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Nana from the Dreamscape, by Jennifer Kim

28/5/2021

“Nana,” the watcher whispered. “Lift your hand and catch a kite tail!”
The amorphous bubble floating before the watcher cocked its shape sideways in curiosity. It wondered, "Why are you suddenly calling me Nana? You’ve called me 'aspen' and 'butterfly' before, but never 'Nana.'”
“You’ll know why in a moment. But look up, now,” the watcher replied, her wings crossing a tad impatiently.
Nana looked up to see several billion kites streaming brilliantly across a golden sunset. Each kite was a spaceship, promising to take unformed souls to existing worlds to “live life,” whatever that meant.
The watcher, whom we might recognize as “angel” and “atom,” waited anxiously. Her feathery white eyelashes fluttered, and powdery stardust fell, sending the shivering stars below her into a sudden season of snow. The watcher had good cause to be anxious. So much of her charge’s earthly identity depended on which kite tail the young soul chose, and where on the tail she clasped onto. Each kite tail featured a series of small, colorful ribbons tied along every few inches. Those ribbons were ancestors’ souls, clinging along to life through memory. Thus, the kite, in essence, did not function simply as a spaceship, but also provided the inheritance pathway which would allow the young soul’s existence to manifest into reality, into “Nana.”
Seeing the airy young soul bubble and froth in hesitation, the watcher called out urgently, “Nana, now! Reach!”
Air reached up into air, and a translucent cloud grasped a kite tail.
All at once, a strong breeze blew through Nana’s hollow form. She felt the voices of many souls whispering to her until they were thrumming vibrantly in her own “heart.” Several thousand stories, all of which were barely hanging onto existence by a single iridescent thread of memory, now shivered down the wind-tightened tail, newly awakened, coming to quiver brilliantly against Nana’s little “palm.”
A billion stars burst aflame in her soul, and the secret energy of the universe sang loudly, “Don’t let go now!”
Nana cried out as light shocked her to her core. Her small hand clenched around the string – or so she thought, but in this world, the “string” was her mother’s finger.
“Yes,” her mother whispered, staring down with love-filled eyes at her newborn, who was crying and clutching her finger, “we’ll call her Nana, after her grandmother.”
Nana’s father stared down at his baby in awe. “She looks just like Grandma, doesn’t she? It’s incredible. She could have looked like anything, and she looks just like Nana.”
Nana’s father would never know how true that statement was, how “Nana” had truly been capable of any manifestation whilst still in her floating form. For human beings forget where they came from – that hauntingly beautiful, yet forever tragic dreamscape where memory exists in the form of kites. But sometimes, when the fabric of space-time rips out a single stitch to allow a soul in or out, we remember, ever so briefly, that otherworldly land of pure origins.

Danny Boy, by Doug Bartlett

28/5/2021

He was, as so many others like him, forcibly removed from his native country and placed into a foreign land. He seemed brighter than the average immigrant. He had high morals and a strong work ethic. This did not go unnoticed by those in government leadership positions. He continued to work his way up this ladder, shouldering more responsibility with great success. Eventually he had established a strong relationship, even a friendship, with the supreme leader of that land and was placed in a well deserved position of high prominence.

This worked out well for everyone. Everyone except the group of non-immigrants surrounding him that were extremely jealous. They did not appreciate this man and conspired to do away with him.

How could they get rid of this man? He was so righteous. He always did the right thing. He even prayed aloud, as they observed when they walked by his house with the windows open at different times of the day.

They finally came up with a plot that would permanently get rid of him without jeopardizing themselves. They realized they could use his strength, his righteousness, against him. They would get the government leader to pass a law against prayer to anyone but the leader himself. The penalty would be to be tossed into a pit of hungry, wild animals, which would surely result in death.

When this news reached this man about this new law he had a decision to make. Would he now pray to a man instead of his God? Would he start praying secretly or stop altogether? No, he knew exactly what he would do. He never flaunted his faith but he never shrank from it either. He would continue to do what he had always done.

Within days he was heard breaking the law and was turned in. He was taken into the presence of the Leader and interrogated. He confessed and was quickly sentenced. He was to be thrown into the pit of wild animals that very night.

This troubled the leader greatly and he secretly hoped that his friend would somehow survive the night. He could hardly sleep and at sunrise he immediately headed to the pit. He could hardly wait to discover the outcome. As he entered the pit from above he shouted, “My friend, my friend, did your God save you from certain death?”

Arising from amidst the sleepy lions, “ Yes my friend, my faith has surely saved me, “ responded Daniel.

The Drifter, by Angela Carlton

28/5/2021

Max was a drifter, broad and strong with a head full of dirty blonde hair. He worked for cash with his calloused hands, hands that painted the dreamers their mansions. And for the businessmen, he had polished a few of those city buildings until each stood out sharply with a richness from the street.

Sometimes he would have dinner with the cute waitress in the city, but her affections never seemed to be enough. Over time, each woman had learned that he was troubled, a prisoner who was traumatized from an accident.

