Blog Archives

Father-Son Talk, by John M. Carlson

30/4/2021

Grant had no idea exactly what he’d say to Erik, his fifteen year old son. None. All he knew was that Stephanie, his wife, had demanded that he go and talk to Erik.

Earlier, Stephanie discovered that Erik had recently watched a porn video. (She said she learned by accident, but Grant was betting she’d been snooping through Erik’s phone.) She wasn’t bothered by porn. But she’d been upset—no, horrified!—to discover that no one—no one!—in this video was wearing a face mask. It was, after all, 2029. Ten years into the pandemic. An era when everyone was supposed to always wear a mask around others. She was worried, she said, that Erik might be regularly watching the new “maskless porn” that she’d heard about on TV. This might lead him to doing unsafe things later. So there needed to be a father-son talk. Immediately.

How times changed, Grant thought. Once a mother would have been horrified by it being porn. Now mothers no longer cared—just as long as everyone in the video wore a face mask.

Grant supposed he’d just have to wing this talk as best as he could. Like his dad and his dad’s dad had probably done with similarly uncomfortable talks.

Grant reached Erik’s room. He knocked. “Erik? We need to talk about something.”

Mission Accomplished, by Ed N. White

30/4/2021

It survived a rough trip coming from Sonora, Mexico, buffeted by winds and rain and facing starvation along the route. The Viceroy butterfly had left its home in the small, dry patch of garden behind an adobe hut, having spent the first six weeks of its existence going from egg case to chrysalis.

.
It had two weeks of adult life to look forward to, and it wished to make every minute of it count. As it flew between the bars of the new steel border wall, its tiny heart clutched at the thought of those left behind and those struggling with hope. It flew over the detention centers and wept for the children incarcerated in cages.

It huddled under the broad leaves of palm trees along the coast as rain battered the fronds with machine gun-like noise. It gained what sustenance it could from rotten fruit, carrion, or even animal feces. But the determination remained. It would get to Florida and live out its last days in tropical splendor.
It was a peaceful animal, of the order Lepidoptera, using Mullerian mimicry to imitate a poisonous or distasteful thing that would deter its many predators. It was not aggressive and had no political agenda.

As it flew through Georgia, it was spotted by men toting guns. They fired at it, and cursed it, and told it to go back where it came from. It was a frightening moment for the peaceful Viceroy that did not know the word hate.

It crossed into the Florida peninsula just below Mexico Beach. Winging across the blue-green water aided by an onshore breeze and spent the night in a backyard in Homosassa Springs sleeping under a boat canopy along a canal. It was tiring and weather-worn, and it only had three days left to live.

It thought about those less fortunate, the tall animals that walked on two legs and moved about rapidly in noxious metal boxes. It thought about those sick and dying from a rampant pandemic. It had a home wherever it chose to stop and was happy and thankful about that, then it thought about those who had no home or were about to lose their homes because they lost their jobs.

Three days left. What could it do to relieve the distress of the upright walkers? How could it bring joy into a dark and troubled world?

It settled on a green leaf to take its last sustenance from a delicate yellow flower on its final day. A child exclaimed, “Look, Mommy. Look at the beautiful butterfly. It makes me so happy.”

The Viceroy did not die in vain.

A Whale of a Tale, by Doug Bartlett

30/4/2021

The overwhelming stench of decaying flesh woke him up with a jolt. There was currently a fog bank in his head. He couldn’t quite remember what happened to him or where he was. He was surrounded by pitch, black darkness and couldn't see a thing. The only thing he could hear besides his own breathing was a gurgling sound that did not come from him. He quickly learned to take shallow breaths to avoid a burning sensation in his lungs.He began to grope in all directions. Everything he touched was a slippery, slimy substance. He didn’t know how else to describe it. He noticed a liquid flowing down his left arm causing it to burn. He soon realized the liquid had an acidic content to it and that putrid smell of rotting flesh was his very own.

His memory began coming back and he realized he was in this predicament because he had clearly disobeyed God. He had been on a boat and some guys had thrown him overboard during a storm. He figured he would soon drown and end up in a watery grave. Yet, here he was.

But Where exactly?

He didn’t have a clue, but he did know that at least he was alive.he immediately made a commitment that if he ever got out of this situation alive he would never disobey God again.

He had been in this unpleasant environment for three days, even though it felt like three months, when he was suddenly and violently heaved ashore. It took some time for his sight to adjust to the brightness. He spit out some salt water and plucked the entangled seaweed from his hair. Jonah then went on his way to the town of Nineveh.

Sail Away, by Angela Carlton

30/4/2021

I travel down those winding, back roads with the music loud enough so I could drift away and fantasize about dropping everything, driving all night long to get to you. When you were present the light seemed to pour right in and I was a bit shiny, brighter, but that’s not the way it can always be? Is it? For you were miles and miles away with your own commitments the things that tie you and weigh you down. I breathe it in and breathe it back out, those sultry moments, fond memories of you. It’s everything I cling to, but it’s nothing I can hold. The things we can hold, we treasure, don’t we? And the things we can’t just eat at us. It wears on us. Across the street, I spot a couple laughing and holding hands, the sun shines down on them in that moment like an afterthought. They seem to move on the sidewalk easily, yet hearts are on fire. The music plays on and on and on in my car until I think about that Robert Plant lyric “Catch the wind, see us spin, sail away, leave today.” And it touches me, at once, I finally feel connected to something, connected and understood by this voice on the radio.

Back to Normal Again, by Jim Bartlett

23/4/2021

Still rubbing her arm, Betty steps into the kitchen, closing the door to the garage behind her. She smiles watching Frank as he makes a beeline for his recliner, the remote already in his hand.

“Is your arm even slightly sore?” she asks, pulling up her sleeve to see if there is any redness. (There isn’t.)

