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The Dough, by Kate Figurska

28/4/2023

He’s been already working on the dough, keeping the promise he'd made before everything has changed.
The bread ought to be ready for afternoon. It was terrible decision to leave it for the morning, but we’ve made it together when we’ve chosen to do other things.
I stood at the entrance afraid to brake his focus, afraid to see in his eyes the truth about what we did, about what has changed between us.
His hands kneaded the dough too gently to make it work. The regular certainty in his hands disappeared. Still, stubbornly he focused his attention on the shallow moves. He has not been present in that moment, his mind far away.
Food hates lack of focus. So many things can go wrong, the dough might not prove, might not bake evenly, it might turn rock hard…
Why isn’t he looking at me? Is he avoiding my glance?
The tension washed over his body and the movement on the dough grew weaker still.
Food is the witness, it takes all you give, takes it all in and then gives it back. Bad things will make a bad meal, good things will always taste great.
Am I a bad meal? Am I a regret? Is he searching for excuses? Am I?
He looked at me with the smile that belongs to me, with the lips that I kissed last night.
I shivered when I realized I want to kiss them again.
He looked back at the dough, with tension restricting his normally confident body.
Would he like to kiss me again? Will he ever try?
I felt my bones tied to the doors, aching to move, but unable to. I held them in place with fear, but I’ve grown tired of feeling ashamed of wanting, tired of quietly waiting.
I felt tired of waiting for my life to happen.
My first step felt heavy and shy. It was not too late to turn back to my loneliness, not too late to leave the man in peace.
His hands stopped all together as he waited for my next move.
I took a step towards him, then another until I could embrace his body with my greedy fingers.
“Can I help you?” I climbed on my toes and kissed his cheek.
“You already do.”
His moves filled with the strength he lacked before. The bread will be just fine.

Revised Code, by Robert P. Bishop

28/4/2023

“Howard,” Rachel called, “there are police cars in front of our house.” Howard looked out the window, counted six police vehicles disgorging armed officers wearing body armor and helmets with clear face shields. Two officers carried a large battering ram.

“Oh my word,” gasped Rachel. “They’re coming up our walk!”

The door frame shattered, the door flew open and officers rushed into the house. “Freeze,” screamed the first officer. He pointed a black rifle at Howard and Rachel. Another officer with sergeant stripes on his arms said, “Clear the house. Bring anyone you find here.” Three officers fanned out from the group.

“Are you Howard Morgan?” the sergeant demanded.

“Yes,” Howard said.

“Who are you?” the sergeant said to Rachel.

“Rachel Morgan,” she stammered. Rachel clung to Howard’s arm, her mouth dry as sand, her eyes wide and full of fear.

“You’re under arrest, Mr. Morgan,” the sergeant said.

“What for?”

The sergeant read from a piece of paper he held. “Violation of Revised U.S. Code, American Regulation Number 15, failure to buy another firearm within the time frame mandated by federal law.”

“Howard, you didn’t buy another gun in the last two years?” said Rachel.

“No.”

“What did you do with the money?”

“I used it to pay for your prescriptions the insurance company refused to cover.”

The three officers returned. One said, “The house is clear, Sergeant Brett.” He pointed his rifle at Howard and Rachel as he spoke. “Just these two.”

Sergeant Brett turned to Howard. “We have to take you in, Mr. Morgan.”

“Arms behind your back, Sir,” said an officer. He stepped behind Howard and put cuffs on Howard’s wrists.

“How long will I be in jail?”

“I don’t know, Mr. Morgan. Violation of AR-15 is a class-A felony. Sometimes bail is granted and sometimes violators are remanded until they go to trial. Depends on the judge.” Two officers took Howard by his elbows and hustled him out to the police cars.

“Am I being arrested, too?” asked Rachel.

“No. Your name isn’t on the warrant,” said Sergeant Brett.

“What’s going to happen to me? I’ll die without Howard.”

“You aren’t our concern.”

“Why does the government force us to keep buying guns? This law is wrong, and you know it.”

“We don’t write the laws, Mrs. Morgan. We just enforce them.” Sergeant Brett turned to the remaining officers. “Let’s go.”

Rachel stood in the shattered doorway and watched the police cars drive away. “How did this happen?” she said to the silence surrounding her.

