Blog Archives

Internal Voices, by Mark Tulin

28/5/2018

Huey was by far the biggest of the patients in the psychiatric unit. He often responded to internal voices that made him belligerent. Most of the time, however, the medications would help. Today nothing seemed to work.

When I asked Huey to participate, he shouted obscenities, which triggered rumblings and tension in the group that I was trying to lead.

Huey abruptly stood up, pushed the chair aside and called me the ‘anti-Christ’ and said I was sent here to destroy the world. He moved toward me aggressively.

I slowly backed up, moved behind a desk and tried to persuade Huey to return to his seat. In the meantime, I was hoping that the psychiatric aide could hear the commotion outside the door and quickly intervene. Unfortunately, the aide was busy restraining another patient in the hallway.

I retreated as far as I could. Huey's hot, snarling breath indicated that he was about to devour me. My heart pounded in my chest.

“Relax, Huey,” I said in a shaky voice. “Think about what you’re doing.”

“My fist will relax you,” he responded and cocked his arm backward, preparing to throw a punch.

At that instant, another patient moved behind Huey. I shook my head, indicating to Elijah to stay away.

Elijah was a chronic schizophrenic. He was on massive doses of mind-numbing medications, and most of the time he sat in the corner and didn't move, often resembling a manikin.

“I’m going to pulverize you,” Huey said to me with flaring nostrils. “You’re not going to take my soul!”

I was unable to run to the door or reach for the wall phone. I tried to talk Huey down as best as I could while preparing to roll up into a ball. Too big to handle alone, there was no other choice but to go into defensive mode until help arrived.

Elijah let out a loud groan and punched Huey in the small of his back. Huey reacted instinctively by hitting Elijah in the face and followed it up with another blow to the belly. The force of the last punch sent Elijah’s tall, skinny frame crashing against the wall.

Elijah lay on the floor bleeding and groggy from the punches. The psychiatrist and nurses surrounded him, tending to his injuries. Huey was restrained by several aides and taken to the isolation room.

I stood there looking at the aftermath of a near tragic event, wondering what I could have done differently and whether this was the right profession for me.

Bone, by Marek Prityi

27/5/2018

The centuries of evolution in one bone. The cells holding it all together in a perfect manner, questioning the rational belief in evolution with blasphemous thoughts on intelligent design. The picture of a bone rendering all differences between the people on the grounds of their religion, nationality, ethnicity or race meaningless. The win and defeat of enlightenment at the same time.

He looked at the x-ray picture of his arm. The fracture was visible, the perfection was disturbed. He briefly pondered the idea of using it as a universal symbol. The mankind united under the picture of a bone fracture, symbolizing the flawed nature of the human beings and the fragility and brevity of their perfection. The god´s way to say us how foolish we are.

He thanked the doctor and left his office. He took a deep breath and looked at the people marching on the street with their faces full of rage and hatred. Holding the x-ray picture in his hand and keeping his head down, he tried to make his way through the crowd on the rally against refugees.

My Addiction, by J. J. Landry

26/5/2018

My addiction has already cost me a lot. One day soon it'll probably cost me my life, too. I stub my cigarette, and exit the car; a white haze follows me like a trail of regret. My estranged wife hates me and keeps me from seeing our kids. I too despise who and what I’ve become, but have too much pride to seek help; a trait inherited from my absent, alcoholic father. At least he gave me something besides this disease.

***

I throw on my hoodie, pull it low to conceal my face, and slide on a pair of gloves. The clerk is all alone. Adrenaline surges through my veins as I draw a 9mm from its’ holster. Approaching the counter, I stick the piece inches from his chest. Shock and fear spread across his face like wildfire. He empties the register into a black bag. I snatch it from his trembling hands and sneak out the same way I snuck in.

***

I drive over to the big house I once shared with my family. I park on the street and make my way through the dead grass. It’s dark now; close to midnight. After scribbling, “For Christmas” across a manila envelope, I slide it through the mail slot in the door.

***

Inside the car, I put two heavy lines of blow up my nose. It rushes into my bloodstream, and I feel alive again! Heading to the bar I’ve been a regular at for twenty years I drive by the store I’d just robbed. Two cruisers are parked outside. Their blue lights are on; flashing like a disco on the dark city street.

***
Cops pour in as I sip from my third glass of whiskey. They’re talking about a robbery from earlier tonight at a liquor store down the street. One slides out the stool next to me and plops his fat ass down into it. He looks at the bartender, nodding towards me and says, “I’ll have whatever he’s having.”

I let out a short, uncomfortable laugh then stand up to pay my tab. The middle-aged bartender, with a head and beard chock-full of gray, waves me off, “How many times have I told you you’re money’s no good here?”