Frank, flopping into the chair and clicking on the TV with one (well-practiced) motion, turns her way. “Ummm? Sore? Oh, the shot. No. Not a bit. But they say some folks really feel the second one. I guess it packs a bigger wallop than the first. Maybe you’re just taking the toll for the both of us...” He smiles and winks, then spins back to the TV.

“Oh, sure...” But she pauses mid-sentence, placing a hand to her chin. “You know, I think you’re right. At least about the first part. Amber next door had some chills, and even Amanda complained about something.”

“Fatigue,” Frank reminds her.

“That’s it!”

Betty moves closer to Frank, looking over his shoulder as he turns up the volume. On the screen, a woman reporter, the mic clenched tightly in her hand, stands silently in front of a police barricade. She takes a long sigh, then continues her report.

“At this point we only know that there have been multiple casualties, including at least one officer, as a result of the shooting. The suspect, a former employee, is considered armed and dangerous, and, we’re told, is still at large. The police have cordoned off a four-block area around the warehouse, and you can probably hear the helicopter circling overhead—“

Frank shakes his head and clicks the remote, switching to another channel.

“Gunfire broke out just outside of this grocery store this morning, leaving two dead and another in critical condition, in what the police are describing as a road rage incident—“

CLICK. Frank takes in a long gulp of air as he changes the channel again. “Really?”

“In national news, police are still searching for a motive in yesterday’s mass shooting at the Calvary Chapel in downtown—“

CLICK. The screen goes black. Frank starts to stand, but Betty reaches from behind and sets her gentle hands on his now tense shoulders.

“Whatever is going on?” she asks.

“Well, I guess the virus is on the wane. ‘Cause it sure looks like things are starting to get back to the old normal. Everyone’s shooting everyone again.”

His words send Betty’s gaze to the fireplace, where a framed picture of their three grandsons sits proudly on the mantel. “Oh, Frankie. They go back to school next week. This can’t be ‘normal’. We can’t let it be.” Her voice trembles and a single tear slides down her cheek. In her anxiousness, she begins to rub her arm again.

Frank stands and pulls her into a hug. “Maybe the next vaccine we need is one that tempers all this hate and anger. Maybe that will help prevent these mass shootings...”

At the Mall, by Deborah Shrimplin

23/4/2021

"Judy, that fuschia color is fabulous!" Deanna exclaimed when Judy steps out ot the dressing room in a long flowing dress. "It's a perfect color for you! You have to get it."

Judy looks at her reflection in the mirror near the dressing room stall. She smiles and nods her head. She agrees. The color is stunning. It sets off her skin and hair color.

"Yeah, you're right. I love it." she said thinking about John's reaction to seeing her in a formal dress. "Now, about that emerald dress for you. You better get it or I'll never forgive you."

"Maybe. We still have a week before the Prom. I can keep looking around."

"No. We've been to every store in town. It's the best. Now, tell me. What's wrong with it?"

Deanna does not reply. An embarassed look crosses her face.

"I get it. It's too expensive. Well, I'm your best friend and I'll help with that. Now, go get it and we'll buy both of them together."

Deanna gives Judy one of her big hugs and fights back tears of gratitude. They had been friends since kindergarten and Judy had always been there for Deanna through the thick and thin of her life as a foster child.

They giggle as the cashier hangs a plastic wrap over each dress. As they stroll out of the store into the mall courtyard, they share dreams of the big night at the Senior Prom.

The sound of bullets discharging from Billy's automatic rifle echoes through the courtyard. Pandemonium and chaos reign.

Judy feels a searing pain in her back and collapses. Deanna screams when a bullet pierces her right thigh and falls next to Judy. Deanna reaches out to Judy and gently brushes aside her blonde hair. She touches Judy's cheek and slowly loses consciousness.

A Jigsaw Life, by Angela Carlton

23/4/2021

My Mama’s in love with another man. It’s not my Daddy but that friend he hangs out with, Steve. He comes to our house to drink beer and watch baseball. Mama’s face glows like she’s been at the swimming pool all day when she sees him. She makes sure she’s in her sexy, black shoes and cherry lipstick too. You can tell he likes what he sees. His eyes run all over her like she’s some kind of art statue or a glorious painting. Mama always pretends to be busy with the food even though she’ll only pick at it. Everybody knows dreamy people in love don’t eat much. Then she will stand in the kitchen with a dishtowel tightening it over and over and over in her hands, all that pressure, like it might fiss right on out and pop from a soda can. When the night’s through, you can usually find them whispering in the kitchen while Daddy’s eyes are stuck on the T.V. set. Steve will rub on her shoulders gently before he leaves, and finally departs the scene. Mama will watch him walk all the way to his shiny, blue truck. She will have that far away look again. I have learned, you really can’t find her.

It’s a jigsaw kind of life, the one with all the pieces that are missing.

A Giant Problem, by Doug Bartlett

23/4/2021

Davey knew he was not cut out for academics and his grades showed it. Perhaps it was because he was the “runt of the litter” and the school bully would always pick on him.He wanted to hang out with his older brothers but they considered him too young and a nuisance.

His dad eventually let him discontinue his schooling and join his brothers taking care of the sheep on the family ranch.

One day a war broke out and his brothers left to go fight for their country. Davey wanted to go but, once again, he was too young.

He stayed and took care of the flock. He practiced all day long with his favorite weapon of choice, the slingshot. He remembered the bully from school and would use his imagination to turn a large rock or a tree into that bully and use it for target practice. He became very adept at this skill, which was a good thing. You see, not all the enemies were imaginary. There were wild animals that threatened the flock. He was the only thing that stood between the two.

One day his dad sent him to the front lines to supply his brothers with food and to return with an update of the war.

