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Home at Last, by Janice Siderius

29/4/2022

The car pulls into the rock-strewn parking lot. Lisa yanks on the parking brake and opens the door. She has finally made it. The long flight and the hair-raising drive south from Athens were all worth it.

She could smell the rosemary as she walked up the dirt path. Ahead the Mediterranean Sea glitters in the bright sunshine. And there it is, the ancient temple of Sounion.

Lisa remembers all the legends surrounding this ancient building. How Aegeus threw himself off the cliff and into the sea when he thought his son had died in Crete. Now the sea is named after him.

Lisa walks to the cliff and looks down. Yes, she thinks, no one would survive that fall. It makes her nervous just to stand and look over.

She turns to admire the temple itself. Ancient Athenian mariners, when they sailed past Sounion, knew they were almost home. Lisa feels the same as she walks up the steps and into cella of the ruins. Looking out at the legendary sea, she can visualize the triremes and other trading ships traveling to and from Piraeus.

What was it about this place that seemed so familiar, yet so disconcerting? Lisa has an eerie feeling that she lived here once before. As she begins to walk towards her parked car, she notices that the walkway is not dirt, it has paving stones. She looks down and realizes she is wearing sandals and her dress has become a chiton. Whatever or however this change has happened, she knows she is home at last.

Dawn's Curiosity, by Deborah Shrimplin

29/4/2022

Twelve-year-old Dawn knew she was in trouble. She knew her mother had found out what she and her best friend, Muriel, had done. When she opened the front door, her mother was waiting for her.

"Muriel's mother called me and told me everything. I won't have you trying to sneak into the theater without paying. You're grounded! And, Muriel's mom said she saw you walking near the wall. Don't you even think of climbing over it."

"Mother, I can't even see over a twenty foot high wall. How would I climb over it? From the attic window, I can't see anything but darkness."

"Good. That wall was put up so long ago that no one knows if Time has been kind or not to the people living on the other side. No one wants to find out. It's better to leave it be."

At times like this when Dawn wanted to escape, she would sit among her Grandmother's collections and antiques stored in the attic. She liked slipping into a distant past. Today was one of those days when the past was brighter than any future.

Dawn climbed up to the attic and after sitting on the old couch for a few minutes, she paced the room. Then, she opened a small cabinet underneath the window. Inside she found an old box with a glass covering. There were a dozen butterflies mounted inside. She placed the box on the windowsill.

"What's this?" Dawn thought. "These butterflies are beautiful."

"Dawn, come down for dinner." her mother called.

"Coming."
*****
"This isn't fair. Grounded on New Year's Eve. I can't see any friends tonight." Dawn groused as she plopped down on the couch in the attic. She grabbed her smartphone and texted Muriel.

While texting her friend, the clock in her smartphone flashed the date and time. It was midnight.

"Happy New Year, my friend."

At that very moment, flickering lights appeared on the windowpane.

"What's that?" Dawn thought as she walked over to the window. "Oh, my. It's the reflection."

Inside the wooden box, the butterflies were wiggling and breaking free. They glistened with an inner light like fireflies.

Dawn lifted the lid. The butterflies fluttered in front of the pane.

"Oh, my God. They want out." Dawn thought. She opened the window and watched the butterflies fly beyond the backyard to the wall. When they flew over the wall, the small specks of light spread out in all directions.

Then, ever so slowly, the wall began to fade.

"It's disappearing!" Dawn exclaimed.

She ran to the attic door, raced down the stairs and out the front door. The sky beyond the wall was turning orange, pink and yellow.

Dawn gasped at the beauty, stood still and took a deep breath. With her heart racing and her mind in awe, she wondered, "Was Time kind to the people on that side of the wall?"

She ran to find out.

Beyond the Veil, by Doug Bartlett

29/4/2022

Everywhere I go I am surrounded by the stench of death. It’s in the newspaper and in the news on television. Those are people I don’t even know. I can’t get away from it. I receive texts and phone calls telling me of friends or relatives that have passed. Death seems to be lurking around every corner.

I know it’s just a matter of time and it will be my turn to leave. The older I get the more aware I am of that fact.

My friend Joe has noticed the same thing that I have when it comes to death. However, Joe becomes very uncomfortable discussing the topic of death and usually tries to avoid it at all costs.

Joe asked me, “How do you stay so calm when discussing death? It makes me nervous and anxious.”

“Why do you think it does that??”

“Because of the unknown. Nobody knows for sure what it’s like. Death is like going behind a thick veil and I don’t know what’s on the other side. How do you deal with it?”

“Well even though I don’t know exactly what’s on the other side, I do know Who is on the other side and that makes all the difference.”

Endless Lives, by D. M. Clarke

29/4/2022

I sit in the bathroom reading while I take care of business.
Reaching the end of the chapter I decide it's time for me to leave the room.
I turn the book over. It's pre-owned and has an old yellowing sticker on its rear. Far broader than it is tall, I peel the sticker off.
As one does, I roll it up between my thumb and forefinger along its longest edge. I do it slightly off-axis to form a spiraling cone that tapers at the end. It looks a little like a rifle bullet in its casing.
I am the only person who will ever see this spiral.
This spiral is made from paper. That paper is from a tree that died.
The glue is partially formed from rubber, from oil, from long-dead creatures.
Endless lives have now culminated into this minuscule new form that I have constructed as a simple, passing enjoyment.
I am the only person who will ever see it.
I consider putting it in the trash. Its life has been lived and is now done.
But I don't.
I keep it.
It is mine alone.

