging along their little children. Sam observed a young mother handed over a pack of fruity chewing gums to her beautiful little daughter, hardly five or six years old, while instructing her to stay in the area while she set out for a new round of business activity.

The girl opened the pack, took out a piece to put inside her mouth while turning her head around to find that Sam was intently observing her. She entered the café, slowly walked towards Sam, stopped and extended her gum pack offering him a piece. Sam had just left the United States in the middle of a most divisive political climate inside his own country, while starting to lose faith in human decency. This little girl’s selfless act of sharing her minimal possession with a total stranger (along with Antigua’s own tale of survival throughout the history) overwhelmed him while assuring that the humanity will survive in the little corners of this universe, whatever he left behind in my own country.

Malchus' Dream, by Doug Bartlett

10/4/2020

Malchus awoke with a startle from a deep slumber. His wife could tell there was
something terribly wrong by the bewildered expression on his face.
“What’s wrong with you? Are you okay?” she queried.
“I don’t know. I’m having a hard time determining if something really happened or if it was a dream, a bad dream,” he stated.
“ Well, tell me about it.”
“I was so tired that I nodded off. I remember that my boss ordered me and some other guards to arrest this man. He was a teacher from up North. His teachings were popular with the crowds but causing a lot of problems with the leadership. They decided he should be removed quietly and quickly. It was decided it would be best to arrest him at night in an out of the way place.
We got a break when a snitch told us that the teacher would be spending the night on a hillside just outside the city.
Well, our information was accurate. We approached him and had him identified. We began to contain him when his little crowd of students got rambunctious. One of them even pulled out a sword and attacked me. I couldn’t believe it! I was just quick enough to sidestep him, but he was still able to lop off my ear.”
Malchus reaches up to touch his ear as if to make sure it was still there and then continues,” Then it gets stranger. The teacher picks up my ear and reattaches it.
I don’t know which is harder to believe. How could he have done that? Why would he have done that? It’s physically impossible to replace my ear and why would he show me such kindness. That’s why I think it’s a wild dream. But it seemed so real, so real.”
“You are right Malchus, it had to be a dream. It would be impossible to replace your ear once it came off and no one in that position would show you such kindness.
“Thank you my dear for listening to me and you make perfect sense. I’ll be able to go back to sleep now.”
Malchus reclines and as his eyelids lower he sees a bloodstain on his cloak directly below his left ear.

A Forgery, by Sivan Pillai

10/4/2020

The train hurtled through the summer night. I sat looking outside, enjoying the pall of darkness and the lulling sound of the train. Most of the passengers were asleep but the two elderly women opposite my seat were busy talking in a hushed tone. I gathered that they were nurses in a hospital before their retirement years ago. It was their first meeting in many years.
“Ever since that day I have been feeling guilty, Stella.”
“But that helped him die in peace, didn’t it?”
“True, Diana. That night I prayed for a long time thanking God for his special gift to me while seeking his forgiveness for lying to one on the death-bed.”
Stella looked at me suddenly and realized that I was listening.
“Sorry if we’re disturbing you,” she said.
“It’s all right. I’m not feeling sleepy. Would you mind telling me about that incident you were just talking about?”
It was the story of a young man, critically injured in a road accident and admitted to their hospital. There were a couple of letters in his pocket, indicating that he was the resident of a remote village.
“Contacting his village was time-consuming. Remember, it was a time when many villages didn’t have a telephone. When he regained consciousness after a couple of days, he seemed to have a premonition of his death and the first thing he did was to ask us to write a letter to his friend in the village, asking him to take care of his aged mother. Luckily, he said, there was no financial problem but she had not been keeping good health for some time. There were no close relatives and he was confident that his friend would look after her. It was with great difficulty that he signed the letter before asking us to write the address from the letter in his pocket and post it.
“Soon afterwards his condition worsened and he became delirious. Whenever he became conscious, the only thing he asked was whether his friend had replied.
“It was obvious that he would die a miserable death if he did not receive that letter. And the possibility of the letter arriving on time was remote.
“It was then that I remembered Diana’s ability to copy other people’s handwriting. I rushed to her with the old letter from his friend and explained what was to be done.
“He was quite excited when I told him that his friend had replied. He held the letter in his trembling hand for some time before reading it silently, his emaciated face breaking into a broad smile.
“When I asked him if he was happy, he did not reply. His eyes were open and the smile was there on his face but he had stopped breathing.”