Little did he know that his life would be changed forever that day.

When he got to the battle site he discovered that the enemy had sent out a challenge. An ancient tradition that would allow both sides to send out their best warrior and let them fight . Whoever was left standing, their nation would be victorious and the losing nation would be considered defeated and then enslaved.

Davey’s king looked like a warrior. He was a head taller than anyone else. He had a reputation of killing thousands. Davey was sure that his King would be their warrior to represent them in battle.

However, his king thought otherwise. The enemies’ warrior came out everyday and taunted Davey’s people. When the king saw the size and strength of this man he knew he didn’t stand a chance. He issued a reward to the person who would come forth and take out this enemy. There were no takers.

Davey remembered that bully back in school and the vow he had made to God that he would never back down from a bully again.

Some call it a lucky shot and others call it the providence of God. Davey swung that sling with all his might. He released one side of the sling at exactly the precise moment allowing it’s projectile to enter the atmosphere at a high velocity and at the proper trajectory.

The missile ended up embedded in the giant’s forehead between his eyes. He dropped like a huge Redwood tree.
When he hit the ground dust flew up to the ozone obscuring the sunlight. The Earth shook for miles around.

When the dust settled there was one less bully in the world.

Choose, by Don Tassone

23/4/2021

America was in constant chaos. John Anderson ran for President making only one promise: to help Americans choose a new path and then help make that a reality.

He ran as an independent and committed to only one term. Pundits dismissed him as a serious contender. But voters so disliked the major party candidates and were so eager for change that a slim majority decided to give Anderson a chance.

In his Inaugural Address, he said, “Over time, government has crept into every aspect of our lives. This is not what our founding fathers had in mind. We need to chart a new path. That begins with being clear about the rightful role of our government, what’s most important to us and what we’re willing to sacrifice.”

The next day, Anderson announced he would embark on a 50-day listening tour, attending town hall meetings in every state.

He said he wanted to hear what people wanted their government to do for them at the national level. Based on that, Anderson said he would set priorities and work with Congress to fund them.

The new President also said he wouldn’t hesitate to trim or cut programs that didn’t make the priority list. As a sign he was serious, he pledged to reduce federal government spending by five percent a year over each of the next four years.

Critics called Anderson’s approach “a dangerous new form of populism.” Special-interest groups were apoplectic. Congress was on edge.

But the people who spoke at the town halls, while sometimes passionate, were thoughtful in expressing their views.

State by state, themes began to emerge. At the conclusion of his tour, Anderson addressed the nation. His speech lasted less than a minute.

“My fellow Americans, you have spoken, and I am listening. You’ve been clear that you want your government to protect you and your rights, provide free health care for all, combat climate change and spend less. Next week, I’ll submit my recommendations accordingly to Congress and begin working with Congress to invest in our common priorities and cut spending. Thank you for sharing your views. Thank you for your trust.”

Anderson then worked with both houses of Congress to introduce and pass legislation to support the new national priorities and cut spending for everything else.

States took their cues from the federal government, taking charge of what they now had to own according to priorities they now had to set. Cities took their cues from the states. Choices, and the implications of those choices, became clear.

Not everyone was happy. Choosing is hard, and sacrifice is never easy. But as a whole, over the next four years, the nation was reinvigorated.

Anderson prepared to leave office. But in a democracy, citizens choose their leaders, and a majority of voters chose John Anderson to be their President again.

The Children, by Sankar Chatterjee

23/4/2021

The immigration judge Honorable Barry Smith at the courthouse in El Paso, the border town between the US and Mexico got a shocking jolt what he’d just heard from the lead governmental prosecutor Mr. John Henry. The defendant in the case was the Human Amnesty International, a human rights watchdog group that was representing groups of detained migrant families from neighboring poor nations of Mexico, Honduras, Nicaragua, Guatemala, and San Salvador. Several families had crossed the border in dark without any proper documentation and got captured. They were escaping poverty, inequity, violence, and religious persecution inside their respective homeland.

But before they could file petitions for asylum in the US, previous xenophobic administration in power stopped them at the border and decided to punish the families. Thus their small children were separated forcibly, placing them in clandestine detention centers, spread all over the country. Fortunately, a few brave journalists and photographers from country’s leading newspapers, receiving anonymous tips, followed the events. They then broke the story accompanied with secretly-taken photographs. A countrywide uproar ensued. A court order was issued forcing the government to begin the process of reuniting the children to their parents. And that’s when many parents, themselves detained, started to complain that many of their children could not be traced for the reunion. The news also broke that everyday hundreds of new homeless children (appearing to be lost) were seen to be roaming on the streets of many Central American countries.

Now, in front of Judge Smith, Mr. Henry shamelessly argued that instead of labeling those holding centers as “detention centers”, they should be described more like the “summer camps,” similar to entertainment venues. Judge Smith, himself a Holocaust survivor from the World War II, suddenly visualized the moment of his arrival at the death camps in Auschwitz. Coming out of the box-car, down the ramp of the platform, he was greeted by two viciously barking chained German shepherds.

Before this trial began, Judge Smith met some of the detained children inside his chamber. He had no doubt they were treated with some kind of psychotropic medicines, thus altering their moods and mental acuity before dispatching them to neighboring countries in the dark of the night. As Mr. Henry finished his presentation, Judge Smith allowed Mr. James Harris, the plaintiff lawyer to take the stand. He produced a well-taped and reconstructed shredded document, recovered by one of the investigative journalists from the garbage-bin located near a detention facility. He handed over the document to the judge who then read it loudly for the court. It was a list of medicines dispensed from the center’s pharmacy over past few months, without any patient’s name. All of them were well-known adult psychotropic drugs. Now Judge Smith went back to his own memory, remembering his own emancipated body when liberated from the camp by the US soldiers.