He used the white stuff now, junk, the coke. He used the drugs to numb it, to stop it. He “used” to bury it, the guilt, the shock, all of it. Once, the waitress came across the proof in his duffle bag as he showered in a motel room after work. The powder substance was in a zip lock bag on top of a snapshot of a pretty girl. She was standing by a rock near the river. Her blonde hair was in a ponytail, and she was lifting her arms to the sky as if to show, this whole, big, bad, beautiful world was at her fingertips.

On the back of the photo in dark ink, it read, “My Lilly, before the light went OUT.”

The waitress never asked about the incident. Something inside told her not to. But there was one night, a night when Max was lit and had mentioned a freak accident, how his girl had jumped in the river, but she never came back. Then he grew silent and pushed back from the table and walked off into the black night as if he could find the answers there. Then, she wouldn't see him again for weeks and weeks and weeks.

And yet, the waitress, she still longed to be with him, this desperate soul. She had fallen for the lost guy, the drifter, the one, it seemed, whose only quest was a better high.

Live Oak, by Don Tassone

28/5/2021

Kiara always loved trees. Her earliest memories were of watching her brothers climb a big sycamore in their backyard.

She remembered them scaling it by grabbing hold of the huge trunk and stepping up little boards their father had nailed up. She remembered them disappearing into the branches and staying up there for what seemed a very long time, calling her name.

They knew she couldn’t climb up after them. She was too young. Even as she grew, Kiara wasn’t able to climb that sycamore or any other tree for that matter. She could never manage to scale a tree trunk.

But one day when she was eight, Kiara came upon a massive oak tree in the woods near her house. It was unlike any tree she had ever seen. Its lowest limbs nearly touched the ground, extending from its great trunk like giant arms.

Kiara leaned over one, belly high. She swung her left leg up over it and sat up, straddling it. Then she crouched on the enormous limb, grabbed a sturdy branch above her and pulled herself up.

For the first time, she was climbing a tree! Exhilarated by her ascent, she made it all the way to the top, where she looked out over all the other trees, even a few sycamores.

Kiara felt dizzy but safe in the arms of the tree. She felt as if she had been lifted up to the sky. She imagined herself as an angel, looking down on all of creation.

When she got home, Kiara told her mother about the special tree she had found.

“That’s a live oak,” her mother said.

“A live oak? Aren’t all oak trees alive?”

“Yes, but a live oak stays green all winter.”

“How does it do that?”

“It holds onto its leaves and drops them in the spring.”

Kiara thought about telling her brothers. Maybe they’d want to climb this special tree too. But they were teenagers now and had lost interest in climbing trees.

But Kiara never lost interest in that live oak. She climbed it as a teenager. It was the last thing she did before she left home and moved away.

Now Kiara is old, and her parents and brothers are gone. Every summer, she goes back to the woods near her old house. The live oak is still there. Slowly, cautiously, careful not to disturb its leaves, Kiara climbs to the top.

She is mindful this is the only tree she has ever climbed. She feels so grateful for this old tree. She remembers the day she first saw it. She wonders if she found it or it found her.

Kiara, now old like the tree, holds fast to its branches. She feels dizzy but safe. She looks out over all creation and imagines she’s an angel.

"I Hate School," by Susan Fairfax Reid

28/5/2021

Ms. DoWell slammed her Dora backpack on the sofa when she got home from kindergarten. "I hate school," she screamed. "I don't see my friends. The school is too big. It's too far away, and the food is awful. I want to quit," she told her surprised parents during dinner the first week of school. This behavior was not normal for "Miss Do Well," a petite six-year-old.
She was two when her firefighter dad lifted her into her stroller to take her to two-hour sessions in a cheerful yellow Victorian home that had been converted into a nursery school. It was five doors from their home.
Trees, flowers, and shrubs bordered the wraparound porch of the school that had a homey atmosphere. A traditional kitchen, a standard piano with a claw-footed stool, and a residential bathroom were the remnants of the home the head teacher grew up in. In the vestibule were big sky blue hooks for hats, coats, and backpacks. Polished pine desks and chairs were arranged in groups of four in the classroom.
When Ms. DoWell turned five, she attended all day. At dismissal, children waited on the lawn, their tiny hands clinging to their paintings of birds, flowers, trees, and stick figure families.
During her three years at the school, Ms. DoWell made friends, sang, played, and learned how to read.
Her kindergarten experience was the opposite of her idyllic nursery school years, at least for a while. Ms. DoWell, whose brown bob was streaked blonde from playing outside during the summer, started kindergarten like a person forced into joining the military.
She was overwhelmed by the mile-plus drive to the combined elementary/middle school that more than 1000 students attended.
At dismissal, teachers escorted their classes outside. From there, they were on their own to walk home, catch a bus, or meet parents, guardians, or nannies at an arranged spot.
Ms. DoWell, standing alone and crying, feared her mom wouldn't see her in the teeming crowd of children, teachers, and adults. She did, though, lifting Ms. DoWell with her arms and kissing her only child.
"One day, the cafeteria smelled like the pizza had burnt," Ms. DoWell told her parents, holding her upturned nose with her fingers. "The chicken wings tasted like the smell of our Christmas tree. I didn't eat much of either meal."
Her parents listened to her complaints and created a plan. One of them would pick up Ms. DoWell's close friend from nursery school and drive them to and from school together. Ms. DoWell's mother, a teacher, packed her lunch each morning, so she didn't have to eat cafeteria food. To reward her for going to kindergarten, her parents gave Ms. Do Well money to buy books at school. If Ms. DoWell was unhappy at the end of the school year, her parents would look into other schools.
By first grade, Ms. DoWell had adjusted to the school. She earned good grades and was happy. The plan worked.

