Blog Archives

Livin' the Dream, by Doug Bartlett

31/5/2019

He was livin’ the dream. He lived in a mansion of a house with a five-car garage filled with exotic sports cars, overlooking the Pacific Ocean. He had a great wife and two wonderful children.
His prosperous business may have allowed him all this but he knew the credit really belonged to God for his success.
He didn’t know God personally, but he knew about Him. He didn’t believe in reincarnation, but he did believe in resurrection. He knew that in order to have life after death, eternal life, he would need to establish a personal relationship with God.
He never committed to that relationship as a young boy as he felt it would cost him too much fun. He was just too busy later in life by having a family and building his business. He thought, “I can do that at anytime, after all, God’s not going anywhere, is He?”
One evening he was sitting in his living room, reading the newspaper. He glanced up to see an amazing sunset over the ocean right outside his bay window.
He began to reflect on God and His creation. As he folded up the newspaper to put it away, he saw his friend’s name in the obituaries. The same friend that was six years younger than him. That did it! Just as he was ready to make that commitment to God, he was interrupted by a phone call. This was not just any call. This was a very important long-awaited business call. It lasted for three and one-half hours. It was very late when the call ended and he was mentally exhausted and emotionally drained.
He said to himself, “Tomorrow morning there will be not interruptions and first thing I will get right with God”. The he fell fast asleep.
The next morning when he opened his eyes, everything remained dark. He then extended his arms above himself only to feel something firm but silky smooth. His face filled with terror and his soul with despair when he realized it was the lining of his coffin.
The dream had turned into a nightmare.

Not Going to Worry, by Brian Taylor

28/5/2019

8:36 a.m.

After eating a light breakfast, Linda picks up her phone to make the first of her two daily calls to Kelly, her beloved only daughter who's away at college.

It goes to Kelly's voicemail.

She leaves Kelly a short, cheerful message, ending with "Love you, honey", and pushes the end call button.

After about fifteen minutes of waiting for Kelly to call her back, she starts wondering what's going on and why she hasn't yet. She begins to get worried.

So she takes a deep breath and thinks, I need to quit worrying so much and being so overprotective of her like I've been her whole life, especially since her dad died when she was nine.. Kelly is almost twenty years old, she's not a child anymore. She's probably still sleeping, or very busy and she's just fine. I know she has classes today and probably a lot of work to do. I need to let her live her life and live mine, as well. I'm not going to worry needlessly.

We can talk later.

11:49 a.m.

After a morning of cleaning the house and doing some sewing, she tries to call Kelly again.

It goes to her voicemail.

Linda leaves another message and then laughs to herself.

I'm still not worried, she thinks.

Imagine that.

3:12 p.m.

After watching some TV and then taking an uneasy nap, Linda tries again to get Kelly on the phone.

It once more goes to voicemail.

After leaving another message, she shakes her head and smiles.

Still not worried, or at least, not too much.

Kelly will be shocked when I tell her.

6:32 p.m.

After several hours of trying to get interested in a book she's been reading, she gives up and tries to call Kelly again.

Once more it goes to voicemail. She doesn't leave a message this time.

After she hangs up, she laughs and thinks; Well that girl! She must be super busy today, or something is wrong with her service.

Well, anyway, it's alright.

She's not really hungry for dinner, so she just makes a pot of coffee and sits at her computer desk, listening to a rain video on YouTube.

Still not too worried, she thinks.

At least, she's not panicking.

8:56 p.m.

She's curled up on the sofa, watching the TV on mute, when her phone rings.

She bolts up in a hurry and grabs it off the coffee table and answers without looking to see who it is.

"Hello...Kelly?"

Thank God, it is Kelly! She sounds like she's out of breath.

"Hey, Mama. Sorry, I just got home a few minutes ago. Oh, my gosh, what a day this has been, I am exhaust—"

Linda, unable to control her emotions or words, interrupts her.

"Where in the hell have you been? I've been worried sick trying to get ahold of you today! What is wrong with you, girl?"

At long last, she bursts into tears.