He silently uttered “The world now generated new barbarians.”

The Old Man and the Lake Atitlán, by Sankar Chatterjee

16/4/2021

During a summer expedition through the countries of the Central America, Bob and John, two college roommates from the US arrived in Antigua in Guatemala. There they learned about the presence of a beautiful lake (not that far from Antigua), locally known as the Lake Atitlán surrounded by the mountains and dormant volcanoes. The basin of the lake was created more than 80,000 years ago from a massive volcanic eruption in the area. The caldera thus formed was then filled up by natural water over the ages. The lake can be accessed near the town of Panajachel, about 100 kilometers driving distance from Antigua. After exploring Antigua over next few days, one Sunday morning the duo headed towards Panajachel. As they approached their destination in the late afternoon, they got their first panoramic view of the gorgeous lake surrounded by mountains and volcanoes under a clear blue sky and orange to pink rays of sunset. They also noticed colorful busy small village-markets surrounded the lake, with various goods changing hands.

Those small villages surrounding the lake have been inhabited by different lineage of Mayan descendants, namely Tz’utuzil, Kaqchikel and K’iche’, respectively. All the groups were colonized by the Spanish. Though Spanish influence had been permeated in daily life, each group still attempts to maintain respective traditions, being different from each other’s.
From their hotel room, a view of the lake with the dormant volcano Volcán San Pedro, in the background, offered them a grand view.

Next morning, the duo rented a local boat from a teenager to take them to a tour of various villages along the circumference of the lake, while exploring a few ones in depth. As the boat began its journey, a distant active volcano with a trace of bellowing white smoke came to the view. At the end of the tour of a number of villages, the duo requested the boat-driver to take them toward the center of the lake to experience the beauty of the surrounding nature from there. This was the time when the boat driver mentioned about the existence of various local fish in the lake.

Soon, on one side of the moving boat, a lone man at a distant boat was seen to enjoy the day while reading a book sitting in a lotus position on his boat. “Must have been fishing the whole day, now taking a break” the boat driver announced. Both Bob and John requested to take their boat next to the gentleman’s boat to socialize with him. Soon both boats came close to each other. After exchanging greetings, the hermit-like gentleman handed over the book, written in a local language to the boat driver.

For Bob and John, their boat driver translated the title “The Old Man and the Sea,” by Ernest Hemingway.

Bacon, by Phyllis Souza

16/4/2021

Barbara stood next to the stove making pancakes for breakfast.

Annie, her five-year-old daughter, was sitting at the table coloring.

Jack, Annie’s father strolled into the kitchen.

"No bacon?" He asked.

"No money," Barbara replied.

"You want I should rob a bank?"

"What's the jail time?"

"Ten, maybe twenty years?"

"Oh— then, go rob one."

"Yeah, well— um— I'm not eating pancakes without bacon."

“I told you. No money.”

"Since when?’

"Since you cut back on grocery cash."

"You think I'm stingy?"

"Yes!"

“I want my bacon.”

"No bacon.” She held up a spatula. “Here’s a pancake."

Mom flung. Dad ducked. Pancake slapped the wall.

Jack stormed out of the house.

Barbara glanced at her daughter. "I'm sorry, sweetie. After I clean up the mess, I'll fix your breakfast." She smiled. "I have something special."

"What about Daddy?"

Her mother looked out of the window over the sink.

"Go get him. He's watering the trees.”

Annie put down her crayon, jumped up, and ran outside.

Barbara strolled to the refrigerator and took out the bacon.

Waiting For You, by Angela Carlton

16/4/2021

While my sister lay dying, you kept me afloat. The distance between us made me restless at night for you were miles and miles away. But I held on to the sound of your voice over the phone, that cool easiness was a great comfort to me. I saw you the way you were the last time we were together. You, with a touch of sun on your face from the day we laid in the green grass by the lake, the beautiful stillness of the water and thump-thump-thump of my beating heart when you pressed against me, a finger sweeping over my neck. I swear you were with me in and out of my hazy dreams, all those visions of my feeble sister. It washed over me, sliding on my skin like the silk sheets I slept on, alone, so I waited for you. I waited for you to appear, show up and leave everything behind. I waited for you to leave your entire life behind. You, you were everything, and yet nothing I could hold, for the distance between us seemed to remain.

First Crush, by Susan Fairfax Reid

16/4/2021

We met in Hunter's night club, a smoke-filled club with tables, a bar, and a stage for amateur rock bands. It was the early 1970's, a time of rebellion in clothing, hairstyles, and music.
Joe was a construction worker. Tall and slim, he had olive skin. His black hair and mustache were calmer versions of Charles Manson's. He dressed in the current fashion, sometimes bought from unisex boutiques: bluejeans, Henley shirts, suede vests, billowing silk shirts, and boots. His shirts had a sensual smell of the skin of a man who had worked outdoors.

In the dimly-lit club, Joe ambled to the table where my friends and I sat, carrying a mixed drink and lit cigarette. With piercing blue eyes, he studied our faces through the smoky candle light at our table, looking for a dance partner. He had many dance partners, including one that none of us knew about. By the time he chose me, I already had a crush on him.
I was petite, well-built,with long brown hair that I curled with electric rollers before going to the club as routinely as I drank an Instant Breakfast before my 7 a.m. class.
My makeup was heavy: glimmering eyeshadow to show off my hazel eyes, and eyeliner and mascara to make them look bigger. With my finger, I applied clear gloss over my cinnamon lipstick to make my thin lips look bigger and wetter. The daring clothes I wore to Hunter's included a midi-skirt with a slit up to my thigh and hot pants with coordinating sweaters, boots, and wide belts. I dabbed woodsy smelling musk oil on my wrists and behind my ears.