I toss a twenty onto the bar.

“And how many times have I told you I always pay my debts?”

“How’s about I buy you a drink?” A familiar voice calls out as I move towards the door. I stop briefly and say in my deep voice that draws everyone’s attention, “No thanks, I’d rather drink alone! Besides, I have a busy workday tomorrow.”

No one replies as I open the door and step out into the street. I slide a cigarette from its case and spark my lighter. Taking a long pull, I exhale into the cold night’s air. My hands shoot deep into my coat pockets. One hand wraps around a roll of stolen cash, the other around my gold detective's badge.

Being Natural, by Mark Tulin

21/5/2018

The camp was only a few miles away. Marv kept imagining his face turning red, people pointing and laughing. Then he thought about what Barb said. “Everyone’s there to enjoy themselves and not make anyone feel embarrassed.”

Barb massaged Marv’s shoulders. “You’ll be fine,” she whispered. “It’s no big deal.”

“You know, we could go to the beach instead,” said Marv.

“Marv, don’t chickenout on me. We’re almost there. You’ll see. Once you’re in the camp for five minutes, everything will become so natural you won’t even realize you’re naked.”

Marv smiled awkwardly. He had been dating Barb for over a year. She was the best thing that ever happened to him. She was a free-spirit, not uptight with her body as his last girlfriend.

Marv tried to see himself swimming in the pool and canoeing on the lake. If he got too excited, he would think of Willy Mays, and that would change the direction of his blood flow.

They entered a wooded area and pulled into the gravel parking lot. Marv jumped out of the car, raring to go. He did a couple of knee bends and jumping jacks to loosen up.

“Where do you think you’re going, to a marathon?”

“Just getting flexible, Barb.”

They opened the hatchback and removed their clothes until the only thing they had on was a pair of flip-flops. They took turns applying sunscreen to their pale, sun-deprived bodies. Lastly, they stuffed their backpacks with towels and bottles of water.

As they walked through the rusty camp gate, Marv could feel the breeze from the lake on his bare skin. The warm noonday sun warmed his back. Further, in the distance, a man was approaching. A sense of calm took over. Marv was ready to be inspired. He planned on telling others that nudity is natural and should not be feared. Bodies need be revered, not shamed.

The naked man was less than two feet away. His body had a tawny orange color from endless hours uncovered in the sun. When he smiled, his pink gums stuck out.

“Where do we register?” Marv asked

“I’m sorry,” the naked man said. “The camp is closed for repairs. Come back in a couple of weeks.”

Marv felt an intense wave of disappointment that made his body shrivel up like a prune

On a Mission, by Traci Mullins

20/5/2018

Alfred yanked again on the door knob. *Dammit!* He was already running late for work, and he couldn’t get the blasted door open. He recalled that one summer it had swelled with the humidity, sometimes lodging itself in its frame. Still, how hard should it be to open a door? He gave it a kick, pulled again with his admittedly scrawny arms, but it stayed stuck tight.

Alfred went into the bedroom, ignoring Isabel who ignored him while she watched “The Price Is Right.” Heading toward the room’s only window, he judged that he could probably climb out if he pulled a chair over to stand on. First he tried lifting the bottom lip of the window. Wouldn’t budge. He banged on the frame a couple of times, tried again. *Dammit!* Alfred barked.

Next he tried the window in Edward’s room. Edward, a snoring lump beneath the covers, didn’t move, and neither did the window.

On a mission now, Alfred marched down the hallway and turned right, the patio door in his sights. He pulled the handle to the left and smiled triumphantly.

The shrilling of the alarm didn’t faze him as he made a bee-line for the car, feeling around in his pocket for his keys. Dammit! Where had he put them?

As he came around the side of the house, the front door opened and Tanya’s slow, twangy voice called out, “Hey, y’all, Alfred’s escaped again!”

Tanya approached the old man and gently grasped his elbow, smiling affectionately as she coaxed him through the entrance of Sunnybrook Memory Care. “Come on, Alfred, let’s go back inside and get us a nice strong cup of coffee. I think it’ll be fine if you wait to go to work until tomorrow.”

The Question, by Bruce Levine

19/5/2018

Margo couldn’t help wondering why one of her favorite television channels had suddenly begun a countdown to Christmas. She loved Christmas as much as anyone, but it was April sixth, Easter had been less than a week ago and the program director had already scheduled one Christmas movie after another.

Margo’s next question was trying to figure out why she had abandoned her plans for the day in favor of allowing herself to be transported to another place and another time where magic was the norm and fantasy was a way of life.

She didn’t need fantasy to supplement her real life because, except for the little bumps in the road that everyone goes through, her life was happy and fulfilled.