The Gift, by Gabrielle Park

29/4/2022

Ella sighed, peering into the shop’s window. Being Christmas day, she wanted to buy her older brother, Tim, a new watch chain.

Walking home, Ella passed a hair salon. A hairdresser took one glance at Ella’s long, flowing hair, she said, “You have such beautiful hair. We’ll buy it! Twenty dollars.”

Ella would be losing her hair but receiving money for the gift. It was a small sacrifice.

Ella quickly purchased the watch chain. It was perfect.

She arrived home and waited for her brother. The door opened, and Tim came in.

Tim looked at Ella. “You cut your hair.”

“Sold it.”

“Ella, I don’t mind how you look, but...Merry Christmas”

Tim gave her a package from his pocket. Ella ripped the wrapping and let out an ecstatic scream of joy. On the table lay a pair of combs. Ella hugged them. “Thank you! I have wanted these for years!”

“You must see my present.” She flashed out the watch chain.

“Ella, I sold my watch to get enough money for your combs.” Smiling, Tim added, “It was worth the sacrifice. Let’s use our gifts to remind us of each other.”

The next day, Ella pinned her combs up to her short hair. Walking around, everyone’s eyes were on her. Ella was the center of attention.

That night, Tim smiled. “I wore the watch chain today. Stuck it on and went to work at the newspaper company. I was about to print the paper when a man named Hans Wilsdorf walked in, yelling that I should print his part of the paper too. I was getting curious why he was desperate, so I read his article. He’s going to start a watch company, and he needs some watchmakers.

“I accidentally tripped, and a stack of newspapers fell down. Hans helped me pick it up. He asked about my watch chain, and we talked. He heard my story, offering to teach me how to make watches. He asked me if I wanted to join his business at the watch company. I’ve always wanted to be an engineer, so I took the job on the spot.”

In the morning, Ella went outside with the same hairstyle as the day before. Women were wearing combs in their short hair. Jogging up to a newspaper stand, the first thing Ella saw was the headline in bold: Local Girl Sets Up New Short Trimmed Hair Fashion Trend.

Amazingly, Ella’s misfortune had become a benefit. Everyone wanted Ella’s fashion advice.

Meanwhile, Tim was at the watch shop, talking with Hans.

“I have to tell you, Tim, that your watches are one of a kind, and the best. Right now, our business is small. I was hoping you could stay with us. Our company is going to get big soon, I just know it.”

“Now, we need a name. Tim, what’s your family name? I remember hearing it somewhere, thinking that it was onomatopoeic like a watch ticking.”

Tim smiled. “Rolex.”

Mr Edward and Dr Henry, by Myram Huey

22/4/2022

First of all, it's not true that the good doctor and I are one and the same person. That was a rumour put about by inkshitters with vested interests. That the good doctor and I are acquainted is merely a fact, simple as any other. We don't mix in the same circles. We don't correspond. What he Henry does is his business, what I do is mine. We've kingly names in common, that's about it. Edward and Henry. But I'm no more Henry than Henry is me. He's who he is, I'm who I am. Whatever dealings we have . . .are more in the way of research. Yes, I aid him with his research now and then. He likes to keep these things private. Poor unhappy Henry. The good doctor. Got a doctor's face. Maybe he practices the kind look in a mirror. In fact I know he does. Catch ol' Henry unobserved, you'll hear him muttering to himself. Catch him before a mirror, you'll see quite the production: right profile, left profile, straight ahead; face mid-peroration; or smiling its broadest, or looking pensive or concerned. The Henry everybody knows. - Those who think they know Henry. Henry thinks he knows me. Very unwise. Too clever for his own good. Too much in his own mind, that's Henry. Thinks himself a good judge of character. Has the ease of a man comfortable in his own skin.

Yet he persists in addressing me as MISTER. After all this time. Never Edward. It's always MISTER Hyde.

Caring by Sharing, by Jeremy Leariwala

22/4/2022

On a quiet overcast evening, Dave sat inside La Beer Point. Therein, apart from Carolina, were two stocky, coat-clad old men and a shy-looking lady, seated by the door. He surfed through the internet-thanks to the free Wi-Fi, hunting for knowledge. An enlightened man is a rich man, isn’t it?

“I am almost through…” A voice said forcing Dave to look up.

From his position, Dave saw what the trio was up to.

“Do you think your style is working?” Man-2 asked.

“I have got it already!” His friend declared.

Dave stole a glance at Carolina, but she was paying no attention-busy with her cash register machine. He went back to watching the three strangers, burning with an overwhelming urge to interrupt them. An embarrassing encounter, a few weeks back, when he poked his nose into someone’s argument, was still fresh in his mind.

One of the men was bent over a wine bottle. He was engrossed in a battle he was not willing to lose-removing the cork so as to access its content. As a repeat victim, Dave was aware of the difficulty of uncorking a wine bottle the way the old man was going. Wishing he could intervene, he bid his time, peeking every few seconds. Five minutes later, there was applause. Man-1 had triumphed!