Joe and I eventually became regular dancing partners. When we slow-danced together, tightly holding each other, I felt my body warming and sensual feelings rising in my lower body. When he leaned down to French kiss me, I responded passionately.

One night, Joe seemed unusually serious, not at all like his usual singing, dancing self. "Somebody has been spreading rumors about me that I'm married," he complained, studying different patrons through his aviator glasses. "I don't know who it is."
In addition to being a college student, I was a clerk for an insurance investigation company. One of my jobs was filing completed life insurance policies. Kneeling on the floor next to the filing cabinet's open drawer, I inserted completed policies into alphabetized olive green folders. Then, I saw Joe's name. I jumped up, blood red in the face. "What's wrong, Alice," Bob, one of the investigators asked? "Did you find somebody you know"? "Yes, '' I replied, stunned. "Is he married," he continued? "Yes, I answered, with a sinking pain in my stomach.
For about a week, that pain of loss continued. I had trouble concentrating on anything but Joe. First crushes that don't work out are more painful when you find out the man of your dreams is married.

Comfortable Crews, by Andrew Carter

9/4/2021

Artie’s face reddens. He suspects his girlfriend is cheating on him. She’s been arriving home late each night claiming that the publican’s giving her extra hours. Artie considers the consequence of driving to the pub. One mile isn’t far however there’s a cyclone approaching. Driving whilst intoxicated could be risky.
A cyclone party took shape at his place after a cyclone was forecast. He’d rather party with his fellow crewmates from the Dazzlin’ C blasting Eighties music.
Still, there’d be slim chance he'd be pulled over. Besides, as a rule, drivers aren’t arrested unless they attract attention. Cooktown’s police rarely arrest drunk drivers because everyone drives drunk, including the Cooktown police. It wouldn’t be feasible to book one another.
Artie curses then, storms off in his ute. Strengthening winds scatter palm fronds and debris across the road as he nears the pub. There’s a police car parked out front, so Artie pulls up further.
He squints through the windscreen. Angela stands under the glow of streetlights, next to the cop car. It’s his next-door neighbour, Constable Crews. Crews was nicknamed ‘Comfortable Cruise’ by some of the sassier local girls. Angela gives the constable dreamy looks, a satisfied
smile, and a goodbye kiss under the lights of his patrol car.
She’s in her early twenties, pretty, and she’s trying to fill a void with love that Artie couldn’t fulfil. Artie is young, as well. He has a slight stoop, and he suffers in personal relationships. His lips curl as she turns and heads towards him. Her skirt billows and she clutches her handbag to her chest before entering Artie’s ute.
“What’s goin’ on with him?” Artie snaps.
Crews’ headlights switch on. He drives past slowly then, stops, backs up, and gets out of his vehicle. He approaches Artie with jutted chin, chest thrust out, and one hand tapping his
baton. His demeanour revealed a hint of menace.
“Got ya license there, mate?”
“Yeah.” Artie replies, lacking eye contact.
Crews demands Artie take a breath test. Artie exhales. He’s over. He hands Angela the car keys.
After a few hours filling forms at the station, Artie trudges home muttering obscenities about crooked cops.
Along the way, an idea springs to mind. If he were to cut a small back cut at the base of Crews’ palm tree, followed by an undercut, wind gusts combined with the weight of the palm would make it fall. He uses a bush saw and cuts just enough to leave it standing until wind gusts fell it. There’d be no evidence, and the cuts were made to ensure it would land squarely on Crews’ carport.
Artie returns from his endeavour to the cheers of his mates after Angela informed them he had been locked up. Queen’s Bohemian Rhapsody blasts. More cheers. Then, Artie chimes in
with his own rendition:
“Is this a cyclone, or is this an allergy?
Caught in a landslide, felling of a palm tree.
Open your eyes,
Look up to the skies and sneeeeze.”

Blood Line, by Shelley Kirton

9/4/2021

When we were kids, my older sister, Eloise, told me I was adopted. Our parents were not my real parents, and I had different blood from her and the other kids. Blood line was important she said.

She reckoned she could tell because I didn't look like anyone in the family, and looking at myself in the mirror, she was right. Fair and curly to their straight and dark, I was the odd one out. I thought that if one day I woke up with different hair, that would prove her wrong, but it didn't happen. I lay in bed at night and wondered what this adopted thing would mean. Would some other parents, who presumably would look like me, drive up one day in a Mercedes and repossess me? I lost a lot of sleep and thought about my repatriation and when and how it might occur. Should I have a bag packed?

I eventually asked my mother, and she said oh, for goodness sake, don't be ridiculous, of course you weren't adopted. Eloise was just teasing you. Why in god's name are you so gullible? Can't you take a joke? Grow up, Cecily. She was not very motherly. Hard-hearted. Then she told Dad, and he laughed meanly and looked at me and shook his head slowly.

I was different at high school too. I didn't take the subjects the other girls did – History and Geography and Home Ec and Typing. I happily studied Maths and Physics and Chemistry and unhappily, French, as a foreign language was required – god knows why but there was no arguing with the rules. I was awful at French. Unlike my sister.

"Told you", she said, "You're adopted." It still wasn't funny.

I always sat at the front of the class. Turned out I was short-sighted. I sat there even after I got thick black-framed glasses. Specky four eyes, the boys said, and made finger-and-thumb circles around their eyes. Eloise sat at the back all the cool kids who didn't need specs, and they swigged vodka they nicked from someone's parents and decanted it into vanilla extract bottles. Our parents were teetotal.

They did this during Geography because Mr Smythe was a bit dim and didn't see what was going on. He did wear glasses though. She still passed her Geography exams. They didn't ever get caught stinking of cheap booze and the weed they smoked while walking home.