Mutt, by Nenad Pavlovic

27/5/2019

Mutt was a woman from my grandparents' village, where I spent my days away from grade school. For the longest time I was unsure whether she was named after mongrel dogs, or if those were called after her.
Whenever the adults wanted to scold us, they would say things like "If you don't study hard you'll end up stupid like Mutt!", "Wash your face, you're dirty like Mutt!", and when we misbehaved, they'd say "Stop that mischief or Mutt will come and get you!"
Whenever we went out to play, there she was: wondering aimlessly through the undergrowth, sitting on the stairs of her run-down house, or cackling to herself behind the village well. I never knew how old she was; with her constant grin and a mane of unkempt ashen hair, she seem to be frozen in her teens, although she must have been much older. Sometime we teased her so she would chase us. Usually she would get annoyed and shake her fist and swear in her gibberish tongue, but sometimes she laughed with the same playfulness as us, and for some reason that always filled me with unease.
Years later, I came home from college one day and found my mother crying. I asked her what happened.
"Mutt's dead", she answered.
"Mutt? Why would you cry about Mutt??"
She lifted her tear-streaked face.
"Mutt was the nicest person in the world, don't you know?" she said between sobs and cigarette drags.
I remembered, and I knew.

Ten Sentences, by Bruce Levine

24/5/2019

The fragile peace that had been established between the two siblings remained unbroken for two weeks as each pursued their projects, but only lasted until the presentation at the science fair when the younger sibling won first prize and the older second.

He watched as she prepared their dinner and marveled at her dexterity in the kitchen as well as her ability to create a feast in minutes without blinking an eye, without stress and with the aplomb of a surgeon who knows that they can save lives and cure diseases.

He was always happy when he was working on *something,* and whether it was one project or another mattered less than the specifics of the project, but working in tandem with his wife was his ultimate happiness and, today, they were beginning a new phase and a new project *together.*

He watched the rain as it washed away the snow and felt an emptiness for the earth that transcends reality.

His dog slept peacefully at his feet as he worked, creating an atmosphere of calm that ignited creativity.

She struggled with the game, repeatedly getting two, three or four pegs remaining as she jumped one with the other; the goal was to leave only one peg so she’d get – You’re Genius; and then it happened, not once, but times two – You’re Genius.

The biting cold of winter seemed a metaphor for his loss of faith in the future.

Their relationship had been long and good and they’d been through a myriad number of projects together, but a simple division of ideas had caused a rift that seemed irreparable and their friendship had ended abruptly like broken peanut shells scattered on a bar room floor.

They worked together and ate together and slept together and together they built a life based on mutual love and understanding and they knew that the components of their life and love would transcend time and last a lifetime.

He watched as the wind and the pelting of the rain turned the day, which was supposed to be special, into a day better spent in bed.

Mission Accomplished? by Doug Bartlett

24/5/2019

Tim accepted his mission out of love for his country. Parachuting behind enemy lines at night, he would blow up a strategic bridge, which would severely limit the enemy’s ability to move about. He would then escape to safety by hiking three miles to an awaiting jeep.
He had just planted the explosives onto the support system of the bridge when he realized he was completely surrounded by the enemy, who were quickly closing in. His plan of escaping to safety had now vanished.
In order to accomplish his mission he would have to detonate the bomb now. This meant he would not only destroy the bridge, but he would lose his life as well.
Could he do it? He wasn’t sure. His stomach was tied in knots. His entire body throbbed. This could be his final decision he would make in his life. His entire life flashed before him. Could he do it? Would he do it? He gently placed his thumb on the switch, when he heard his mother’s voice piercing the air, “Timmy – it’s time to come inside – dinner’s ready.”

A Meeting, by Brian Taylor

22/5/2019

Two old friends, who haven't seen each other in a while, meet one day at a local store. They hug and chat for a brief moment. This is what they say.

Him: Wow, you still look the same, pretty as ever! How are you?

Her: I'm great! How are you?

Him: I'm good, I'm good. So, how are Joel and the kids?

Her: Good! You know Joel, he's the same old guy he ever was. And the kids are still growing and going!

Him: Yeah, I bet...I bet. Great, that's really great.

Her: Well, I'm sorry, but I better get going. I gotta get home and start supper. You take care!