Space, by Anthony Ward

21/4/2023

He could feel himself falling. All of earth beneath him. An inclement iris amidst the pupil of space, growing smaller and smaller as he drifted away, detached from all life. Seeing the past as dim pinheads of light that had just caught up with him as he hurtled towards nothing. The emptiness filled out in all directions. Time and place vacuous.

Pixelated neurons organizing chaos from entropy. He sank deeper into the void. Feeling the cold like a warm blanket. He looked down upon the great red spot of Jupiter. Overwhelmed by its mass. Further he went. Passed the rings of Saturn. Passed the blues of Uranus and Neptune. Passed the bruised complexion of Pluto. Into the Oort cloud and beyond.

He could hear his name been called but couldn’t place it. He heard it again and again until it eventually brought him back into the room, touching down into his familiar armchair.
‘Did you hear me? She said, ‘I’m leaving you.’
He looked through that alien face and beyond.
‘I’ve already left’. he thought.

Truth If You Dare, by Lynda Lee

21/4/2023

The meeting went on longer than I'd anticipated. When I powered up my phone there was a plethora of missed calls from my wife.

I didn't call her. Experience told me she'd be enraged, and we'd row before I got home at all. The journey took ten minutes and I pulled into our drive.

"You're late," she shouted.

"Sorry, sweetie. But I'm here now, so go and enjoy your night with the girls." I wasn't surprised by her tone. After twelve years of marriage, I was used to it.

I poured myself a cocktail and sauntered upstairs to our bedroom.

My beloved was standing in front of a full-length mirror, wearing what can best be described as a figure-hugging dress, if only one had the figure for it to hug.

My gut told me to kiss her neck and leave. However, I'm a guy not known for listening to my inner voice. I was tired. It had been a long day. I picked up the newspaper, kicked off my shoes, and lay back on the bed. I sipped my drink and sighed with pleasure. Then she asked:

"Does my bum look big in this?"

It was always the same If I said no, she'd call me a liar, and if I said yes she'd dissolve into tears. I looked up for a mere second. Any longer meant I needed time to think

"No, dear. You look lovely." I smiled.

I buried my head in the newspaper. Above the rim of my spectacles, I watched her twist and turn, trying to view the reflection from every angle.

To be honest, over the years, and after carrying our three children, my wife had gained some weight. However, in my eyes, she was still the girl I fell in love with fifteen years ago Next was the question I'd been dreading.

"Honey, are you sure? I don't want to go out looking like an elephant."

Should I tell the truth and suggest an alternative from her wardrobe? I couldn't break her heart so without looking up I said. "You look fine."

She believed me. After applying some lipgloss and brushing her hair, she blew me a kiss.

"I won't be late. We're having dinner and some drinks at 'The Plaza.'"

"Don't worry. The kids are fine. You enjoy yourself."

"I'll say goodnight to them before I go."

Our sons were sleeping, so she quietly closed their door. I heard her tiptoe into our four-year-old daughter's room. Katie was still awake.

"Honey, why are you not sleeping?"

"Not tired, Mom," she said, just loud enough for me to hear.

"Well, sweetie, it's late, so please try."

There was silence before I heard words that chilled me to the bone.

"Mom, did that dress used to fit you?"

As my wife approached I locked the bathroom door. It was dawn before she stopped screaming and I let myself out.

Who said women are the weaker sex?

Smugglers Cove, by Teddy Entwisle

21/4/2023

Blake knew these waters, NewCastle right down to King’s Lynn his skiff hauled cargo from village to city, beach to cove and just occasionally he’d gain a cargo mysteriously from the sea!
Tonight coins would jangle in his pocket, Captain Blake headed his skiff straight for that light, he knew it had been set just for him. His cargo dripped water straight from the sea.
Blake glanced starboard just making out Robin Hood Village, with a good wind he would be away before anyone stirred with the morning light.
Across the bay skimmed his skiff, finally heaving landward they nosed into Smugglers Cove.
“Three minutes and back in the briny.” Blake’s cargo made ready, they dived from the deck and swam to shore. Breakfast waited for them at the Hostel.

Back home Blake was pleased their new business, sailing holiday makers to the hostel at Smugglers Cove in realistic Role Play characterisation was taking off. He rattled round the kitchen preparing breakfast listening out for Maggie, back from delivering their luggage overland by car.