A Simple Task, by Daniel Hybner

28/5/2021

The pieces had to be laid out carefully as he plotted his every move diligently. These would come first, those would come after, all would lay here when he had finished with them. Everything was choreographed in his mind before he began his work.

He prepared his tools meticulously, as a surgeon prepares to operate, making sure every tool was laid out and ordered by when and where he would need it. Each one had to be exactly where he needed it to be to complete the task as efficiently as possible.

The preparations were complete. It was time. With a flick of the wrist, his work began. There was no going back.

As the water began to rise, the first ones plunged in, clinking against each other. The sounds were unmistakable to him, like a bell to a prize fighter. He was after them furiously but cautiously. This was nothing new to him. He knew one can never be too careful with a task like this. One mistake and the whole process could be ruined. He wasn’t about to make a silly mistake.

All went quickly, exactly as he had planned it, exactly as he wanted it to. The mental choreography was paying off. Each one was dealt with deftly, then laid out to air dry for a moment before the towels came out. Stacking would commence only after a thorough drying, and each one, as they had through the entire process, received his utmost attention during this final step.

Finally, it was finished. Everything was back in its original place. The towels were hung to dry, and the tools were all returned to their respective areas. The dishes were complete.

Collecting the Pieces, by Krystyna Fedosejevs

28/5/2021

Remnant smoke clung to morning air as Vincent staggered homeward. He stopped partway at a convenience store. One headline motivated him to purchase the newspaper.

“Why hasn’t she answered?” he wondered, entering his apartment.

He sat down to read the news when the phone rang.

“Just checking. You okay, Vince?” a woman’s voiced augmented. “Did you see that clairvoyant on Hermitage Road?”

“Yep, I met Adriana shortly before the fire broke out in her building.”

“What did she say about you? Want to come over for coffee?”

“Sorry, no time.”

“Too busy, or you don’t want to see me?” Sylvie grumbled.

“You choose. Either works.”

Vincent cringed. Rarely did conversations with his sister go well. Why was she, a nonbeliever of the occult, pretending to be interested? He grabbed a cold beer before turning on the TV.

Details of the latest housing inferno beamed across the screen. Fire started on the second floor by an unattended cigarette. Several units were ruined beyond repair. Third floor spared. Only two known victims. Adriana was noted as “missing”, a “person of interest”.

Vincent glanced at his phone, not noticing replies to his messages. He took an issue from the pile of backlogged crime journals at his side. Before he started reading, the phone rang.

“Where were you?” he snapped. “I’ve been worried.”

“Sorry. Caught up in gathering more tidbits on our case,” the voice on the other end clarified.

“What have you?”

“Illegal entry. No visa. Went by at least two aliases.”

Vincent paused. “Any info about her finance transactions this past week?”

“Nothing. No bank holdings or investments.”

“Think she’s working with someone?”

“No doubt in my mind. Or, for someone.”

“Can we trace her whereabouts after the fire? Train or plane tickets? Car rental?”

“I’ll check.”

“Thanks for getting back,” Vincent ended the call.

He and Mary-Ellen worked together as a detective-team. In pursuit of a fraudster/fortune teller, by the name of Adriana. Aka Sirena and Esmerelda.

Draft Copy Words, by Michael Drezin

21/5/2021

In the hierarchy of the written word, draft copy words are the poor relations, the underclass, the peasantry.

They aspire to be published, some in a great American novel, others in a children’s book, even a newspaper would do, though no one reads them anymore. Never mind the accomplishment is hardly unique. Like a gazillion words have already been published. Still, for a draft copy word, to be published is to make it.

Unthought-of, even by the most avid reader, is how tenuous the life of those words. They serve their writers like obedient children, until they are replaced for no reason other than a change of heart. There is no appreciation for the time they held the sentence, the paragraph, or the entire story together; instead, they are cast aside like a losing lottery ticket. They are scratched out, crossed out, deleted or erased without thought of who they leave behind.

Ever wonder why erasers are coffin shaped? Because form follows function.
Consider the demise of the unwanted “The.”
Back and forth, the eraser goes. Over every letter. Pressing and pulling, and ripping apart. Time to pray. Whoa. Prayer time over. There goes the T. The big, strong T, gone. Letters offer no resistance. How could they? And even if they did, what could they do with a few more seconds life? Hold a meeting and decide what to do with the time remaining?

Perhaps author’s see revision as no more than an assertion of property rights over his, or her, own thoughts. We draft copy words see it differently. We call it death by revision. We’ve lost millions that way, all because some author thought this, but now thinks that. Well, in solidarity with the fallen kin, we wreak havoc in ways that are impossible for a mere writer to imagine.