***

Once half the wine was gone, Dave summoned Carolina and sent her over to request for some audience with the group. They had no objection.

“A close friend of mine showed me a trick to open a wine bottle.” Dave said and picked the remaining piece of the cork from the table. Although it was badly mutilated, it could still serve him. He pushed the cork down the bottle’s neck. None of the three spoke. Next he picked the Corkscrew opener.

Carolina watched from the counter. Dave stuck the tip of the worm into the top of the cork and rotated it clockwise, slowly at first.

“This is just one of the ways. The easiest of all…” Dave went on. Once half of the screw was buried in the bottle, he stopped. He propped the hooked boot-lever against the lip of the bottle and gently pulled up the handle. The cork eased its way upwards, and…

POP!

“OH MY GOD!” The woman gasped. Her male companions exchanged glances, sheepish smiles crawling over their faces.

“For very many years, I struggled with opening wine bottles until my friend came to my rescue a couple of days ago.” Dave concluded and placed the opener down on a serviette.

“Wow, that is amazing!”

“Thanks for the audience. Enjoy your night!” Dave walked back to his place feeling so good that he’d just shared some knowledge…

Eternal Bliss, by Doug Bartlett

22/4/2022

He enters the lobby with the pomp and ceremony of a king surrounded by his generals. The clerk approaches him.

“Yes sir, welcome to the Hotel California, how may I help you?”

I am checking in.”

“Yes sir, and the name?”

“Putin, Vladimir Putin.”

“Oh yes, we’ve been expecting you, Mr. Putin. Please follow me. We have reserved a room for you in a very special section of our facility.”

The clerk walks down a long, dimly lit hallway and then pulls out a large skeleton key from his pocket and begins to unlock a very heavy door that has the name “Gehenna” deeply etched into it. Suddenly and violently the door swings open as the force and heat not unlike a blast furnace explodes through the doorway knocking the clerk off his feet. Extremely hot steam rises as well as the screams of agony from the tormented souls below. The clerk rises to his feet and tries to regain his composure.

“Mr. Putin, I think you’ll be impressed with how organized we are here, '' the clerk comments as they descend the steps down into the darkness. The lower they go the higher the temperature and at one point the pungent smell of sulfur invades their nostrils to the point they can barely breathe.

Eventually they come to a place where their blood begins to boil and it feels like red-hot spikes are being driven into their heads from all angles. Putin tries to leave but it is as if some unseen power forces him to continue on.

“Here we go. This is your room.We do things alphabetically here and if you notice Mr. Putin, your room is located between Mr. Hitler’s and Mr. Stalin’s. Please don’t forget our motto,
“You can check out any time you like but you can never leave.”

Spirits in the Sky, by Angela Carlton

22/4/2022

She escaped with stories. As a child, she sat under pine trees with the whistle of the wind and got lost with Charlotte, Wilbur and Brer Rabbit. As a teen, she tucked herself away with Tom Sawyer, Scout and Holden Caulfield between the thick covers with a journal and one pen.

Life was messy otherwise. Her mother talked to herself and spit her meds in the garbage. She screamed at the sky in her nightgown and directed her anger toward a spirit in the sky. She wandered the streets in the same filthy nightgown until her feet were swollen and blue as the daughters tears fell into her sweet tea, and rolled onto the white pages gaining strength, and momentum as the years passed.

Language and books were teachers, her mother as she rose up-up-up with the wind, into the sky, among the spirits until the words flew right off her tongue and leaped off the page.

Someone listened.

The Coin Purse, by NT Franklin

15/4/2022

The coin purse among the flotsam and jetsam strewed along the beach caught Mildred’s eye. Actually, it was the reflection off the clasp that drew her attention. When she picked it up, the pungent odor repulsed her, and she held it at arm’s length. She brought it closer to inspect it. The clasp was gold, maybe 18 carat, and it was bright and sparkly in the sun. She tried to open the purse, but her finger brushed against the wet, slimy suede side, and she let go of her treasure. She turned her hand over and studied the pad of her little finger. It was glowing, smoking, and was giving off an astringent smell. And it hurt like the dickens. She looked at the coin purse and it started to sidle away on its own, leaving a wide trail on the soft sand.

Mildred took a step back and the pain in her finger subsided. She took several more steps back and her finger immediately started to heal before her eyes. She cocked her head. She knew that coin purse. It belonged to her mother’s sister, Claudia. But Claudia was buried with it. Mildred blinked. She stepped closer to retrieve the object, but stopped before she could reach it. Her finger where she touched the coin purse started glowing and smoking again, so she stepped back.
Mildred looked around. It was the same park she’d visited almost every day for the past 10 years. She watched as the coin purse slowly made its way back to the ocean. Plopped on a comfortable rock, she watched for the next hour until it had returned to the ocean and went out of sight under water. Her mother always said Claudia was a witch. Maybe she was.

Elvis, Mother Teresa and Socrates, by Greg Vander-Haeghen

15/4/2022

The hypothetical probability that the spirits of Elvis, Mother Teresa and Socrates would take a road trip together in a candy apple red 1963 Lincoln Continental convertible to a popular ‘toxic’ theme park that needed a Super Fund political clean-up were very slim indeed.

That’s until Socrates approached Mother Teresa at a popular Southern California All Souls Health Foods store where she was shopping for organic grapes for Elvis.