Cigars, by Benjamin Kardos

4/4/2020

Russ celebrated Trump’s presidency with a daily cigar. Every morning since the election he stood on his porch, smiling as his cigar smoke rose to mingle with the rays of the early day sun. As he watched the smoke dissipate into the atmosphere he imagined the Liberals and their schemes to destroy the country fade away as well. At long last, a patriot was in power; a man of action, a worthy opponent to the horrors of the Liberal, Socialist agenda. If this wasn’t worth a daily celebration, what was?

Considering the celebratory association of his cigar ritual, it came as a massive shock when he was told by his doctor he was in the late stages of lung cancer.

Upon leaving the doctor’s office he aimlessly wandered the streets, dazed and terrified. Without thinking, he stepped off the sidewalk into oncoming traffic. He looked up only when he heard the car horn and the squealing of breaks. The man behind the wheel was the owner of the smoke shop where Russ bought his cigars. Russ, recognizing the man who’d sold him his habit for years, waved apologetically and stepped back onto the sidewalk. As the car passed, his heart dropped to see on the back bumper a Bernie 2020 sticker.

Russ tilted his head toward the skies and cursed the Liberal agenda with a tortured scream.

What Your T-Shirt Says, by Stella Gaucher Murovic

3/4/2020

It's now March. Let us review as I flip the pages of my Pocket Pal 2020.

January 5: Romeo & Juliet at the Mahaffey Theatre. Dancers flutter by; we gaze in wonder, we clap. How many died an ocean away?

January 12: African-American Gospel concert at the Peace Memorial Church in Clearwater. Amazed, heartened by the voices, the message. No thought of a silent enemy gliding towards us.

January 30: The Dunedin Friends of the Library Reception and Book Sale. Blithely sipping, snacking, snapping up words. A total lack of gloom. No talk of doom.

February 4: Taco Tuesday at the VFW. Perched on mile high seats, drinking, munching, laughing. Oblivious to the war raging across the sea
.
February 14: A day of celebrations. Dining & dancing at 'Bon Appetit'. The moon glitters on the gulf. A toast to our good fortune, our love, our good health. Will this not last forever?

March 9: At first distant - too far - we lack imagination. But it is here, not far, roaring towards us.

March 15: 'Beware the Ides of March'. Remember Caesar who said when warned: "He's a dreamer, let us leave him. Pass." Incredulous as we are we say: hurry, hurry home before they close the border, before the beast knocks on our door.

March 31: We're safe -- for now, barricaded behind our doors. Quarantined.

Our t-shirts read:

LIVING THE DREAM
Caesar's dreamer foretold his demise - what does our dreams say?

Doppelganger, by Sue Clayton

3/4/2020

“This book says everyone has a doppelganger, a mirror image, and if you meet yours face to face you’ll die.” Janice, my flatmate, closed the book finished her tea and toast and slammed out the door for her A & E shift at St. Margaret’s hospital just down the road. She loved any kind of fantasy literature, always immersed in some supernatural genre book. Give me a good Nordic Noir mystery anytime.
After taking a shower I went to brush my teeth. If you meet your doppelganger face to face you’ll die, my reflection in the bathroom mirror laughed as I recited the words. But they’d begun to worm their subliminal way into my subconscious waiting to claw their way to the surface and pounce.
One day, a couple of weeks later, I headed for the front door ready to set off downtown to where I worked at a music store. Doppelganger, I froze as my mind hissed the insidious word. What if I saw me on the train? Or stood behind me on the line at Gloria Jean’s? What if I came into the store to buy a DVD and had to serve myself? The words shot through my mind. I let go of the door handle as though electrocuted and phoned in sick.

“Do you fancy a night out at that new wine bar down the street?” Janice bounced through the front door one afternoon, chirpy as a blue bird, her shift trauma free for once.
“Not tonight, Janice, I’m still not feeling so good.” The image of my other self perched on a stool at the far end of the bar, possibly raising a toast, was too hard to stomach.
‘You haven’t been outside for ages, Natalie, not even for work…you’ll end up getting fired. What’s going on with you?” Janice pressed.
“I’ll meet my doppelganger and die if I go outside,” I burst into tears, knowing how ridiculous I sounded.
“You know there’s no such thing. You need to get help, Natalie. I’ve a therapist friend who works at the hospital. I’ll fix you up an appointment.” She wrapped me in a comfort hug.