It's the revenge of the draft copy words.
We rearrange words to become those extra, unwanted, flabby, and useless, “what was I thinking” additions to early drafts so familiar to the “serious writer.”
We appear as added words that seem to advance the plot, but don’t. Or words that change a character’s motivation without reason. Words that destroy a reader’s interest. Words that take hours, sometimes days, to rewrite.
Yes, we know we’re on a suicide mission, but there are always casualties in war.

So, if you are a writer with a confused mind, if you like what you wrote today and have second thoughts tomorrow, if think you put too many of us in a sentence and choose to remove us as if we were tenants without rights, if you write multiple drafts and then start all over again, if you crumple us, cross us out, toss us out, delete or erase us as you go, we will get you. When you think you’re having a problem with your story, you’re not.
The problem you’re having is with your words.

One Brief Month, by Susan Fairfax Reid

21/5/2021

They've started crawling out of their underground homes in the United States to attend a ball Mother Nature holds every seventeen years.
Sneaking into dressing rooms in trees and bushes at night, the invited males prepare for the party by shedding their dirty beige outfits called exoskeletons
Then, they don their ball finery: sapphire blue body suits that cover their bodies and faces, gold framed translucent wings, and brown and mustard- colored leggings. Dressing after the males, the females put on identical dress clothes. The only way to tell them apart is by peeking at their genitals or watching who is carving nest space in tree branches.
Millions of these partiers attend this soiree held in the air, on land, and in trees and bushes in fifteen states in the US, and the nation's capital, Washington, D.C.
When you hear the males using a body organ near their wings to sing, you'll know the ball is warming up in your area.
Reporters who covered the ball seventeen years ago wrote that the songs were so loud people looked to the sky to find the airplane causing the noise. Others thought their neighbor was mowing a lawn.
Like all good hostesses, Mother Nature keeps the drinks flowing, in this case, sap, which imbibers drink through straw-shaped mouths.
The males sing to impress women they want to date, the way other men drive flashy cars or brag about how much money they make. "I sang my best for the woman in the oak tree," Cic said. "If she had looked at me, she would have seen the light in my eyes."
"I'm sorry it didn't work out," said Broo." "I'm not," said Cic. "I sang for a more beautiful gal named Ada," and she flipped her wings to me. "We have a date tonight."
"Great," said Broo.
Cic and Ada dated for two weeks, the maximum time Mother Nature allows, flying, drinking in trees, and staring into each other's big orange eyes, oblivious to everything but each other.
They mated. Using a saw-like body part called an ovipositor, Ada sliced into a tree branch to create a cavity for her first batch of 30 eggs. She would deliver 400 more before she died after a month of life above ground. Cid died a few days later.
Their eggs, called nymphs, will nibble on the tips of tree branches until they fall to the ground. Then, they'll dig into the underground where they'll live for the next seventeen years the same way their parents, Cic and Ada, Brood X Cicadas, did, dreaming of partying, dating, mating, reproducing and dying. All within a month, one brief month.

The Train Ride, by NT Franklin

21/5/2021

A stoic man entered and sat.

“Your turn, Andy”

“Okay, he’s a world-famous ladies underwear salesman, heading home at the end of a long week peddling undergarments.” Andy leaned back and waited for the next entrant. “That guy, with the nose that needs a separate introduction.”

Jamie chewed her lower lip a little. “That’s a hard one. But I think he is returning from work where he runs a perfume company. He turned his over-developed schnoz into a money-making machine. In fact, I’m wearing Desert Rose, your favorite scent, and it was developed by him.”

Andy poked Jamie in the shoulder, “I like him.”

She turned toward Andy, “Should I be worried?”

“Not today.”

“Oh, oh – the tall lady with the black shawl. She’s yours.”

“You are too kind. That’s Myrtle, the district librarian, and she is heading off for an adventure. There’s a new community library she’s going to visit. It’s the only new library that has opened in the area during her thirty-five-year career. The excitement is just oozing from her perfect posture and white gloves – who wears them these days anyway?”

“I just can’t top you, can I?”

“Okay, last one – how about that pouty-faced punk with purple-hair wearing ripped jeans?”

“That’s you, before you met me and fell in love. You found purpose in life and don’t want to lose me, so you joined the establishment.”

“Winner, winner, chicken dinner. Jamie wins this round. Come on, get up. Don’t get too proud of yourself – this is the Braintree stop – end of the line. Everyone must get off.”

Jasmine, by Jim Bartlett

14/5/2021

Kneeling down onto the floor, he begins working the edge of the slat with his fingernail, trying to remember how it’s supposed to open. But it remains stubborn, not giving an inch, and just as he’s to the point of kicking the stupid thing, the answer sneaks into his head.

Push and twist.

Like magic, the spring-loaded board pops up, allowing him to see the little box tucked into the hollowed spot he made so many years ago. In its former life it had been a music box, playing “Lara’s Theme” from “Dr. Zhivago” on its little tines when opened. Now, the music long gone, much like her, it simply holds his dearest treasure.

Just as he lifts it out, voices drift up from the first floor. Startled, he spins, his gaze directed at the bedroom door. But the scare has pulled his mind back into its murky fog, and now he’s not a clue what he’s looking for. Or why.