Him: Yeah...you too.

***

This is what they think while they talk and when they walk away from each other.

Her: I'm not pretty, you liar! You can probably guess that Joel gets drunk and hits me sometimes, and that's why I'm wearing sunglasses. But I love him, and it's no one's business but ours. The way people gossip in this town, you've probably heard shit all about us and our kids; how we're trashy, and how he's mean like his dad and how she's too wild. But you know what? I've accepted my life for what it is. It's mine, and I don't care what you or anyone else might think! And why the hell did you hug me? Ugh! Surely, you don't still have that dumb little crush on me! That time we fucked, it was one and done! I've never felt anything for you but pity. You're so wimpy. I wouldn't have even talked to you if you hadn't talked to me first!

Him: I probably shouldn't have hugged you, but I couldn't help myself. My heart was overwhelmed. It's all I can do not to cry or scream my lungs out right in this store. Joel is a bastard and has ruined you! Why can't you see that? God, I hate him! I wish I could give him the beating he deserves! I still love you so much, even after all these years. I've never been with anyone else. Can't you see that in my eyes? But I have a great job and so much to offer. I would take you and your kids and give you a better life, no matter how hard it might be. I would love them because I love you. I would give anything for just a chance! But it will never happen, will it? No... I see it won't.

The Evilness, by Sankar Chatterjee

18/5/2019

“Damn it”, screamed trauma surgeon Dr. Timothy Ryan, in frustration. After leading a team of five expert surgeons over past eight hours, Dr. Ryan had just pulled out the 6-inch bullet (fired from a high-powered military-style assault weapon AK15), lodged next to the heart of the teenager Jose Lopez. But Jose couldn’t survive the huge amount of blood-loss from the surgery. A brilliant math-whiz, Jose was about to graduate in two days from his high school, subsequently heading to MIT. But in a selfless act of bravery, he lunged towards a gun-trotting classmate who was about to open fire at the entire class, thus staging an unimaginable horror. Before coming out of the operation theatre, exhausted Dr. Ryan took a last look at Lopez’s lifeless body.

He began walking down the corridor, murmuring “Oh, how we, even as a civilized nation, normalized the school-shooting? It all began with the massacre of those thirty little kindergarteners two years ago.” And that’s when he looked at the screen of a mounted flat-screen wall-TV. The live scene was streaming the loaded aircraft-carrier USS Horizon (recently built at a staggering cost of $12 billion of taxpayers’ money) embarking on a mission to flex its muscle to a smaller country. Soon, several B-52 bombers filled up the sky, completing the flotilla.

Dr. Ryan whispered to himself: “No wonder, our young generation has been taking up arms, following adults’ examples. Now, who’ll stop that forthcoming evilness?”

The Executive, by Bex Gooding

17/5/2019

‘Have a seat.’ Bethany Wilkes said gesturing towards the vacant chair. ‘What can I do for you?’
‘I’m here to evaluate you.’ Mr Fredricks said sitting down.
‘The Law Accreditation Board, how could I forget.’

Mr Fredricks looked at Bethany Wilkes for a few seconds, then opened his notebook.

‘Tell me about yourself?’
‘My background is this.’ Bethany began in a self importance tone. ‘I’ve been a Solicitor for thirty years, starting as an intern with Haversham Solicitors in London.’
‘Really?’ Mr Fredricks asked skeptically.
‘Yes, the biggest law firm in London.’

Bethany paused.

‘I was there for twenty years making my way up to partner. They were sorry to see me go, the department imploded without me.’
‘Why did you leave?’
‘Stress. I had a breakdown and took a six month sabbatical.’
‘Why didn’t you return?’
‘I needed a change. I moved to the City Council as their Legal Advisor.’
‘I see.’ Mr Fredricks replied making notes. ‘That sounds like another stressful job.’

Bethany said nothing.

‘Ms Wilkes? The Council?’
‘Right! After the Council I set up my own Practice and I’ve been successfully running the business for ten years.’

‘I think I have all I need.’ Mr Fredricks said closing his notebook. ‘Thank you for your time.’

They both stood up and shook hands.