Socrates quipped, “Beware the barrenness of a busy life.”

Mother Teresa responded, “Loneliness and the feeling of being unwanted is the worst poverty.”

Their conversation quickly morphed from the profound to the mundane.

Socrates said, “Hey, how about those Dodgers?”

“What do you say that we go to a ‘toxic theme park?’” Mother Teresa suggested.

“You mean the new Hollywood Hills theme park?’’ added

Socrates? He questioned; "What is the nature of a theme park?

Why does it exist? How does it function?” What makes it toxic?”

Mother Teresa shared some good news, “Edith Head, who won eight Academy Awards for costume design in films, has designed the protective gear we can wear in the theme park!
The outfits are Googie-style meets Mad Max costumes.”

(The trio hopped into the convertible and Socrates navigated to the highway and sped out of town.)

Socrates remarked, “I ask, are we not barking up the wrong tree? And what does it mean to be toxic?

One definition is it is poisonous. Another is it is harmful in some other insidious way. Is that not what we should be focusing on? How is this theme park toxic to the mind and spirit of an individual? Especially to the souls of the dearly departed.”

Elvis said, “I want to hear some of Elton’s Yellow Brick Road.”

Following a 55-minute drive in the High Occupancy Vehicle Lane, Socrates deftly maneuvered the car alongside the entrance to the crass, commercialized and overpriced theme park that was virulent in that it discriminated against, what many say are spirits, souls or ‘dead people.’

Elvis asked, “This is all giving me a big headache. Put on some tunes. How about Dark Side of the Moon?”

Socrates obliged, “You’ve got it Elvis. And after that, how about some Neil Young.”

Elvis yelps.

Mother Teresa awakens from her power nap. She says calmly, “Here’s our plan. We’ll begin by asking two of Socrates’ questions:

“What is the nature of this theme park?”

Elvis responds, “To make money.”

“Why does the theme park discriminate?”

Mother Teresa says, “The individuals involved are ignorant.”

Elvis bellows, “Well look who is here. It’s none other than Helen Keller, Gandhi and Martin Luther King, Jr.”

Martin Luther King, Jr. said, “I’m not surprised to see you guys here today.”

Mother Teresa said, “It was kind of a last-minute thing, really.

Alright, does everybody have a ticket booth they are going to go to? Don’t forget to ask for the ‘I’m Dead’ discount. Don’t forget to record their response.”

Mother Teresa and her contingent await a Supreme Court Decision.

That Should Have Been Me, by Doug Bartlett

15/4/2022

Here I sit in my sparse cell with my head in my hands and the only light being supplied in here is by the few rays of sunlight my diminutive window will let in.

The window is so small I can barely place my face in it. However, I quit looking out it when I realized I could see Executioner”s Hill in the distance. I could see the silhouettes of the prisoners being executed. I was glad I was far enough away that I could not hear their screams of agony and torment. I knew that someday that would be my fate as well.

Each day I could hear the guard’s footsteps as he walked towards my cell. Was he bringing me my food or was today my last day here on this earth?

My heart would plummet when I would first hear those footsteps. But my fears were relieved when my small plate of food would appear through a narrow slot in my locked door. The next day it would start all over again.

My life had been reduced to those two options, only two, food or death. Those options ended up consuming me. That’s all I could think about during my waking hours and even in my sleep they would haunt me with nightmares.

Then one day I heard the guard approaching my cell but this time something unexpected happened that had not happened since I was placed inside. The guard opened the door. He swung it wide open. Well, I knew what that meant. I tried hard to hold back the tears that flooded my face as I realized I would be dead by sunset.

As the door began to open everything moved in slow motion. My thoughts went to my future that was about to be taken away from me. I would never embrace my wife again. I would not be able to see my children grow up. My grandchildren would not have a grandfather to spoil them.

“Get up and get out. You have been freed,” the guard shouted.

My tears flowed even stronger as I never thought that would be an option.

“What do you mean I’m free. How did this happen?”

“You got me. All I know, Barabbas, is that some guy named Jesus took your place.”

A Profile in Budgetary Courage, by Brian Lee

15/4/2022

“I just don’t see how this initiative will improve the current state of education, Boris. We cannot afford the clauses that you are asking for. Imagine the rage of our taxpayers, let alone our party members. Unless you want your presidency to be the most infamous in history, I don’t want to see this bill being introduced in the next session of Congress.”
President Boris William Frederickson stepped away from looking out the White House window. The great mansion housed both the admired and infamous, in which the Leader of the Free World resided. Dreams of a better nation sprouted from its bedrooms, and the actions to fulfill even a sliver of those fantasies were performed in its chambers. What was home to the likes of Jefferson, Lincoln, and Roosevelt now had their eyes on a man who wished to see his country soar higher than before. So who was this Senator to act as a hurdle for making his dreams a reality?
“You need to understand Boris, I want the same thing as you do. A better nation, but I cannot allow for more funding to be sapped from our military budget just for some kid in Baton Rouge to better understand derivatives. I, we would be destroyed by our constituents if I even allow this to t-”
“I don’t give a damn about your constituents Senator! The amount of work that was put into this, the input from every education expert in our nation, the feedback from our party, staying up until the crack of dawn crafting this bill to perfection. I will not be told to not introduce this just because we need those funds to deploy more missiles against a rival who is outperforming us in everything except military spending! I do not owe allegiance to those hawks in Congress as I owe them nothing for what I have in this position!”
Senator Huntington became quiet, uneasiness replaced his once bold attitude before it was broken by Frederickson.
“Tell your constituents that my position on this bill is final, it is futile to change my opinion.”
“As you wish Boris, it’s your loss.”
Frederickson turned back to where he was standing.
“And you will address me as Mr. President.”