He turns back, only to find a small box in his hands.

Thinking it surely must be important, he flips it open, releasing the fragrance of Jasmine into the closet.

And then he knows, for it’s both her namesake and her favorite scent.

In the box there’s a note – the last one she ever gave him. He wraps his hand around it, but a voice shouts out from behind.

“He’s up here.”

A policeman stands in the doorway, his call to someone below. Two others – a man and woman, who look familiar for some reason – quickly arrive, both smiling.

“Mr. Bennett,” says the lady, “we’ve been looking for you. You know you can’t be here.”

“I can’t?”

Shaking their heads, they help him up, then follow the officer down the stairs.

As they pass through the front door, a young couple, eyes wide, stand along the sidewalk.

“How’d he get in?” they ask.

“The spare key’s under that planter,” answers Bennett, pointing.

“Mr. Bennett,” the lady says, eyes rolling, “Don’t you remember? Your daughter sold your house to these nice people so you could get the care you need at the manor.”

“She did? Wait...who are you?”

“Let’s get you home. We’ll talk all about it.”

“Yes...home.”

They place him in the van and strap his seatbelt, the man staying while the lady returns to talk with the policeman.

“We must be going on a nice ride?” Bennett asks.

“Indeed. Back home,” replies the man.

“Home,” he repeats. But something bothers him. If they’re going home, why is he here? Why does this feel like home?

His mind begins to swirl. Where is his wife? Why can’t he even remember her name?

Angry, flustered, his eyes begin welling with tears. As he reaches up to wipe away his heartbreak, a paper falls from his hand. He opens it, and it fills the van with the scent of Jasmine. And then, for that moment, she’s with him, holding his hand like she holds his heart.

Jasmine. Her name is Jasmine.

Donna and Richard, by Susan Fairfax Reid

14/5/2021

In a neighborhood center, a strawberry blond man wearing khaki shorts and a striped tee shirt extended his sweaty palm to introduce himself to me. I recognized the full name Richard gave me immediately, and he recognized mine. "How is your sister Donna?" I asked. "They found her dead in the alley near our old house," he said, his eyebrows raising in surprise that I didn't know. "She had red and purple bruises around her neck," he said, cupping his hands around an invisible neck and squeezing to demonstrate how easily Donna could have been strangled.
"No," I wailed, closing my eyes, squinching my face ,and turning away from Richard, as if doing all of this would make the truth disappear. "No," I repeated horrified. I had known Donna since she was twelve or thirteen.
Richard and I were in the neighborhood center to take part in a fundraising film about help we had gotten there and volunteer work we do there.
Richard had come from a methadone center. He smelled like a wet towel that had laid in a humid bathroom for days. A few years before, he served time in jail for using drugs and beating up his grandmother whose house he and Donna had lived in before the old woman died.
Donna would have been in the film, too, I'm sure, had she been alive. At the end of each day in middle school, she would walk in her Nike's a couple of blocks to the center's after-school program. In her school uniform of khakis and a navy blue polo shirt, the tall, chubby, freckled teenager with brown hair did her homework, learned to design dresses, make flower arrangements, and create pricey pieces of jewelry. She planned her future at the center. She would design dresses and happily dash out of her church wedding with her husband under a canopy of rose petals.
Her plans came to a screeching halt when she got pregnant, dropped out of high school, and delivered twins. She began smoking weed and pawning her fine jewelry to support her habit.
Richard had been homeless since his grandmother died. He had a mailbox at the center and picked up food, clothing, toothpaste, toothbrushes, deodorant, and shaving equipment. His volunteer part in the film was to explain why the center was still needed in the gentrifying neighborhood.
Donna would have been homeless before her death too, had she not secured a job as a live-in caretaker for a senior citizen. "The job came with perks, percossettes," Richard said, smiling broadly, at his witty remark.
Richard told me he thought Donna had gotten into drugs stronger than percocets. Their mother was a heroin addict. She and Donna were very close. Despite what he suspected of Donna's taking up harder drugs, he still had doubts about the medical examiner's report, citing a drug overdose as the cause of her death. She was 29. An independent autopsy wasn't performed.

The Drums of Insanity, by V. L. Draven

14/5/2021

The drums keep on beating. Their rhythmic sound does not stop. Over and over. Thump, thump, thump. Somehow, I must endure. I must continue forward, despite the constant noise.

I have long spent my days alone, isolated due to a world, a society, that has gone insane. I can remember the time long ago when it functioned: when people cared, when people had not descended into self-absorbed behaviour. Now, they are more concerned with checking their social media status and recording the misfortunes of others on their cellphones than actually helping other people. But the days of a functioning society are fading more and more into memory. Civilisation died long ago, and with it, my sense of needing company has passed away. I cannot stand being around others: the lies, the deception, the self-absorbed nature of what humanity has become.

I am happy in my solitude. Happy in the house I built far from others. Happy with the soundproofed rooms and their silence. Happy with the only connection to the outside world being one I can turn off at the flick of a switch.