‘Here’s my card.’ Bethany said. ‘If you want to know anything else, call me.’
‘I will.’ Mr Fredicks replied looking at the card and frowning.

Nurse Watson waited in the corridor and noticed Mr Fredricks’ expression as he exited the room. She waited until the security lock clicked into place.

‘She’s had a complete psychotic break.’ Mr Fredicks said. ‘She’s totally immersed in a fantasy world.’
‘Did she ever work in a law firm?’ Nurse Watson asked.
‘Yes. According to her file she was a cleaner in the evenings. She was caught sitting in the Partner’s office talking to herself.’
‘Pretending to be a Solicitor?’
‘Probably. She was also stealing office supplies, that’s why they fired her. Her Solicitor said she had mental health issues and the company dropped the charges. She spent six months unemployed.’
‘The sabbatical.’
‘Yes. Then she got another cleaning job in the Council offices where she was caught by Security going through files. She attacked a Security Guard with a letter opener.’

Nurse Watson gasped.

‘She was arrested and sent to a secure facility.’ Mr Fredricks said. ‘She’s been in and out of various institutions ever since.’
‘What do you think caused the breakdown?’
‘Most likely, she can’t cope with the world and retreated into a fantasy where she feels important and in control.’
‘What’s that?’ Nurse Watson pointed to the white card.

Mr Fredricks handed her the card. Neatly written in orange crayon read;

“Bethany Wilkes - Solicitor”

‘I’m recommending evaluations and an increase in medication.’

Mr Fredricks looked through the window as Bethany Wilkes talked to someone only she could see.

‘Let me tell you a little bit about my background. I’ve been a Solicitor for thirty years…..’

Dumb Luck, by Dan Cardoza

15/5/2019

Charlie feels unaccomplished, after all, he is 32 years old, and barely situated in his first apartment, but the upside, $750.00 per month. Speaking of upside, he is his parent's upside, now they can travel more. Charlie has traveled a lot, mostly without compass, through doors that open then shut, each new door leading to different hues of failure. Charlie is good at blaming everyone else for his situation, even tea leaf reader Tiffany, who texted their break-up, can you believe it’s been two years?

In his confession booth shower, Charlie mouths, Luck has never been a lady to me.

Later that evening, in a spark of empowerment Charlie triggers his Xfinity remote, turns off his Animal Planet series, I Was Prey. Then like one of the shows killer mountain lions, he pounces then kills his badger shaped backpack. With the feral game over his shoulder, he heads out the door.
***
Tomorrow is Saturday. Charlie is meeting Natasha from Tinder at ten. If all goes well, they’ll exchange contacts. But first, he needs cash from the pockets of his big-boy pants at the Levi

Bank ATM. This is where he deposited his first pay check from his new employer over at The Verizon Call Center, just seven blocks from his emancipation digs. Charlie barely clears $1,800.00 per month, but to him, he’s a #boss.

***

William and Jonathon beat Charlie to his ATM. The two are servicing it, utilizing all the high tech pilfering finesse money can’t buy, to extract funds from the R2 D2 vault. Jonathon is the brain, William the muscle. William epitomizes Sigmund Freud’s Id, a certifiable knuckle dragger, but great at following orders.

As Jon applies his electronic movie-magic, William has his back, his sweaty testosterone infused finger cocked, loaded, craving the trigger. His orders this foggy cold night, to put a .40 caliber slug through the temple of anyone who turns eternities dark corner. William blows smoke rings of acrid breath, then silently mouths, “fuck luck, never been a friend of mine.”

***

As Charlie approaches, he hears ghost like electronic squeaks and chirps, the signature work of two-bit thugs. Charlie readies his shiny new debit card. The near silence reminds him of his loop of doors. His thoughts swirl black, twisted shiny ribbons of out of control, until he is lost again, in circles of doors.

Twenty feet to the corner.

William foxes his ears toward the footfalls of deadpans’ approach. Jon unhooks his stolen Radio Shack E-kit, begins sacking money. William bites his tongue, fashions a hard-on, and points at the darkness.

Ten feet away.

Jon says let’s…

Three feet from eternity.