There is no mistaking my parentage now: my thighs the same shape and size as my mother's, sort of marbled white and pasty and plump. She died recently: a heart attack. Appropriate really. Dad died in a car accident. Drunk driver. I don't see much of Eloise or the other kids.

It is of no comfort to know I'd been in my blood place all the time. I had anguished over it and wished and prayed for a family like me to come and take me home. It didn't have to be in a Mercedes.

The Truth Behind the Tale, by Rod Drake

9/4/2021

Okay, first, it’s not a red riding hood (what the hell is that, anyway?). It’s just a dark red hoodie like everyone wears now. Plus I’m 17 years old, not 7 like in the version you were told.

Second, I took a shortcut through Central Park (not the Black Forest!) to see how my Grams was doing in her small, but rent-controlled, apartment in an older section of the city. And no “basket of goodies” (whatever that is) either, just a couple of Bauman’s bagels that I picked up on the way over.

Third, the B&E criminal’s last name was Wolfe; he wasn’t an actual wolf (like there would be a timber wolf roaming the streets of Manhattan).

Fourth, yeah, Wolfe apparently does like to dress up in women’s clothing and Grams was close to his size, so this checks out, but this is more fetish than disguise.

Fifth, the so-called woodsman who saved Grams (and me, I guess, although I had already pulled out my pepper spray) lives next door and models for the L. L. Bean catalog, hence his outdoorsy, flannel look.

So, to sum up: no one was consumed, there was no axe (the L. L. Bean model just used Gram’s fireplace poker), there’s was no series of inane I. D. questions (hey, a guy in your Gram’s clothes in her apartment is a pretty obvious problem), there was no dead wolf (although the perp did have a big bump on his head from the poker blow when the police took him away).

Sometimes people’s imagination gets carried away and stories grow out of all proportion; just check out the current issue of the National Enquirer.

The Brownie and the Bookshelf, by David Walby

9/4/2021

“Why in the world did you do that to my bookshelf?!” The man yelled at the brownie.

“I’m not sure why you are angry, all I did was organize that mess.”

“That mess, was already organized—perfectly organized by the authors last name.”

“That makes no sense! You organize bookshelves in alphabetical order by the title.”

The man put his hand onto his face, “Why do you think that is a good idea?”

“That’s how I was taught! This is the way my people have done so for generations! That is how your grandfather organized these books!”

“This is going to take some getting used to.”

Charles’s grandfather had just passed away and he had inherited the estate, a small manner house far out in the country. There was quite a bit of land attached and a quaint little forest. What Charles hadn’t realized is that there were brownies on the property.

Say It Ain't So, by Doug Bartlett

9/4/2021

The police officer radioed it in before departing from his cruiser. It appeared to be a homeless person, but he knew not to make assumptions.

Shining his flashlight in the vagrant’s face, temporarily blinding him, he asked, “ Sir, what are you doing here?”

The man was definitely out of place wearing an expensive suit and was well groomed just yards from a homeless encampment. The policeman thought the man looked familiar but couldn’t quite place him.

The officer asked, “Sir, what is your name?”

After some stuttering and much stammering he said,” It’s Joe.”

“How did you get here Joe?”

“Uh, uh I don’t know.”

“ Well, tell me where you live Joe and I’ll give you a ride home.”
“ I don’t remember where I live.”

“ Then I’m going to have to take you down to the precinct and book you.”

“ Uh, well, uh…. wait a minute officer. I just remembered that I have this paper in my right coat pocket that has my information on it.”

Joe carefully got out the paper and gently unfolded it. “Yes, here it is, officer. You can see for yourself. I live at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue.”

Compassion, by Rafiq Ebrahim

9/4/2021

It is a Sunday morning and I want to sleep late, much later than my normal hour of going to work on weekdays. For me, Sundays are a time to rest my body and mind, recuperate my energy and strength, and get fit for the coming weekdays.
It looks that I am not destined to sleep late, as I hear taping at the patio door. The noise wakes me up I must get up, unwillingly, rub my eyes and unroll the shade. I see tiny beaks tapping at the glass partition of the patio. Yes, I am late in waking up, but it is Sunday.
The birds, little brown sparrows are impatient, waiting for their breakfast, their daily routine. This daily work escaped my mind. How selfish of me, I reflect. With my eyes half-closed, sleep lurking in them, I go to the kitchen pantry, pour out crushed wheat and a mixture of grains. Opening the patio door, I sprinkle the grains on the floor.
The birds rush towards the pieces, bow their heads and begin picking the grains in their beaks and start eating. From the dining table, I pick up a bread and throw out the crumbs. More sparrows come flying.
I delight at this spectacle Happy birds, their beaks shining as sun rays fall on them, taking their breakfast, nothing to disturb them.
. I see a movement on a tree near the patio. A big fat squirrel jumps down from a tree and comes in the middle of the scattered grains. The birds are frightened. They fly and gather at a distance, looking desirously at their food now in possession of the squirrel. The squirrel, occupying the place, is ready for the big meal. It turns and looks at the gathering of the helpless birds, pauses for a moment and slowly jumps back to the tree without picking any crumb.
Compassion knows no boundary.