(Image credit: Dominic Barton)

Moving On, by Bex Gooding

21/4/2023

“I’m moving away Mum. That’s what I came to tell you. I’m selling the house and moving to a lovely little Village to live by the beach.

I know you love this City. You’ve live here all your life but I don’t want to live my whole life two streets away from where I was born. Besides, there’s no beach here and you know I’ve always wanted to live by the beach.

I’ve found a house, only five minutes walk from the sea front. You can smell the ocean when you open the windows and hear the sea gulls. If you listen carefully you can hear the sounds of the pebbles moving across each other as the sea ebbs and flows. It’s wonderful. I’m even looking forward to the winter when the sea is wild. The awesome force of nature. A bit like you at times.

Do you remember when my daughter was born? Of course you do, silly question. I phoned you in the morning to tell you that you had a new granddaughter and you turned up at the hospital within the hour. It didn’t matter that it was outside of visiting hours or that the hospital staff said no visitors. You weren’t leaving until you saw us.

Anyway Mum, I’m reminiscing when I really wanted to talk about the move. I’ve been dreading telling you because I know you don’t understand why someone doesn’t love the city as much as you do. Village life maybe quiet, but it’s what I want.

After weeks of avoiding the subject I’ve finally plucked up the courage to tell you, that’s why I came around.

But I never got to tell you did I mum?

I used to let myself in and call to you and you’d be there in the kitchen ready to put the kettle on. I’ll never forget letting myself in that day and calling your name. Silence. Stomach churning I pushed open your bedroom door and there you were still in bed asleep. Only this time your sleep was eternal.

Standing here today in the garden or remembrance looking at the glorious rose planted in memory of you, I’m telling you all the things I never got to say on that awful day in July. I live by the beach now like I said I was going to and you’ve moved on too.

You know I’ve always believed there is so much more that this physical existence and I truly believe that you’ve gone to the next level, which is infinitely better than this one. I can’t visit you anymore, but you’re only in the next room.

Not everyone believes in the afterlife in the same way as I do, but if they only follow the science, they’ll know that energy cannot be destroyed, it simply takes another form.

We are all made from star dust.

Mum, you are all that was; all that is; and all that ever will be.

I’ll see you again one day.”

All in One Day, by Robert P. Bishop

21/4/2023

The food server stood next to the table, pen poised over her order pad, smiled and asked pleasantly, “What will you have, Hon?”

Hon? The word rattled Howard. He had never been called Hon before. He didn’t know how to respond. It took him some time to get his breakfast order straight.

“Here you are, Hon.” She put a plate of scrambled eggs and bacon strips on the table, refilled his coffee cup and said, “Enjoy.”

Howard thought about the word Hon as he ate. He wasn’t sure of its spelling. Could she have meant Hun? Of course not. He didn’t act or look like Attila, so Hun was out. Hon had to be short for Honey. Yes, that was it. But why was a food server calling him Hon?

He left a 25-percent tip on the table, paid his bill and went home. All day he thought about the implication of being called Hon. What did it mean? To get some resolution to this vexing question he fired up his computer and got on the Web.

Hon, he discovered, was an appellation, along with Luv, Dear, and Sweetheart, frequently used to address older persons in a polite and endearing way without using their given names. Other sites suggested Hon was a gentle but dismissive and impersonal way of addressing older persons.

Older persons? Those words shocked Howard. Was he really an older person? He didn’t feel old. He wondered how an older person was described. For an answer he turned to the Web again.

A few of the sites he scanned startled him by suggesting geezer was frequently used as an impolite synonym for older person.

Howard went into the bathroom and looked in the mirror. “Dude, you are a geezer,” he said to the ageing image staring back at him. “Deal with it.”

Saddened by the forced acceptance of this truth, Howard sat in his favorite chair and considered his condition; the food server had, by uttering one small word, metaphorically changed him into an older person then into a geezer and then transported him and his comfy little cottage from the town of Chipping Norton where he now lived to the village of Geezerville where he knew he would dwell until he died.

What a transformation! And all in one day! Then he laughed out loud and said, “At least she didn’t say, Waddaya want, ya old fart?”

The next day Howard sat at the same table in the cafe. The same server approached and with pen poised over her order pad, smiled at him and said, “What will you have, Hon?”

Howard grinned and said, “Scrambled eggs and bacon, Sweetheart.”