Charlie’s pocket vibrates him dead in his tracks, he questions himself, Damn––is she canceling? He frantically thumbs his iPhone for his message of dread, and stares at the Levi Bank auto text ––‘Alert, You Are Overdrawn.’

A car burns rubber toward Karma, Charlie looks up, and cursing his assumed bad luck.

Leaves, by Brian Taylor

15/5/2019

The old man comes in from outside and goes into his wife's sewing room, where she was working on a scarf.

"Maggie, I wish you'd let me smoke inside tonight," he said.

"What for?" She asked, not looking at him.

"Well...I just wish you would," he said.

"There must be a reason."

He hesitated, then goes on. "Well, I think somebody's stalkin' me. I can't see 'em, but I can hear 'em gettin' closer all the time."

She laughed. "Oh, Honey, I didn't think you watched them scary movies."

Annoyed, he said, "Damn it, woman, I ain't talkin' 'bout movies. Somebody's stalkin' my ass out there and no matter where I look, even with a flashlight, I can't see 'em.

"It's kinda making me nervous," he added, more quietly.

She turned to look at him sternly, and said, "Bob, quit your cussing. And you know good and well that's just the wind blowing leaves around. Silly man. You've heard it your whole life. I ain't gonna have the house smelling like smoke again just 'cause you finally got spooked in your old age."

He turned and went into the kitchen for a drink before he could say something that started a real fight. Almost fifty years of marriage had taught him that.

He went without smoking for as long as he can, but finally at 11 after the news and Maggie had gone to bed, he couldn't wait anymore, so he stepped out onto the porch.

He lit his cigarette and tried to look around the yard. Even with his glasses on, his vision seemed to get worse every day. They live down in a wooded holler, so at night, it's almost pitch black, and the closest neighbors are five miles away. He used to have a good dog named Bruce, but he died last Summer. Maggie never liked him, but Bob sure missed him.

The wind was blowing, and the leaves were rustling. He knew he heard that. Maybe that is all he heard. He thought about opening the door and switching on the porch light, although he didn't like to because of the bugs. But hell, that noise was so damn creepy. Getting louder and closer, louder and closer.

Although it's early Spring, and getting warm even at night, he shivered. Even at 70, Bob didn't like to admit he was scared, but there it was.

Then, all of a sudden, the sound stopped. He tried looking around again...nothing. He grinned, confused.

Bullshit, he thought, as he tossed the finished butt. The old woman's probably right, and I'm just getting crazier. It's nothing but the damned old--

Before he finished his thought, the knife was thrust deep in his chest. He was too stunned to even cry out, and he never saw his attacker. He gasped and staggered and fell off the porch, breaking his hip. He was dead within just a few minutes.

The last sound he heard was a woman laughing.

Dancing Albert, by Phyllis Souza

14/5/2019

"I’m a wanna squeeza da girls; I'm tired of squeezin da box," Albert said in a heavy Italian accent.

His body was fat. Curly dark hair fell down on his forehead. Off-centered on his face, a big nose with a hump on its bridge. And his mouth, well, it was wide and turned down at the corners. Except when he danced then it turned up. Albert always smiled when he danced.

He played the accordion at the Italian Athletic Club every Saturday night that is until he didn't. One night, he put down his bellows-driven box and jumped off the stage and danced. Sometimes, Albert danced with his eyes open and sometimes, when he got lost in the music he danced with them closed.

Like a corkscrew twisted into the neck of a bottle, Albert wound down toward the dance floor and spiraled up again. Keeping up with the music, he maneuvered a pretty girl under his outstretched arm. She twirled around and around. "I'm getting dizzy," she cried out. He smiled. He laughed. He danced.

On one Saturday night, there was too much wax on the floor and too much vino in his stomach, which went to his head. When the band started to play the Chicken Dance, he laughed. With his arms akimbo, he leaned back. Flapping his elbows, he looked up and high stepped towards the dance floor. He was going to follow the line dancers, then it happened, he slipped and he fell.

The back of his head hit hard on the floor. His eyes closed tight. His mouth drew down. Albert didn't dance anymore.