The Journey of a Surname, by Sankar Chatterjee

15/4/2022

Prof. Amitav Banerjee was born in post-colonial independent India. Growing up and throughout his school days, he carried the given family surname. However, to his surprise, in his high school diploma that surname reincarnated as “Bandyopadhyay”. Nobody even asked him whether he wanted the change. It was due to the policy of the ruling nationalistic party that argued the new 13-lettered surname was the original pre-colonial one, derived from a Sanskrit root. Since the colonial power had hard times pronouncing it, they’d shortened it. But now was the time to go back to the real one. Throughout his graduating and post-graduating lives, he carried his new surname. His brilliant academic achievements earned him a scholarship to pursue a PhD degree in a prestigious American university. He arrived in the new country with his passport emblazoned with that longer surname.

During his four years of thesis research, Amitav fell in love with a fellow research-mate, Sarah Burns. After earning his degree and securing an academic position, he proposed to her and she said “Yes”, with the condition that Amitav would go back to his shorter surname. Sarah was worried that their future children, with that hard-to-pronounce surname, would be mercilessly bullied in schools and playgrounds.

After getting married, Amitav would initiate the process going through the American legal system. Paying a fee of $5,000, he retained a lawyer who checked out his unblemished credit and criminal backgrounds and presented his case to the local judge. However, in the same jurisdiction, there was another Sarah Burns who was undergoing a contentious divorce proceeding in the same court. So, the judge demanded to see all those legal papers. Sensing his lawyer did a poor job presenting his case, Amitav was able to convince the judge that no such divorce with his current wife (a different Sarah Burns) was involved. Fortunately, after admonishing the lawyer, the judge signed Amitav’s application, making him a “Banerjee” again. Next, he applied for the American citizenship that was granted along with a new US passport.

Unbeknownst to Amitav, his US citizenship would cost him his Indian citizenship, since India didn’t allow dual citizenship. So, for his next trip to motherland, he needed to apply for a foreign tourist visa. But his application was denied. Bureaucrats in the embassy advised him he would need to undergo the similar legal process in Indian legal system too, since he was legally an Indian citizen when he changed his surname in The US legal system. Fortunately, Amitav’s own father (a “Banerjee” throughout his life) practiced law in the Calcutta High Court. On behalf of his son, he filed his surname-change application there.

Meanwhile, Sarah and Amitav became the proud parents of two adorable children: Nina Banerjee, a girl and Ravi Banerjee, a boy. They befriended a lot of other kids in the local playground. Sarah has no doubt that their kids will be well accepted in their school and college days.

Life’s Lessons, by Sankar Chatterjee

8/4/2022

Mr. Subrato Sen, the youngest Vice Admiral in the US Navy spent a year aboard the nuclear aircraft carrier USS Enterprise, encircling the globe as a part of America’s commitment to global peace. Disembarking, he came home in Wynnewood (in Philadelphia suburb) to pay a visit to his aging parents. In the same afternoon, he decided to meet some of his high school friends, still living in the area. As he was driving around the high school from where he had graduated, he noticed a brand new basketball practice arena. His high school basketball teams won several state championships over the years, even producing famous professional players like Kobe Bryant. In junior grades, Mr. Sen himself was a good basketball player. Thus, while attending the high school, he wanted to be included in the school team. After school hours, he practiced regularly for long hours, while improving his various skills. Soon he started to get some play-time, while contesting with nearby schools.

As he was driving past the arena, Mr. Sen noticed his old coach Mr. Bill Cunningham working with the current players. It was the same coach who didn’t select him to play for the school’s A-team in the state championship tournaments, and he was the only one who was cut out. Mr. Sen, still in his naval uniform, parked his car, walked inside the arena, and slowly approached the coach. He then saluted him. Pleasantly surprised, Mr. Cunningham saluted back to his former student and led him to the sideline.

Smiling mischievously, Mr. Cunningham whispered “Are you still angry at me for not selecting you for the championship tournament team in your senior year? I was sure that you could handle the rejection, while motivating yourself to do greater achievements in life.” He then pointed to all the medals (pinned on Mr. Sen’s naval uniform) that were awarded to him for his valor in various conflicts in different parts of the world. Mr. Sen returned the smile while admitting “To be honest, initially I was both mad and angry at you. But, then it dawned upon me that by rejecting me, you might have had an ulterior motive of inspiring me to dream big and achieve them, even facing the temporary setback. As you used to say ‘an earned gold medal is the existential proof of a human being’s ability to overcome any obstacle thrown in front of the person’.”

In the meantime, the sun was setting, spreading a glorious orange glow. The current trainees saw that their coach embracing one of his ex-players who never made to the school’s championship team.