Mother Knows Best, by Cheryl Snell

21/4/2023

Mother kept her father in a cookbook. Julia Child, but still. He dropped from the pages one day and I picked him up. "You belong in the family gallery," I said, carrying him to the wall of relatives. I pinned him where he fit best but he wriggled away like a sullen butterfly. I took him to be framed and watched the twist of wire attach to his back. "Let’s try this again," I said as I hung him from the new hook on the wall. He pulled away and fell off. "And again!" I murmured, hammering a sturdy nail into the wall. I set him on that but he writhed and swung and would not stay put. "Maybe you just want to be with your wife." I pushed some uncles out of the way so he could join the woman he had abandoned long ago. But then the wall began to crack and crumble, spilling entire generations onto the floor. I picked up my grandfather, marched him into the kitchen and into the book he had come from.There was no resistance this time. I piled every other book in the house on top of him, just to make sure.

Yellow Linoleum, by J. Iner Souster

21/4/2023

It started like any evening, sitting around, wasting away in his depressive excuse for an apartment. The cracked and yellowed linoleum in the kitchen had taken on the appearance of what Treddle could only describe as a three-legged dog with the face of Marlon Brando.

At first, it was simple, polite conversation and favours. "Would you mind scratching behind my ear? Third tile to the left."

Treddle didn't speak canine, and nobody understood the actor.

One night the polite conversation was replaced by demands. "Never bring a mop into this room!" Brandog barked. "You walk around! Not on, around! Get it!"

By this point, the entirety of the kitchen was now off-limits. Treddle had to stop keeping his vodka in the freezer.

Later that afternoon, Treddle awoke from a bout of day drinking. He could hear Brandog whispering, but to whom? He had no idea. His best guess would be the insectoid demons that had taken over the sink, freaky multi-legged bastards. There's also a splinter cell in the bathroom with biochemical counterinsurgency and freakish guerilla tactics.

Treddle was sure they were planning to one day invade the living room, his very last bastions of hope.

The Paper Boat, by Santosh Kalwar

14/4/2023

The Tharu people of Chitwan are widely known as an ethnic group of indigenous people. Tilak Ram Tharu, an older man who lived in a small fishing village in Chitwan near Sauraha, was known for his paper boat-making art. He would spend hours crafting beautiful paper boats of different designs and colours daily and often took it to the nearby Rapti River to show off his creations.

One day, Tilak Ram noticed a young girl named Barsha Chaudhary sitting on the bank with a sad expression. When he inquired, she told him about her father, who had gone to sea and had not returned. Moved by her story, Tilak Ram decided to make her a unique paper boat using his best materials. The boat was beautiful with intricate details, and when Barsha saw it, she was amazed, thanked Tilak Ram, and took the boat to the river.

She placed it in the river, prayed for her father's safe return and watched as the paper boat slowly floated away. Tilak Ram watched as the paper boat drifted away, and sadness overcame him. He realised that the paper boat symbolised hope for Barsha and her father and also the harsh reality that many people never get to return to their loved ones.

Although Tilak Ram never returned to the river after that day, he continued to make paper boats and bring happiness to the people of his village. Deep down, he never forgot the paper boat that had brought hope for Barsha and her father. It remained in his heart forever.

Losing a Friend, by Robert P. Bishop

14/4/2023

Every morning on the way to work Howard walked by a house where a little white poodle lived. Sometimes the poodle sat in the window and watched Howard pass by on the sidewalk.

Howard named the poodle Pablito and began calling to him as he came near the house. After several days, the little white dog began sitting by the window with his black nose pressed against the glass, waiting for Howard to appear.

One morning Howard stopped opposite the window, said, “Good morning, my friend,” then clapped his hands and shouted, “Pablito, Pablito, Pabliiiiiito!” The little white dog responded by jumping up and down, barking and pawing frantically at the window. Howard smiled, waved his hand at the little dog and walked on.

Over the months this became a morning ritual; Pablito, with his nose against the glass and Howard calling to the little dog from the sidewalk.

One morning an old woman stood outside the house. Pablito trembled with excitement as Howard approached. Howard stopped opposite the window, called to Pablito and clapped his hands. Pablito barked and pawed at the glass.

“You son of a bitch!” the old woman shrieked. “You’ve ruined my dog! His name is Murphy, not Pablito!” She went into the house and slammed the door.