Who Wants To Be Normal? by Jim Bartlett

10/5/2019

Today the doctor said that everything is just fine. That I’m COMPLETELY normal.
What? How can that be? I mean, he’s a DOCTOR, right? Of all the people in the world, surely HE’D notice!
Yet, he didn’t even wink when he said it.
No goofy little smiles or raised eyebrows like he knows a secret.
So...I wonder...
What went wrong?
I mean, there has to be SOOOME-thing...
Right?
WAIT!
I think I know!
I wasn’t wearing the cape!
Of course! You have to have the cape on! I bet Clark Kent is just plain ol’ Clark Kent when he’s doing that reporter thing. But when he puts on the cape...
BAMM!
Superman!
That’s gotta be it!
Next year, when I turn 7, and Mom takes me in for that fistical or whatever it is I do at the doctor’s office, I’m wearing my cape! THEN he’ll see!
I bet he even makes one of those faces like my dad does when he watches those politic people on television. You know, the wrinkled up nose. Eyes about to pop out. All those lines up on his forehead.
Yup, that doctor will know alright.
It’s the cape.
Next year I’m gonna wear the cape.

Been Through Too Much, by John M. Carlson

4/5/2019

A dog named Daisy lies on a dog bed. The dog bed is comfortable. Much more comfortable than the cold, hard concrete floor Daisy had to sleep on at one time. But, somehow, she can’t fully relax. She has moved too much in the last year, and moving again seems inevitable. It’s not if. It’s when.

Nearby, Susan and Amy sit at a table having coffee. Susan is the woman who brought Daisy here from the cold animal shelter.

“Daisy seems like a really nice dog,” Amy says. “But it’s a strange name. She really doesn’t seem like a ‘Daisy’ to me.”

“I would have chosen a different name,” Susan says. “But that was the name her former owner gave her.”

Actually, Daisy’s name came from her original owner. Susan is Daisy’s fourth owner. Or is Susan the fifth owner? Who can keep count? Daisy certainly can’t. People come and people go. Today’s human is tomorrow’s memory.

“Of course,” Susan says, “people give all sorts of odd names to puppies. I sometimes wonder if they ever think that the tiny puppy will eventually be a fifty pound dog.”

Indeed, Daisy’s original owner thought Daisy was “the cutest little puppy ever!” She gave Daisy away once Daisy got “too big!”

“Do you wonder why Daisy’s last owner gave her up?” Amy asks.

“In this case, I know. The animal rescue said the last owner was seven months pregnant. She was worried that Daisy was too big to have around a baby. Or else Daisy was just a temporary ‘child’ while she was waiting to have a baby. Either is possible.” Susan sighs. “I can’t understand it, myself. I grew up with animals in the house. My parents had at least three dogs when I was born, and there was no question that they were staying!”

“Well, at least Daisy has a permanent home now.”

“Yes,” Susan says. “Unfortunately, I don’t think she believes that yet. She’s been through too much in the past.”

The Regatta, by Tessa Edgecombe

4/5/2019

As a skinny eleven year old I was too young and green to carry the fate and weight of the flashboat team on my narrow shoulders. It was the last race of the regatta, the four man randan. The tide was high and the river was running fast and strong. The ten light-as-a-feather racing boats bobbed on the river’s surface, sleek wooden thoroughbreds. The tension bounced around the Antony Passage crew. Fingers were cracked, jokes as well, some swearing. The tide turned, and the current wrestled with the rudder, almost wrenching my arms out of their sockets. Confidence was a stranger to me, determination a mere acquaintance. I was full of dread.
Training had comprised a mere hour or so the evening before, in our lone craft, on a quieter tributary. Now it was the big race of the day and the boats did not just jostle their way towards the starting line, they positively thrashed their way forward trying to secure the best position. After a false start, the race commenced, with the crowd’s shouts and cheers crashing like waves over us. Desperately, I took a bead and headed as sure and straight as I could for the first buoy marking the turning point. But that’s where the other nine boats were headed as well. Terrified of ramming any of the other teams and being disqualified, I took too wide a turn only to be met by groans from the crew when they saw the ground they had to make up. All muscle and slog, they had no idea of the battle I was fighting with the rudder and the tide. Soon though, we were making up ground with the captain repeatedly asked me to hold a steady line. This I tried to do, but the melee of oars and craft was confusing and next minute we had careered into the nearest boat with the whipcrack of breaking wood filling my ears and bringing tears of misery. Both sets of men took to swearing at each other but it was obvious we were not going to finish the race, and I sat huddled at the back of the boat, cold and wet, the sun now behind clouds and my hands welted with blisters.
On reaching the shore, the young men clambered out of the racing boat, their shoulders sloped in disappointment, barely looking at me, their backs broad and unforgiving. I felt my failure keenly, sharp and raw, but sharper still was the bitter blame I laid at my uncle’s door. Shrugging off his help, I too clambered out onto dry land, remembering how he had suggested me as a coxswain for my cousins’ boat. I turned my back to him, less broad but just as unforgiving.