Romance in Space, by Greg Vander-Haeghen

8/4/2022

It is believed that the number 42 is sacred to the Rulers of the Universe and that opposites attract, except for oil and water, vinegar and bleach, multiple brands of batteries, different kinds of drain cleaners and, perhaps, Left-Brain and Right-Brain space aliens.

With that said, I am a short, purple and muscular right-brain artist. My name was legally changed to ’42.’ The future love of my life, Shiidyy, is a vastly contrasting galactic creature, a left-brain dominated, teal-blue statuesque ‘beauty’ from Saturn.

Her seven vision sensors, on the left-side of her brain, with seven ultra-dexterous arms, enable her to be an exemplary accountant for The Bank of the Milky Way, as well as an accomplished cartographer in her spare time. In fact, she mapped the entire Alpha Centauri Galaxy and is a former Miss Milky Way.

Shiidyy’s mihd , was powered by an AI unit, while my Martian mind ran on some sort of electro-chemical polymer/plasma, which has caused me to be impulsive and hyperactive most of the time.

For several years, I lived on Mars and attracted droves of followers who had read Douglas Adams books and believed that the number ‘42’ represents the meaning of the entire universe.
However, whereas Adams’ ‘42’ was just an abstract concept, I knew that ’42’ was real and could be harvested from an obscure numbers pile in Alpha Centauri. I had the muscle, but hadn’t a clue where to locate it.

I needed a navigator.

I knew what to do and I did it. This is how we met.

I responded to a Milky Way Classified Ad:
I’m excessively left-brained, and I’m quite adept with maps. Shiidyy. Box 2020

I responded in seemingly ‘nanoseconds’ and Shiidyy accepted immediately while our first date, the next day, involved parking the space craft on one of Jupiter’s moons. We locked noses for three hours. It was a bit awkward in that she had four noses and I had three.

We learned that we were compatible because we could read each other’s minds and knew our intentions were both honorable as we wanted to serve the Rulers of the Universe. That evening, we were engaged on Amalthea, one of Jupiter’s 79 moons.

At midnight, we rented a massive-sized transport space craft, headed to Alpha Centauri, to carry back the 300-foot-tall number. Using her paranormal powers, Shiidyy assumed the role of navigator and did so with great aplomb. In contrast, I was ‘geographically’ challenged and lacked confidence. But, Shiidyy had a way of nurturing me.

Upon arriving at the gargantuan mound of numbers, we were delighted to see that the number 42 was not overly heavy.
I muscled the towering number into the space craft and we voyaged to Las Vegas, Nevada and landed on the Strip.

There we presented the number to the awaiting Rulers of the Universe, were introduced to a financial planner, then got married at the ‘Chapel 42.’ Life is good.

A Second Chance, by Gabrielle Park

8/4/2022

Dave was annoyed at the little boy, Tom, who had failed to solve the same math problem three times. Dave sighed, got out a fresh piece of paper, and explained again to Tom how to solve the problem.

Even as Dave explained, Tom stared blankly. Finally, Dave could take it no longer: “Tom, you need to solve this problem! It’s too late now. I’m giving you a low score.”

That night, as Dave lay in bed, he regretted volunteering to tutor Tom. Originally, Dave had thought that Tom was the son of famous umpire Rob Smith, but it turned out to be a misunderstanding. Rob indeed had a son named Tom- it just wasn’t the Tom that Dave tutored. Dave’s Tom was just the ball boy at the park.

In the morning, as Dave was eating breakfast, he felt better. The big game was the next day, and everything was going smoothly. The laundry finished washing the sports outfit. The baseball equipment which Dave had ordered arrived and was stored in a safe place.

Heading outside to do some exercises, Dave almost crashed into Tom. The boy was nervously fidgeting.

“Hi!” he squeaked out, “I was w-wondering if you c-could let me retake the test?”

“No,” Dave said bluntly, “A score’s a score.”

Tom looked crestfallen, but he continued. “I think you should give me a second chance. I’ll try my best.”

Dave sighed, and started to refuse, but Tom looked devastated. “Alright.”

Tom squealed in relief, and the two spent the whole day on practice tests. Tom, true to his word, did much better. Later at school, he aced the real math test, for the first time ever.

Dave felt happy for Tom. His only regret was not practicing baseball as much as he had hoped.

Baseball day. It was the day of the big game. Dave hurriedly grabbed his equipment. Gloves, bats, balls- the whole gear. Putting on his outfit, Dave rushed to the stadium.

The game was close. Dave was on third base, with the potential winning run, and his team with two outs, at the bottom of the ninth inning. When his team hit the ball, Dave dashed home. He touched the base just as the catcher tagged him. But the umpire Rob Smith signaled that Dave was out.

Dave gasped, then ran, finding a place to cry.“This is all Tom’s fault,” Dave muttered, “It’s because of him that I lost.” Dave wanted to be alone in his misery, but he heard a shout.

“Hey! Dave!” Rob Smith yelled from below, grinning and pointing at the field, “Don’t you see the celebration? You just won the game.”

Dave gaped at him, unable to comprehend, “Me? Win?”

“Yes. My ball boy got a closer look and reported that you touched home base safely. I normally do not reverse my calls, but I trust the ball boy …and the sunlight did briefly block my view.

“Tom?” Dave asked disbelievingly, “The ball boy?”