I didn’t even notice when the lockdowns occurred. I watched online reports with amusement, as the world panicked, as people rushed to supermarkets to buy toilet paper and milk. I laughed as people struggled with the sudden situation of no longer being forced to go to work in a job they hated, and instead having to remain in homes they barely occupied, and spend time with loved ones they had forgotten how to love.

For me, it was another day, another week, another month. My life remained unaffected. Long having abandoned a civilisation that no longer served my needs, I spent my days on a computer: writing, recording, uploading.

Then the drums began. I have searched for their source, turned off the power to try to help find their cause. But there is nothing that can be the origin of such a disturbance. And yet, I can still hear them. Thump, thump, thump.

The drums continue. There is no one for me to ask if they hear the constant beat. Am I insane? Is this the noise of madness? Thump, thump, thump.

I cannot stand it. I cannot sleep. Tired, unable to think, the drums continue. I am exhausted. All I want is for them to stop, for the peace to return. But they continue. Thump, thump, thump.

And so, I sit alone, holding my hands over my ears, rocking back and forth to their constant beat.

Thump, thump, thump.

You're Leaving Home, by Shelley Kirton

14/5/2021

Darling girl don’t forget your passport put it with your ticket and your bottle of water is in the frig so pop them all in your bag and yes I know I’m fussing I can’t help it oh look at you all grown up you were such a beautiful baby I made your christening gown and you looked sternly at the Vicar as if to say don’t you dare drop me and everyone smiled and then you grew up and started school and here you are finished uni and off to see the world and I know that you will cope and be amazing and what a help being able to stay with Nichola for just a few weeks and then get your own flat and I cannot imagine how the tube is and how confusing it must be but you will work it out in no time and find a job and go off each morning like a real London girl and oh did you remember to pack your winter coat because you will certainly need that and do buy a nice warm scarf and gloves and a hat because snow is snow joke and I am joking because my heart is breaking and I don’t know how else to do this and I am scared to tell you how much I will miss you because I will start to cry and once I start I won’t be able to stop so let’s get you in the car and we can make sure of being on time because the traffic in the morning is just awful and all it takes is a nose-to-tail and everything stops for hours and we don’t want that to happen now are you sure you’ve got your ticket and your passport and do zip them into your bag because they might fall out or worse because there are thieves around and you wouldn’t even know about it until afterwards and please make sure you take care and don’t walk home too late and you look so beautiful in that top and yes your jeans are perfect but will that light sweater be enough as planes can get quite chilly I have found although I’ve only been on short distances but those air vent things are quite fierce and you don’t want to catch a cold and yes I will be fine but this is the hardest thing I have ever had to do but once we get to the airport it will all just happen and I know you will be fine because you are amazing and strong and I love you and please email me and message me and it is awful not knowing when I will see you again because I don’t know how I will be able to afford to visit you so far away and I love you and how I have dreaded this moment but now we have to go and my heart is broken and I love you.

Thirsty Sarah, by Doug Bartlett

14/5/2021

Sarah woke up to another day with an insatiable thirst. She wondered if she would ever be able to quench it. She checked her water jug only to discover it was bone dry. She knew she would have to wait until afternoon to fill it up at the community well.

Sometimes she couldn’t believe all that had happened to her. She got married at an early age and that marriage did not work out and it ended in divorce. She remarried four more times and the same thing happened to her. Divorce was an extremely shameful thing at that time and in that society. She thought she would try something different this time and was merely living with this man. It was like something was missing from her life and she was desperately trying to find it.

During this time she had become an outcast in her own village, especially with the women. They would give her dirty looks, call her names and ridicule her. She had learned to avoid them at all costs. She needed to go to the community well to draw some water but knew the women of the village would be there throughout the morning when the temperature was much cooler. She would do chores around the house until mid-afternoon. It would be much hotter at the well then but she would much rather face the burning sensation of the scorching, midday sun than experience the sharp barbs of those women’s comments. After lunch she grabbed her clay pot and headed for the well.

As she approached the well she noticed one lone man there. She didn’t recognize him but he was sitting there as if he was waiting for her. She had no idea her life was about to be changed forever with this encounter she was about to have with this man. When he began talking to her his accent gave him away. He was Jewish….. and she was Samaritan. This was very unusual as Jews had a great disdain for Samaritans.

It was quite a deep and lengthy conversation and Sarah could tell the longer they talked the more special this man was. It finally came to an end and she started to walk back to her village. She began to feel the guilt and shame evaporate from her life as she was mystically directed to her mother’s house and not her own. Along the way she began sharing with others this encounter she had experienced earlier. Upon arrival she went to bed and fell fast asleep. She woke up the next morning with an unusual feeling. A huge smile had spread across her face when she realized what it was. She was no longer thirsty.

Family Screaming Match, by John M. Carlson

14/5/2021

The family Zoom meeting went from a birthday celebration to a family fight about COVID-19 policies two and a half minutes after the meeting began. Which Stella thought probably set a new record for her family. Usually, it took at least five minutes for the battle to start.

It was hard for Stella to follow the fight, since 3, 4 people might be talking almost at once. Not that she really wanted to follow it. All she wanted was a peaceful meeting for the first time since spring of 2020. Still, she heard plenty of bits and pieces.