Into the Light, by Kim Favors

3/5/2019

Securing the trash cans for pickup is what Evelyn will tell them if discovered. But at dusk, with kitchens bustling and televisions blaring, few people are looking out their back windows.

If they do, it’s unlikely they’ll see the shabbily dressed woman walking the far side of the alley in the near dark.

Watching.

The low-rent housing owned by Evelyn and her brother was a motel before a new highway rerouted travelers.

For years, nightly strolls sent them following the aromas of chicken frying and spaghetti and cookies just out of the oven.

No longer.

Huddling near kitchen windows brought up fragments of flashbacks from a tragedy Evelyn has tried to forget.

And with her brother gone, she now keeps her distance.

Besides, “my babies,” as Evelyn calls the children, are the real reason the landlady spies on her tenants. So she tells herself.

Pony-tailed girls clutching dolls and their mothers’ aprons. Helping set the table. Their brothers in play coonskin caps watching Davey Crockett on TV with their fathers.

Images from the 1950s that Evelyn imagines she sees through those windows.

This Christmas she’s planning to visit “my babies,” hoping to be welcomed to the families’ festivities.

Perhaps she can help out in the kitchen. If Mommy lets her.

Going Down, by NT Franklin

3/5/2019

Roger ran to the elevator as the door closed. “Crap, shut out and going down, just like my career.”

Seven years an accounts manager, and today, passed over for a fifth time for a supervisor position, Roger was finally questioning his future with Allied Industries.

“Got problems, buddy?”

“What?” Roger didn’t know anyone was behind him.

“Sounds like you’re going nowhere, and not even heading there very fast. I’m Charlie, by the way. I don’t work here anymore.”

“Uh, okay, Charlie, glad to meet you. Roger here. Sorry, but I’m not having the best day.”

“I gathered that. I quit here three years ago.”

Roger ran a hand through his thinning hair. Then what are you doing here?”

Charlie dug a business card from his pocket. “Yes, better pay and benefits, even time to visit old friends. Here’s my card. Give me a call, maybe we can work something out.”

“Uh, thanks. I just might do that.”

“Your elevator is here. Going down.”

When the elevator doors closed, Charlie dug out his cellphone and dialed.
“Hooked one.”

After forty minutes, Charlie left the building and was walking across the parking lot when his phone rang.

Roger was on the line. “You have any openings?”

Charlie smiled. “I like you, Roger, and yes, there is an opening for an Accounts Supervisor, but we need to know what you are working on and the extent of your clients. This is a pretty big job and we have to be certain you are up for it.”

“I can email a file of my client list and current projects to the address on your card later today.”

“That would be excellent, Roger. I like a man that is confident and decisive.”

Roger gave a little half smile. I’ll send the complete company client list and projects. That should demonstrate my value.

Charlie looked at the file that arrived on his phone, saved it, then dialed.

“Gold mine.”

The voice on the other end asked, “How many client names did you get?”

“All of them, and the current projects. I need five times the money we agreed on.”

“Take four times the money?”

“Done. Burn the website. I’ll ditch the burner phone. Good doing business with you.”