And Christmas for she and her husband was always one of the happiest seasons of the year, along with their fall leaf trip for the simple joy of luxuriating in the bounty of color. Christmas meant their annual walk up Fifth Avenue in Manhattan, allowing themselves to be cascaded by the lights, the rightly justified glories of the famous window displays at Lord & Taylor and the snowflake at 57th and 5th.

The detours to Rockefeller Center, the tree, the ice skaters and Macy’s – it was all a fantasy turned reality.

Her own senses were jarred back to reality as the snow covered streets of movie land Manhattan melted into a commercial about Botox for migraine headaches.

As she hit the mute button another idea dawned on her – maybe one of Santa’s elves had hopped a shuttle flight and slipped something into the station’s Program Director’s coffee, transporting him to some unknown state of Christmashood – perhaps the euphoria of childhood memories.

As the movie came back on Margo turned off the mute on the remote, settled into a comfortable position on the couch and thought about how wonderful it would be if every day were Christmas.

Dust, by Trasie Sands

15/5/2018

My grandmother was old. She lived in a little white and blue apartment building whose sole purpose was to house the elderly. Not quite a nursing home, but assisted. She was, in truth, my great-grandmother and she scared the hell out of me. I was six and hadn’t encountered many old people. All I could see were crocheted pillows and doilies under old ceramic lamps with fringed lampshades. She made fantastic butter tarts, but she also wore about one half of a bottle of Chantilly whenever she had company. The odour was equal parts powdery and soapy and you could smell it halfway down the hallway. The last time I visited, I remember remarking to my mother that it was dusty - so dusty I could smell it. I could smell it over the Chantilly. When she died, that smell stayed with me. To me, it’s the smell of death.

The Promise, by Mark Tulin

14/5/2018

Jared convinced himself that he didn’t want to go. In his mind, his father wasn’t worth the time of day, let alone his presence at his funeral.

He had better things to do that day. He was putting together a shed in the backyard. He remembered when his father would put things together. He didn’t like reading directions, and when he’d mess up, he’d blame everybody. The first person he yelled at was always Jared because he would be the only one willing to help him.

Jared promised that he would never get angry like his father, especially toward his son He would take a couple of deep breaths when he felt his emotions rise too high and slowly count to ten.

“One, two, three, four…” Jared counted when he had trouble matching the side panels of the shed. He tried reading the directions, but it seemed to confuse him even more. The screwdriver handle snapped. His son’s Beagle, Lucky, was by his side and barked when he saw how Jared got frustrated. Jared tried to hold it together, but he knew it was futile. I’m going to blow up just like my father, Jared thought and called his father a sonovabitch under his breath. He could still feel his father’s belt on his back and shoulders where the scars were. He could feel the anger build up with every crack of the belt. Jared threw the rest of the screwdriver over the hedges into his neighbor’s yard. “Goddamn it!” he shouted. “Nobody could put this piece of junk together with these fricken tools.”

His son was in the house watching his dad get angry from the bay window in the living room. He was too afraid to go outside and play with Lucky.

Jared’s wife came outside to help.

“l don’t need any help!” he shouted.

“Jared, honey. You know what you’re therapist told you. Anger comes from an irrational thought. Put the hammer down for a while and think things through.”

“I’m not frustrated!” he shouted. “And stop being my therapist!”

His wife didn’t respond. She understood. She knew it wasn’t about the shed. He put things together more complicated in the past without getting upset. She knew that his anger ran much deeper this time. It was about his father’s funeral. Jared wanted to be there.

Year of the Eye, by Fiona Jones

11/5/2018

“Not all of us have 20:20 vision,” the voiceover cooed persuasively, “but all of us can achieve the 2020 look.” Judging by the succession of makeover models, the 2020 Look owed more than a nod to Ancient Egypt and more than a tin of cat food to the household pet. At once both aggressive and mysterious, the new eyelash replacement system looked ready and set to take the beauty world by storm.

Anna, who never watched TV or read non-sporting magazines, hardly noticed. As a long-distance runner with serious Olympic hopes, she rarely had time for anything but sweating and rarely used anything more sophisticated than all-in-one shower gel.

But Anna, light-haired, light-figured and with enviable skin, began to receive makeover and sponsorship offers. The PR bonanza of a pun translatable almost worldwide had finally entered Olympic arenas, and eye motifs cropped up everywhere from stadium architecture to crowd mascots. Everyone from opticians to meteorologists rode the theme to publicity: 2020: Year of the Eye.

Under the gaze of the world and the strange, stylised stare of the ubiquitous cyclopian motifs, the Games began. And everywhere, event after event and country after country, eyes only widened in shock as the unthinkable happened again and again. Unpredictability took over as the hallmark of the 2020 Games.