“You’re booked in for ten o’clock this morning.” Two days later Janice grabbed my arm and pulled me through the front door; I didn’t stand a chance. “You won’t meet yourself between here and St. Margaret’s.” She grinned and we set off down the street.
“Excuse me,” a hand tapped my shoulder as we waited to cross the busy main road. I turned around and my shriek froze the blood of everyone close by before I stepped backwards off the footpath into the path of a semi-trailer.
“I didn’t mean to frighten her,” tears ran down the anguished face of one of the two men who’d been standing behind me, holding a large six-feet square mirror they were carrying across to the framing workshop across the road. “I just wanted to ask her to step to one side.”

Friendship, by Bruce Levine

3/4/2020

Heather passed the teapot across the table. She and Jane had been talking for the past hour and this was their second pot of tea plus both had decided to share the dessert rack. The pastries were wonderful and they’d eaten, one would almost say devoured, the entire rack in an inordinately short time and now they wondered if they should order anything else.

The two friends hadn’t seen each other in years and it was only through a chance encounter via Facebook that they reconnected at all. Heather had accidentally seen one of Jane’s posts of her poetry and contacted Jane.

Now the two women were enjoying reliving some of their fun days together at high school and how their lives had gone and changed during the intervening years. It was a good time and both hoped that they could do it again often now that they were living close to each other.

Jane called to the waitress and asked for the menu again. Acting more like girls than the women they’d become, they scoured the menu for something else to order. They laughed about a similar situation forty years earlier when they’d been part of a large group of high school thespians after the school play that both of them had been in, actually that was how they met, who had gone to the local diner after the show and the two of them had drifted to a separate table to talk. Forty years later they were talking as if there had been no intervening years and they seemed to be picking up a conversation started then and concluded now.

Their second round of food and second pot of tea finished, it was decided that they should be getting home. It had been a wonderful afternoon and, after exchanging further information for contacting each other, they agreed to repeat the date a week later.

As they got in their respective cars both had only one thought – they were glad they reconnected.

“See you next week,” Jane said through her car window.

Heather waved back, started her car and they both drove away toward home.

Quick On Your Feet, by Doug Bartlett

3/4/2020

Mike was a probationary employee at the local grocery store. It was a competitive place to work and he knew that by the end of the week there would be a reduction in the workforce. He hoped he would still be around. He needed this job badly and couldn’t afford to lose it.
A woman walked up to him and asked,” Excuse me, but would it be possible for me to buy one-half of a head of lettuce?”
“I’m not sure,” Mike responded,”Let me check with the boss.”
He walked to the back of the store, entered the storeroom and told his boss, “ You’re not going to believe this but some crazy old woman wants to buy one-half of a head of lettuce.”
The expression on the boss’s face told Mike something was terribly wrong. He slowly turned around to see that the woman had followed him and heard everything.
He immediately knew his job was in serious jeopardy and with a vision of seeing his last paycheck flying away, he continued,”and Boss this nice, young lady wants to buy the other half.”

The Mark, by Sterling Warner

3/4/2020

On Friday night, Emma arrived home around midnight and found her father, Milo, glued to the TV set, watching The Late Show with Stephen Colbert.

“Dad, I didn’t think you’d still be awake.”

“Couldn’t sleep, Emma; how was your date?”

“I gave a little and took a little.”

“Did he try to—”

“What?” she interrupted. “Have sex with me? Perhaps that’s what he wanted, but he never got to third base.”

“And the take?” Milo asked.

“$77.00; I slipped the bills in my pocket and tossed the wallet on the filthy floor of his treasured truck,” Emma grinned proudly.

“Think he noticed anything?”

“No, Dad! Fact is, we were cramped in his truck, and he seemed preoccupied with the fact his equipment wasn’t working.”

“Anything else?”

“Before he dropped me off, I told him our relationship would never work and not to call.”

“Good,” her father replied. “My gut tells me he won’t try to woo you back—or search for lost money—here.”

“Sometimes you really scare me, Dad,” Emma sighed, looking over at her father, noticing for the first time that his Winchester rifle had been laying across his lap ever since she walked through the door.

“That’s something your mom once said,” he replied wistfully.

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Longer Friday Flash Fiction Stories

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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