The Ring and I, by Ed N. White

2/4/2021

The annual Equine Rescue charity auction was a gala event, with music, wine, and many donated items of unusual art up for silent bidding. She spotted the ring and called to her husband, “Look at that. I want it.”
He said, “Wait and see how the bidding sheet looks and then make your play. I’m going to the wine bar. Would you like red or white?”
She was staring at the ring. A beautiful pure silver band wrought in a design found on a headstone in a sixth-century Scottish graveyard. It was made by a famous jeweler in the Orkney Islands.
“Red or white?” He asked again.
They left before the bid winners were announced and received the good news in the morning. The ring had a new home on their farm later that day.
“It’s beautiful. I love it.” She slipped it on her finger, kissed her husband, and pranced around the kitchen, waving her hand like royalty.
The following day, the dishwasher broke. The next day the TV burned out, and the tractor battery died. Over the next few days, the water heater failed, egg production was down, and the goats were off their feed. The dog got skunk sprayed, and the husband got stepped on by a horse.
There was only one possible cause of this bad luck. In desperation, she removed the ring, wrapped it in plastic, and put it in the freezer, hoping that might calm the malevolent spirits. He laughed and said, “That’s ridiculous.”
The husband took a more practical approach. He emailed the jeweler, described the events, and, to rid the house of this spirit, suggested they may have to ceremoniously sacrifice the cat. Twelve hours later, the jeweler’s husband replied. It began, “Please don’t sacrifice the cat,” and further explained that they had used these headstone designs many times. No one had ever complained of supernatural problems. He suggested it might be a coincidence, or maybe the weather. The husband sent another email saying the cat thing was in jest. But they planned to take the ring to the harbor for the Blessing of the Fleet and hold it over the water as the Bishop’s flower-bedecked boat sailed by. That was also said in jest, and the ring remained in the freezer.
A friend suggested purifying the house and gave them sage bound in twine and two candles made of special tallow to burn. They opened the windows and waved the smoldering sage throughout the house. That worked. The bad luck disappeared with the smoke, but the ring remained frozen.
Years later, the farm was sold, and they moved south. She asked, “Have you seen that Scottish ring?”
He shrugged and replied, “You brought it. I remember that. Is it in the safe box?”
“No, I’ve looked everywhere.”
“Have you tried the freezer?”
She stared at him for a minute with “the look,” then went into the other room without answering.

Remembering the Victims, by Sankar Chatterjee

2/4/2021

On a beautiful autumn day, Sam Howard was strolling along the banks of the Danube River on the Pest side in Budapest, Hungary. Double-decked cruise ships that crisscross the river ferrying tourists between various European countries were passing by in both directions. Sam could hear the fragments of conversations as well as sweet sound of music emanating from those ships. On the bank, the tourists along with the local residents were also appreciating the glorious day. Sam was taking the walk after paying a visit to the country’s Parliament Building, an iconic landmark of the city. Suddenly, Sam noticed a collection of shoes scattered on the bank in front of him, as if the owners just took them off to dip their toes in the water. But Sam could not see anybody in the water. As he approached the area, it became evident that they were not actual leather shoes, but all metallic with varied sizes; a few of them appeared to be more rusted than the others. He looked around to discover that the place was a memorial site known as “Shoes on the Danube Bank,” with a near-by plaque dedicating the art “To the memory of the victims shot into the Danube by the Arrow Cross militiamen in 1944 – 45.” Ideologically, the members of the Arrow Cross were aligned with the Nazis from Germany and acted as their proxy, thus rounding up the dissidents as well as the Jews of the city. Later, they would bring them to the bank of the river, make them to take off their shoes, line them up along the bank and shoot them so that the bodies would fall into the water to be carried away by the flow of the river. It had been said that the near the end of the Second World War, in order to save the ammunition, the victims were used to be chained and only the two book-end ones will be shot to death, so that rest of the entire group would fall into the river and drown.

The memorial was conceived by film director Can Togay, not only to honor the victims, but also to force the nation to look into the past pact of a section of its citizenry with the evil Nazi machinery. Sculptor Gyula Pauer then brought it to reality in the April of 2005. Sam had arrived in Budapest from the US, in the midst of a new Presidential regime that severely fragmented the country right along a political fault line giving rise to the emergence of political parties with extreme hate-filled ideologies against the ethnic and religious minorities, creating an atmosphere of fear and uncertainty for the future.

Sam went around each and every single shoe in this memorial repeating to himself those famous words from historian George Santayana: “Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it.”

My Secret, by Angela Carlton

2/4/2021

Ryan doesn't know my secret. Voices surround us at the gathering as the Outfield sings “Josie’s on a vacation far away.” It's an '80s moment, quite appropriate since it's our fifteen-year high school reunion. Ryan’s standing near my table. His upper lip curls a bit like Elvis when he smiles. It's his hunk-of-burning-love smile. It still makes me quiver, a smile I get lost in.
No one can find me.

I’m on my third glass of Shiraz when he sits beside me. We make small-talk as he rubs a thumb on his Miller Lite bottle. His wife Lori’s across the way holding a champagne flute. Our banquet room inside this trendy high-rise hotel is too small. There's not enough air for the three of us.

At the beginning of the night, I kept running into Lori. She’s elegant in a way and in the bathroom, I tell her she’s pretty, that it's nice to finally meet her, even though I didn’t mean a damn word of it. Her hair is black, severely short. She has masculine features: a square face, a strong nose, and perfect make-up. The more I drink, the more she reminds me of a drag queen.

A few of the single women I’ve come with have disappeared mingling with others. My hands are starting to shake, but not from the Shiraz. It's this damned day. I’ve thought about it over and over, the memories, all the weight.

My eyes study Ryan closely now, the way he raises his brow when he intends to make a point, his carefree, ain’t got no worries, kind of laugh. It's the delicate details, comforts, these tiny gestures that defined my youth. He's talking about his favorite history teacher, Mr. Carr, how his lectures motivated him to be better and stay clean. It's a touching story, only his voice is beginning to sound muffled like we’re trapped underwater.

There’s a faint hum inside my ear. I can’t seem to gather details. Something is pounding- pounding inside of me. It's hard to breathe. I need out of this box. I need a window.

These thoughts rush through my head before I utter the words. I finally tell
Ryan my secret, I had your baby. I gave him away. Then I add, Oh God, the reason I was home-schooled those years, but it comes out in a nervous choke, a way to fight off tears.