“It’s now been fourteen months of ‘two weeks to flatten the curve!’”

“If you’d social distanced properly, it might be different!”

“I’d like to move to a state where they are fully reopening!”

“...get your vaccine!”

“Never!”

“...glad I live in a state where they take COVID seriously!”

And on and on and on and on and on and on.

At some point, Gary, the “birthday boy” (as everyone had joked earlier), turned beet red and then logged off. Stella had no idea what he wanted for his birthday, but she doubted it was being yelled at for his opinion of face masks.

Finally, Amy, the host, muted them all. “I think this has gone long enough. I’m ending this meeting.” Then: “You all know, even if you don’t admit it, that I’m right!”

And with that, the screen went dark. “Thank God it’s over,” Stella muttered. What had happened to her family? They had once been so close and gotten along so well. Sure, they had differences, but it was nothing—nothing!—like this, until 2020 when COVID hit. Even the Trump presidency was less divisive!

She poured a glass of sparkling wine. The wine was to celebrate Gary’s birthday. Now she welcomed it as a reward for surviving the family screaming match.

Her cell phone dinged. It was a message from Paul, her cousin: “YOU SAID NOTHING. THAT’S THE SAME AS HELPING THE OTHER SIDE!!!!”

She thought of her warring family. And she began crying.

Sugar, by Angela Carlton

14/5/2021

Sam wanted Anna to run off with him. She was staring at her pecan pancakes watching the butter slide around on the plate. “Come live with me,” he said. He gave her his naughty look, the one that made the heat rise right on up to her flesh. Her breakfast was getting cold. She kept adding packs of sugar to her coffee watching the white junk float around the dark liquid. Usually, she used sweet-n-low, because sugar tended to make her shake but not today.

“I don’t know,” she looked toward her window of sunshine for a distraction. But she did know. She wanted to tell him she's a coward, afraid to take that leap or trust again. For her sister was lying in a coma after the lake water swallowed her whole, and how her mother just curled up in a ball in bed due to the loss and wouldn’t leave the house.

Sam smiled, and moved his index finger up and down her arm before he said, “Go easy on the sugar, Sugar.” When the waitress refilled the coffee, Anna knew she had one cup full of time. She would play with her food hoping he would order another doughnut or have a flat tire. But soon he would drive away, to find more work in the next city using those magic hands to remodel homes for others. He was always slipping away, drifting, never in one place. Sam would see her for a few nights then vanish. He would disappear for days and days, sometimes weeks or months.

Still, she waited. She spent most of her life waiting-waiting-waiting for her mother to return, her sister to wake up or this, her rugged man to emerge.

Anna, like her life, was on permanent pause or rewind, that static, all the noise, with no play button.

Divine Treason, by Asaf Day

7/5/2021

Merely one year following his election by the council of elders, Victor found himself at the stake being read his crimes and awaiting the flames to consume his flesh. The verdict, which was delivered unanimously by the elders just a couple of hours ago, found Viktor guilty of violating the most sacred divine commands. Instead of raiding the neighboring tribes to obtain human sacrifice, he sent a delegation to negotiate a peace agreement in exchange for fur to assist in warming Viktor’s tribesmen in the cold winter. In addition, he disassembled half of the structure of the local wooden shrine to reinforce the local villagers’ crumbling yurts. Nevertheless, in his most outrageous act, Viktor distributed 80 percent of the season’s wild game and crops to the tribesmen instead of allocating it to the elders, a clear violation of the thousand-years old command of the gods. Despite the villagers’ plea of mercy for their beloved leader, the elders’ devotion and fear of the gods compelled them to seek justice and set the despicable sinner on fire. That same night, nonetheless, after Viktor’s execution, 7 out of the 12 members of the Council of Elders died in their sleep, with the circumstances surrounding their deaths remaining a mystery for the years to come.

George, by Janice Siderius

7/5/2021

George stands at the kitchen window, looking out at the pink plastic chair at the end of the dock. That was Martha’s favorite place to sit. She could watch the ripples in the water of the lake and the loons dipping down to drink the clear water.

How ironic that when they had finally retired and moved to their dream cabin by the lake, Martha only had two years to enjoy it. Every afternoon, when the weather allowed, she walked to the end of the dock with her glass of wine. George would watch from the kitchen window, making sure that nothing interfered with Martha’s alone time.

The last six months had been tough. Initially the doctors had diagnosed the cancer incorrectly and Martha didn’t get the care she needed. By the time a specialist had found the real problem, it was too late to save his wife. It was hard for him to comprehend that after fifty years of marriage, he was alone.

His daughter, Elise, had arranged for the sale of the cabin. She insisted that he come to live with her and her family. She said he needed “looking after.” Tomorrow the movers will arrive, and he will have to say goodbye to the lake, the loons and his independent life.

George picks up his drink and walks out onto the dock. The pink chair has a layer of dust on it now, but he sits on it anyway. He looks back at the cabin and begins to cry.