The next morning, Howard walked a different route to work and never went by Pablito’s house again.

Her Teddy Bear, by Deborah Shrimplin

14/4/2023

Farah held her only child, Nora, on her lap as the old wooden boat, captained by a young trafficker, tossed and bucked on the choppy waters of the Mediterranean. The salty seaspray stung their eyes and their clothes were wet, cold and heavy. Farah sang a sweet lullaby to keep her three-year-old Nora calm. Silently she prayed to her God that she and Nora would reach the Italian shore alive.

When the overloaded boat hit a reef near the Italian shore, it shattered and broke apart beneath her. She felt the sudden shock of cold water and lost her hold on Nora. Her heart pounded, her nose and ears filled with water and her limbs began to go numb. She frantically swam to the water's surface and gasped for air. Fighting for her life against the forces of the unforgiving sea, she kept her head above water. Drawing on every ounce of courage and strength humanly possible, she crawled onto a beach, collapsed and cried out for help and for Nora.

Today Farah walked that same beach and watched the waves break over the remains of the wooden boat that should have safely carried her and her child from the Turkish coast to the lands of freedom and safety. She had visions of finding Norah playing in the sand, skipping through the shallow waves or collecting small shells. She asked everyone she met on the beach if they had seen her daughter. When no claimed to have seen her, she knew in her heart that she was asking for a miracle.

As she continued her search along the beach, she saw in the midst of the wooden ruins, her daughter's precious teddy bear. As she bent down to pick it up, she cried out in pain, "I let go of her. I let go.

A Sleepy Life, by Angela Carlton

14/4/2023

I became attached to you in the schoolyard when we were eleven years old but you were distracted, too busy, with ballet class, piano, chorus, and all the girls in your circle. Still, I hung around and waited. Then spring turned into summer and summer into fall, and the seasons rolled-rolled on and on until you fell, got caught up with someone else, a foul guy. Everyone knew he was up to “no good,” running around, lying, and smacking you hard when you dared to question him.

Now you're here, you’re finally here beside me on the farm with his baby, the carbon of you, those nut brown eyes and golden curls. My hope is you both will grow to love the land, and the horses, the sweet scenery, with the whoosh of the creek nearby. My hope is, we will find a kind of sleepy life, and I can tuck you away, shield you from the darkness in this world.

Yes, we can be those school kids again, Vivian, under the endless sky, carefree.

Grandad's Map, by Doug Bartlett

7/4/2023

When I was a kid I spent as much time as I could with my Granddad. He was special in many ways. He seemed so flawless. Everyone liked him and he had a knack to always do the right thing. He had a good relationship with people and was never lacking for money, having made wise investments.

One day, looking at him through my seven-year-old eyes, I asked him what was the secret to his wonderful life and his success. He knelt down to my level and told me, “ It’s making the right choices.”

“ What do you mean? “ I queried.

“ Life is all about choices, you have to make the right ones. Prisons are full of people who made bad choices.”

“ But how do you know? “

“ Well, no one lives a perfect life but I use a roadmap to help me.”

“ A roadmap?”

“ Yes, my most precious possession. I look at it daily, I read it and study it. I have even memorized parts of it. Then it’s there in my mind and at times I can recall it in order to make good decisions. I rely on it mainly to make major decisions and not so much the minor ones, like what clothes to wear for the day. Usually there are multiple paths to take and you must choose only one. I not only want to choose a good one but I want to choose the very best one. Does that make sense?”

“ Absolutely, but isn’t it hard trusting something other than yourself? “

“ It was at first, but after I saw the good results it gave me it became much easier. I look at it now as a wise, old friend that wants to help me go through this life.”

“Well Grandad, when did you start using this road map? “

“ Oh, I was about your age, yeah, just about your age. Hey, you’re having a birthday next week. Would you like me to get you one like mine?”

“ Would you? Yes, please. I would love it. Thank you so much.”

Well, Granddad got sick and had to enter the hospital, not realizing he would not leave there alive. He missed my birthday party, but he mailed me my present. I was very anxious to open it when I saw I had received a package from him. However, I was somewhat confused when I opened the gift and didn’t realize its full value until years later.

I was anticipating something that looked like a treasure map on a weathered parchment. I was not expecting to find a beautiful, leather bound Bible.

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