Ryan glares at me with genuine concern then horror, the same way mother did when I told her I was pregnant at fifteen. Tears spill from my eyes when I whisper, What have I done? My mouth is dry- dry-dry. I feel like I’m going to vomit.

The disco ball reflects light around us; tiny sparkles are everywhere. I’m having a hard time moving, rising to get OUT. From a distance, I see the wrecked image of a long-lost girl in the wall mirror before his hand touches my shoulder.

My Ryan reaches for me.

Exalted, by Doug Bartlett

2/4/2021

The young boy wandered throughout the store as his eyes widened looking at all the shiny trinkets and baubles that were on display. One item, in particular, captured his attention. He believed it to be the most valuable object in the place. He quickly and discreetly snatched it from the shelf and immediately exited the store. He was thinking how easy that was when he heard the merchant yell for him to stop. He began running and glanced over his shoulder to see the merchant in hot pursuit.

He had gone three blocks in multiple directions before he had lost his pursuer in the crowd. He began slowing down but ran smack dab into someone before coming to a halt. This was not just anyone. This was a very old man who was considered the wise sage of the village. The crowd gasped in shock as the boy collided into the elderly gentleman, knocking him off his feet.

“I’m sorry sir, how clumsy of me.”

The old gent calmly rose and dusted himself off before saying, “My son, if you aren’t careful and change your ways, you’ll end up elevated high above your peers.”

The boy thought, “The old man has gone daft. I would love to be elevated above these common folks. I believe the term is exalted. Yes, I would truly love to be exalted.”

It seems that just happened yesterday, but it actually took place just over a quarter of a century ago. Here he is now, as he scans the crowd of common people who are below him and a strange smirk appears on his face as he realizes the sage’s prophecy has finally come true. He didn’t change his ways and he indeed found himself elevated high above his peers…………. on a wooden cross.

He saw that he was being crucified with two other men.

He knew one of the guys was a criminal like himself and they deserved this agonizing punishment. But the other man, the other man was different, very different.

Although he didn’t personally know this man being crucified next to him, he had heard about him. This man had the power to forgive sin and you would need that to happen before you could enter into a relationship with God and be able to go to God when you died. He realized he had led a lifetime of crime and sin and didn’t deserve what he was about to ask for. He would ask anyway as It was his last opportunity as his time was vanishing like sands in the top half of an hourglass. He repented of all his bad choices and was truly sorry for all the pain he had caused others. He then asked this man if he would forgive him of his sins and to allow him to enter God’s presence for all eternity.

Jesus did.

The Girl Who Tried to Sell Roses, by Rajiv Sahay

2/4/2021

I first saw her lingering near the shiny glass door of the burger corner where I stood in a queue for placing my orders. As I turned around my neck to look outside through the glass door if my father was there, but he was not and I saw her. She must have been about fourteen or so, dark –complexioned, her hair cinched into a ponytail. She wore a pink t-shirt over jeans.

I placed my order and was given a token. The token read, 17. I ran my eyes across the stuffy room and made up my mind to wait outside in the open air until my turn would come. I walked out to the lounge and sat on a bench. I sat facing the entrance of the burger corner. I saw the girl was still lingering about carrying a few rose stalks as she pleaded a young couple to buy her roses. Though I couldn't hear her but could only figure it out from her gestures. After nodding his head in "No" the boy whipped out a Rupee 10 note from the side pocket of his trousers and extended it to her. Initially she appeared to refuse. Perhaps she wanted the money in exchange of her roses and not in charity but soon I noticed that she had accepted that charity of Rupees 10 offered to her as the boy didn’t take any rose stalk from her and he scurried away. The next moment, she was hovering over the lounge-like a butterfly until she found for herself another flower to sit upon. This time another pair of a boy and a girl! The flower girl lifted her hand that she held the rose stalk in. But, the girl from the pair gestured her hand in the way of shooing her away but, the flower girl persisted, paced up and down the lounge as the pair did and finally she murmured something.

The boy took out a Rupee 10 note from his wallet and thrust it into the girl’s hand. This time the girl took the money with resignation and moved on. She soon stumbled into the two teenage boys to whom she held out her hand full of roses and the boys stopped short as the roses touched one of the boys on his chest who was holding a cold drink glass in his hand. He handed his glass to the boy walking with him, fumbled out a few coins from his pocket and placed them on the girl's palm. The girl gave a look at her palm as if counted the coins and then skittered away with her rose stalks whose number always remained the same.

I rose from my seat realizing that my turn would have come by then. As I walked towards the burger corner I was thinking about what I had just seen - it was how a florist was made to turn into a beggar which she accepted out of her innocence.

Father-Son Talk, by John M. Carlson

Mission Accomplished, by Ed N. White

A Whale of a Tale, by Doug Bartlett

Sail Away, by Angela Carlton

Back to Normal Again, by Jim Bartlett

At the Mall, by Deborah Shrimplin

A Jigsaw Life, by Angela Carlton

A Giant Problem, by Doug Bartlett

Choose, by Don Tassone

The Children, by Sankar Chatterjee

The Old Man and the Lake Atitlán, by Sankar Chatterjee

Bacon, by Phyllis Souza

Waiting For You, by Angela Carlton

First Crush, by Susan Fairfax Reid

Comfortable Crews, by Andrew Carter

Blood Line, by Shelley Kirton

The Truth Behind the Tale, by Rod Drake

The Brownie and the Bookshelf, by David Walby

Say It Ain't So, by Doug Bartlett

Compassion, by Rafiq Ebrahim

The Ring and I, by Ed N. White

Remembering the Victims, by Sankar Chatterjee

My Secret, by Angela Carlton

Exalted, by Doug Bartlett

The Girl Who Tried to Sell Roses, by Rajiv Sahay

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