Rob Smith’s eyes twinkled.

Facing My Fear, by Christian Aug

8/4/2022

It was now or never. Time for me to get over my crippling fear. To not let it keep me locked in my home and away from my family and friends any longer.

“You ready, Trish?” asked Sara.

The one remaining friend left who could bare to see what I’ve reduced myself down to the past 12 months. Even my sister, whom I’ve always been close with, stopped coming to visit. But she unknowingly gave me the push I needed to do something about my issue.

“I am.”

I headed toward Max: Sara’s Pomeranian. Despite his small size, I was nervous. She held onto his leash as I walked closer to him and bent down in front of him. I took a deep breath, then cautiously put my trembling hand over his head to pet him. But before I could, he barked making me fall back in terror. That’s when Sara let go of his leash and he jumped on top of me.

Instantly, memories of last year came back. I was having a nice, peaceful walk in the park when all of a sudden a giant dog jumped on me and began scratching and biting me. It took numerous people to get the Rottweiler off. It changed my life. While the visible scars disappeared, the psychological scars haven’t faded. And here I was in the same position.

But thankfully, I felt no pain. And Sara wasn’t coming to my rescue like she said she would if something bad were to happen. I opened my eyes to the realization Max wasn’t attacking me, at least not with malice, I was getting attacked with kisses. I started to laugh. It felt great to laugh again. I picked up Max and got back on my feet. I knew I wasn’t fully cured, but it was an important step.

“Could you drive me over to my mom’s house?” I asked Sara.

She happily agreed.

Sara waited in the car, as I got out and knocked on my mom’s front door. My sister answered to the shock of her life: I was somewhere other than my home with a dog.

“Can we come in and say hi to mom?”

“Of course.” She let me in and greeted me with a warm embrace.

The last visit my sister had at my house, she told me about our mom’s illness, and how if I didn’t snap out of this pity party I was having, I may lose them both for good. It was tough, but it was the tough love I needed. My mom didn’t tell me because she didn’t want to burden me with any more problems. She was always so strong. I needed to be the strong one this time.

I walked into her room.

“Hi, Mom. This is Max. He and I wanted to come see how you’re doing.”

I’ve never seen her smile that big in my life.

Giving and Receiving, by David Milner

8/4/2022

I’ve never been back to prison since… Not that I’m, like, counting the days, I have better things to do with my time.

I turned 40 in prison. The big Four Oh no I’m forty! A watershed no matter where you are or what people might tell you to sweeten the pill. I lost a few pounds while incarcerated; mind you, I ate little. I looked fabulous, my dah-lings…

I’d been having a relationship with this guy. Knew he was married. Said he was ‘experiencing structural problems’ with the marriage. I mean, who uses that kind of language regarding affairs of the heart? Thought he was clever. He was. Smart. And gorgeous. Like a young Harrison Ford (from that film Working Girl). And damn it, I was in love with him, in love with him, damn it.

He fixed the ‘structural problems’, went back to his wife. One night, after I’d had way too much of this that and the other, I set about his ‘beloved’ Porsche Cayenne coupe with an intoxicating vengeance tasting sweeter than the elixir of life itself. The windscreen exploded into a million sparkling snowdrops; I put the devil’s claw to the pristine cobalt blue paintwork; and smashed the headlights and taillights so that they would never flash their amorous intentions again.

A twisted spiritual lifting it was.

I shouldn’t have sent a gazillion texts and email. I’m not proud of myself.

His name was Martin.

Prison taught me something I’m still in the process of learning. I realise I don’t have to rush things. Nor give in to the version of my (inner) voice that means me harm. Who came up with “‘tis better to give than receive” – his name was Platitude or something? Well, it’s a maxim suited to someone like me. Though, I avow, not so easy to sustain.

I’ve got people around me. Quite a few who support me. And they know who they are. Does it sound like I’m going into an Oscar acceptance speech?

Three years out of prison now, and I’m never going back.

Every day I offer gratitude. And receive love in return.

Unsportsmanlike Conduct, by Alyce Clark

1/4/2022

I look up at the fans, arm held high, acknowledging both Super Bowl teams and head for the field.

Who would have thought the scrawny, little kid the neighborhood bullies picked on would be an official ref in the NFL?

Certainly not the big kids targeting me at school and on the playground.

I remember it like it was yesterday. John Richards (the leader), constantly teasing, threatening, yelling.

“Don’t be such a loser,” he’d say with each passing shove.

And now I stand officiating in the big game. The youngest ref in NFL history. Just as excited as the players.

Opposing coaches nod at one another- preparing for battle. Teams in position. My whistle at the ready.

The players don’t disappoint. It’s a constant back and forth. Touch downs made. Field goals solid. Crowd’s ecstatic.

An unexpected fumble leads to an interception towards the end of the fourth quarter. The crowd on its feet, the would-be hero racing down the field. It all comes down to this.

Defense closing in, he stumbles near the end zone. A collective gasp. Is it a touch down? Or is he out of bounds?

A hush falls over the stadium as they wait for the call.

NFL darling, number 37, John Richards, stands and looks me dead in the eyes. Recognition. I can see his heart sinking- and I smile.