As day after day broke all bounds of probability, people began to ask questions: Steroids? Cough medicines? Hyperoxidation? Bribes? Or sabotage? Something must account for this. Someone must explain it.

Anna ran well, both in the 10K and the half-marathon. Jealously she eyed those whom she regarded as her nearest competitors... outran them... achieved two personal bests... but failed to overtake two or three completely unknown rivals. She took bronze in both events, and joined the ranks of the desperately disappointed.

The Olympic Committee had already called in medical experts, sports investigators, even forensic scientists to seek some kind of solution to the puzzle: lesser athletes suddenly, comprehensively routing the elite. Blood, urine, sweat, even tears underwent higher-level testing than ever before.. with no result.

Until finally, months later, a hyphotherapist came forward. I work within the law, she insisted. I simply encourage positive visualisation and high pain tolerance. I help people. Investigators observed her at work, and confirmed that she did nothing illegal, but also that nobody else could replicate her results—or even outperform placebos. She had made a fortune; she retired a rich woman; and by next summer, sporting results returned to normal patterns. Anna won gold four years later.

With the close of 2020 the wordplay lost relevance and the adverts expired; even the cosmetic innovation that had begun it all, slid rapidly out of fashion. People in general remembered very little of the Year of the Eye.

Only athletes would always remember: 2020—Year of the Hypnotist.

The Family Album, by Marjan Sierhuis

9/5/2018

Teresa stands by her mother’s bedside. One hand clutches the parallel handle of her tote bag; the other is buried up to the elbow in faux leather. She knows the family album is in there somewhere. After all, she placed it in the bag earlier that morning with some other stuff.

She spreads the opening wider, and her eyes cast a cursory glance over the contents. A monthly subway pass for seniors, a leather wallet with a faded picture of her parents, an appointment card to see a podiatrist; a pink cosmetic bag from the 90’s circa filled with nail clippers, a pocket packet of Kleenex, sterile eye drops, a jar of petroleum jelly, pink face rouge and a plastic comb with large teeth; a plastic container with false teeth, a hardboiled egg with two slices of brown bread, a plastic knife, a plastic fork, two packets of strawberry jam and peanut butter housed in a plastic baggie, a milk chocolate candy bar in a paper wrapper, a small container of plain yogurt, several sugar packets, a spoon, a package of Scottish mints, a pair of white wool socks with wide tops, non-prescription reading glasses, an illustrated book of fairy tales, a mini Walkman with headphones, a stuffed teddy bear with a missing eye and a framed picture of a mother who no longer remembers her name.

Teresa finally sees it. She pauses, removes the album and hugs it to her chest. A tear trickles down her face. She leans down and gently kisses her mother’s cheek.

Buttercup, by Mark Tulin

7/5/2018

On about my tenth time around the rink, I accidentally bumped into a girl my age, knocking her to the ice.

“Sorry,” I said, “I wasn’t looking.”

I picked her up from the ice. She wore a puffy white parka, pink mittens and a red woolen beanie that came down to her eyebrows. When I helped her up, she smiled with perfect white teeth. Her long auburn hair hung on her shoulders. Her brown eyes danced in my head.

“You’re cute,” she said. “You have gorgeous green eyes.”

“Ah, thanks.”

“What’s your name?” she asked.

“Harry.”

“Jill,” she said and took my hand with her pink mitten.

Jill wasn’t shy. Junior High girls seemed to mature faster and knew what to say. All I could do was stare at her beauty and think wouldn’t it be nice to hang with her for a little while longer.

Build Me Up Buttercup was blaring from the big speakers in the rafters. The melody stuck in my head, and I didn’t hear any other songs after that. She led me around the rink. We smiled as we tried to avoid the other skaters.

My friend Jake hit it off with Jill’s friend, Arlene. They were fooling around at the snack bar. Jake was tickling Arlene and making her laugh.

After the rink closed, all four of us took off our skates and walked up the street to the playground. Jill and I sat on the steel merry-go-round and talked under the winter night. It was freezing, but the pounding of my heart kept me warm. We could barely hear the murmur of Jeff and Arlene’s voices somewhere in a dark corner of the playground.

It felt like Jill and I were the only ones under the moon and stars. Build Me Up Buttercup still played in my head when we both leaned toward each other and kissed. Her lips tasted like grape chewing gum. The smoke of our breath seemed to form hearts as they floated up to the sky. I could feel the shape of her fingers under her mittens. Our blue jean knees touched. The moon was bigger than it had ever been, and the stars appeared to look like musical notes. It was my first and only kiss with Jill Solano.