The Museum of Broken Relationships, by David Croll

1/5/2019

They met at the Museum of Broken Relationships.
“What are you leaving behind?” he asked her.
“A cast-iron skillet,”
He looked quizzical.
“He gave it to me for our first anniversary. So many times, I wanted to smash it over his head. Never give a practical gift as an anniversary present,” she offered.
“I’ll remember that,” he said laughing.

“What are you leaving?”
“A mix tape. Music is so important to me, and I wanted to share it with her.”
“So, you gave her a mix tape?”
“No, I gave you mp3s but deleting them did not feel cathartic, so I made…”
“So, you made a mix tape to throw away. Seems like an awful lot of work.”
“I suppose you’re right.”

“I’m Mackenzie,” she said offering her hand.
“I’m Morgan,” he replied taking her hand.
He held it longer than customary, but she didn’t mind.
“Would you like to go to a place where someone else is using a skillet?”
She laughed.
“As long as they don’t play any of the songs from your mix tape.”

They shared a bottle of wine and laughs as they began building new memories together. Memories that in a few months’ time, will bring them both back, individually, to the museum to discard.

You Boys Stop It, by Brian Taylor

1/5/2019

Ray's job and hometown made him feel tired these days, so on one early Saturday morning, he decided to take a long road trip to get away from things and try to clear his mind. So with just himself and his old pickup, he hit the road. After about five hours of driving, he needed gas. He stopped at the first convenience store he came to, in a little town that he already forgot the name of.

After he pumped thirty dollars worth in his truck, he went inside to pay. Two young boys were hanging around the store entrance, scuffling, laughing and calling each other names such as "chicken" and "turd."

Ray cleared his throat loudly, so they'd get out of his way. They moved a little but kept playing. Damn boys, he thought, annoyed.

After paying for his gas and a cup of coffee, he came back outside. The boys were still by the door, horsing around. His temper flared.

He growled at them, angrily, "You boys stop it!"

He hadn't meant to say it exactly like that, or so loud.

"You're just in people's way," he added, more quietly.

He briefly wonders if the woman cashier was the boys' mother and if she'd come out to scold him for yelling at them. But if she was, she didn't.

They stopped playing and looked startled and guilty, making their faces look even younger. The oldest looked like he was about twelve and the youngest looked eight or nine. They both had on baseball caps and dirty t-shirts, dirty jeans, and sneakers.

They both muttered "Sorry, sir" and shuffled away.

He walked to and got in his truck, put his coffee in the dash cup holder, and sighed. He put his seatbelt on and looked down at the floorboard. His mind taunted him, as it often does these days.

You know why those boys really upset you, don't you?

He did.

They reminded him of his own boys. Both grown now, and probably forever estranged from him because of his own pride and stupidity, with them and their mother. He has his excuses, but excuses don't mean anything when no one wants to hear them anymore, and you're all alone.

But damn, the memories of the good times with his boys; the wrestling, the fishing, the swimming, the joking around, the riding around with them in his truck, those hurt him worse than the bad ones for some reason.

He shook his head and looked up, and saw the two boys peeking around the side of the store at him.

He blushed and started his truck and left the station faster than he should have, but thankfully, there were no cops around to catch him. As dumb as he knew the thought was, the boys almost seemed like ghosts sent to haunt him.

He waited until many hours later when he took a detour down a dirt road at sundown before he allowed himself to cry.

Livin' the Dream, by Doug Bartlett

Not Going to Worry, by Brian Taylor

Mutt, by Nenad Pavlovic

Ten Sentences, by Bruce Levine

Mission Accomplished? by Doug Bartlett

A Meeting, by Brian Taylor

The Evilness, by Sankar Chatterjee

The Executive, by Bex Gooding

Dumb Luck, by Dan Cardoza

Leaves, by Brian Taylor

Dancing Albert, by Phyllis Souza

Who Wants To Be Normal? by Jim Bartlett

Been Through Too Much, by John M. Carlson

The Regatta, by Tessa Edgecombe

Into the Light, by Kim Favors

Going Down, by NT Franklin

The Museum of Broken Relationships, by David Croll

You Boys Stop It, by Brian Taylor

Longer
Stories

Longer Friday Flash Fiction Stories

Archives

LongerStories

Longer Friday Flash Fiction Stories

Archives

Longer
Stories