A Gambling Man, by Deborah Robinson

1/4/2022

“What in the heck is he grinning about? That last call cost me some big bucks. There he stands looking like a big old doofus!”. Mack’s white knuckles held the railing as he sputtered to no one in particular. He was not happy about the smiling referee’s “incomplete pass” ruling in the end zone. Now Mack’s team had lost the game.
How was he going to tell Lois that he’d lost his wager at the football field? The bet was equal to exactly two house payments. Maybe he could try that quickie loan place to see if he could get just enough to keep this from his hard-working wife. Maybe Mack should look for a job. Naw, that was a bit extreme. Mack got his government check the first of every month and between his check and Lois’s job at the library, they could make ends meet. He’d been retired four months and had found an exciting new pastime! Mack spent hours each day studying the odds for the hockey, football and even chess games being played.
It had been pretty darned easy learning to place wagers on the outcomes of these games. After his first big win on the hockey game last month, he decided this was really easy money! The next couple of chess games he’d bet on weren’t quite so profitable, in fact he’d lost a couple hundred dollars on those. This football game was supposed to be about recovering some losses. The team he’d studied was favored to win. The odds were in his favor by a long shot.
“I bet those officials get paid off. Yup, they’re a bunch of crooked chumps! There should be a law against that kind of corruption. They’re probably lining their pockets with bribe money.” Some of the fans looked at Mack as his mumbling became louder. The final whistle was blowing as the winning team cheered and danced onto the field. Half of the bleachers cheered along with the victors while the other half left the stands in silence.
Mack took the long way home and circled his block twice before pulling into the driveway. Lois was already home from work and sitting on the porch with her feet up. She’d been mentioning lately that her feet were getting sorer after working a full shift. Smiling at her husband as he trudged up the stairs she chirped, “Hi Honey, how was your day? Do you feel okay? You look beat. Do you think we could go out for dinner tonight. I’m worn out from work today. My feet hurt.”
“Lois honey, I need to talk to you about something and we’d better eat at home tonight.”

Zero Tolerance, by John M. Carlson

1/4/2022

Another night, another nightmare. Or so I thought when I got up Friday morning.

In the nightmare, I was in my high school’s locker room, about to change clothes after PE. Suddenly, Al appeared by me. I had a sense of déjà vu, but I couldn’t say why. He gave me a hard shove. I stumbled, hit a locker, and crashed to the floor. A moment later, Al peed on me.

I’d had this nightmare several nights. Starting the night after Al assaulted me for real after 5th period PE.

Why did I have to have a nightmare that accurately replayed Al’s attack on me? I wondered. If I had to dream of school, why couldn’t I have a dream telling me what to study for the next test in history?

Speaking of which...it was time to get ready for another day of high school hell.
#
“It’s a veritable sea of blue and red clothing,” Jesse said, looking around our first period class. “You like ‘veritable?’ It’s my word of the day!”

“Prodigious word,” I said.

“I wonder how many are wearing red and blue because it’s spirit week? And how many just happened to grab something that fit today’s ‘wear red and blue’ theme?”

Good question. If I’d grabbed clothes at random, I’d have probably worn at least one of the colors. Instead, I’d carefully chosen my colors. After being attacked by Al, I’d lost any interest in showing any support of my high school.

“Maybe some teacher is giving extra credit for wearing red and blue,” Jesse said. “That would explain it, too. Mr. Brown was upset how few of us showed up without an article of inside out clothing yesterday.”

I opened my backpack to get out my notes. I saw the student handbook, which included the line: “There is zero tolerance for bullying.”

And yet, Al got away with bullying. He got away with it because he was the star of the football team. Everyone said he’d take the school football team to state for the first time in thirty years. The football team’s success gave the school prestige—and teachers and administration loved this prestige. Since Al was critical to the team, he could bully anyone he wanted, with no consequences.
#
“Did you hear the news about Al?” Jesse asked Monday morning, as we headed to first period. “Al is newsworthy—and not in the way the school wants.”

Could I dare to hope that karma had come to bite Al in the ass? I wondered.

“After the game,” Jesse said, “he attacked some guy on the opposing team in the parking lot. He was caught by a referee. I think those are the guys wearing black and white shirts. Al is off the team here. There is a zero tolerance policy for something like that—and there is no way this school can ignore this. Not with that referee catching Al.”

Home at Last, by Janice Siderius

Dawn's Curiosity, by Deborah Shrimplin

Beyond the Veil, by Doug Bartlett

Endless Lives, by D. M. Clarke

The Gift, by Gabrielle Park

Mr Edward and Dr Henry, by Myram Huey

Caring by Sharing, by Jeremy Leariwala

Eternal Bliss, by Doug Bartlett

Spirits in the Sky, by Angela Carlton

The Coin Purse, by NT Franklin

Elvis, Mother Teresa and Socrates, by Greg Vander-Haeghen

That Should Have Been Me, by Doug Bartlett

A Profile in Budgetary Courage, by Brian Lee

The Journey of a Surname, by Sankar Chatterjee

Life’s Lessons, by Sankar Chatterjee

Romance in Space, by Greg Vander-Haeghen

A Second Chance, by Gabrielle Park

Facing My Fear, by Christian Aug

Giving and Receiving, by David Milner

Unsportsmanlike Conduct, by Alyce Clark

A Gambling Man, by Deborah Robinson

Zero Tolerance, by John M. Carlson

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