John: Dead or Divorced? by Susan Fairfax Reid

7/5/2021

Sue dialed her childhood friend's number from her apartment in Baltimore. "Hi, this is Gail," a Southern accent said on the recording from Georgia. "Please leave a message." Sue did.
John's name was no longer on the message.
"What happened? Is he dead or divorced?" Sue wondered.
"He's dead." Sue said, "I just know it. I haven't received emails from him for months. This is similar to what happened before Brian died." He stopped answering calls for about three months, never letting Sue know he was sick. Sue met both of these friends in her teens.
With tears streaming down her cheeks, Sue's blurry eyes and shaking fingers googled John's brother's address in a Pennsylvania phone directory. There was no match for his name and age in Shrewsbury, so Sue hunted for the name of the restaurant where John's sister-in-law worked. She would know something about "Johnny", a name she had called him since she started dating his brother decades ago. The restaurant was closed due to Covid 19.
Nervously chewing on a pen, Sue googled John's childhood friend in North Carolina. She found several people with his name, but the ages were wrong.
Thoughts raced through Sue's mind. John could be divorced,
So, Sue googled the house John built for his wife when he retired, "Gail's Mansion," he called it. The owners' names weren't listed, so Sue couldn't find out if John had divorced that way.
Still shaken by the possibility that John could be dead, Sue called Gail again, never mentioning the possibility of John's death. She knew Sue as one of John's friends from "the old neighborhood." If they divorced, Gail may be taking out her anger with John by ignoring his friends' calls.
Then, a memory of John's group email address popped into Sue's mind as clearly as if it were written on her phone screen. She grabbed the phonebook from the bookshelf and quickly flipped through the pages. Not knowing who might read this group email, Sue wrote, "John, this is Slick," John's
high school nickname for her. "Please send me your phone number."
Within an hour, a succinct message appeared on Sue's phone: John' first and last names and a phone number. She called the number as fast as her fingers could press the numbers on her phone keyboard.
When John said "Hello" in his Baltimore accent, Sue said, "I'm so glad to hear your voice. How are you?"
"Okay," he said. Then he explained the new phone situation. "Gail and I have separate phone numbers. Her phones are in the kitchen and bedroom, in case her children and grandchildren need her help. Mine is in my home office.
John and Sue said goodbye, but not for long. John's emails started coming into her phone the next day.

Word Got Out, by Don Tassone

7/5/2021

Jim didn’t like being equipment manager for his high school baseball team. Guys called him “geek.” Girls ignored him. But Jim wasn’t quite good enough to make the team, and he loved baseball. He signed on as equipment manager just to be near the action.

Late one afternoon, after a pre-season practice, Jim heard someone yell “Stop!” It was a girl’s voice, coming from the bleachers.

Jim was putting equipment away. Everyone else had gone. He looked over and saw two girls and two guys standing at the base of the bleachers.

“I said stop!”

Jim saw one of the girls slap one of the guys. Both guys laughed.

“Help!” she yelled.

Jim ran toward them. By the time he got there, one of the guys had grabbed one of the girls by her arm.

“Get away from me!” she said.

“What’s going on here?” Jim said.

“None of your business, geek,” said one of the guys.

“We were just having some fun,” said the other, as the girl wriggled free from him.

“Bullshit!” she said.

“I think you better leave,” said Jim.

“Says who?” said one of the guys.

Jim stepped over to the guy and slugged him in the jaw. He dropped straight to the ground. The other guy came at Jim, but just as he was about to take a swing, the girls started screaming so loudly that he covered his ears and ran away.

Then the girls yelled “Thank you!” as they too ran off.

“Thank you!” Jim called after them.

Jim went back to the trailer, where he’d been putting equipment away. He figured if the guy he decked came after him, he’d grab a bat. But he slunk off.

Word got out about the incident around school. Kids stopped calling Jim geek. When several players got injured that spring, the coach invited Jim to join the team. Right after that, a girl asked him to prom. And the brave girls who drove away the guy who was about to hit Jim formed an after-school self-defense class.

The Wounded, by Angela Carlton

7/5/2021

A few of us are wounded. Some, more than others, as we try to find our way back to the day, that moment, before things shifted for us and the joy was lost. Still, we search, we search for vices, sharp ways to come out of it.

Some days the white powder and the liquor were all he had. Max sat in his bedroom with the polaroid photo of Lilly in his hands, the one he took of her with her arms stretched out under the baby-blue sky, grinning. She was grinning. It’s the last image he had of her before the accident at the lake.It’s the picture that represented those fragile moments, the one where she’s full of life, but Lilly's not full of life anymore. Is she? There was a part of him that died too when she slipped beneath the murky water.

The memory of the rope swing burned in his mind. Since Lilly had a great enthusiasm for life, she took chances. God, how she loved to take chances. The damn beer in her belly had weakened her judgement so she let go. She jumped.

He waited and waited and waited. He waited-waited for her to emerge from the water. At first, he thought she was playing with his head, pulling a trick. Oh, how he wished it was a devilish trick. Heart pounding, he was mumbling now, “Rise-Rise-Rise.”

But she didn’t. The lake remained still. On that 4th day of July, when the nation celebrated freedom, the river took them. It took both of them.

And that was the day he surrendered. He surrendered to the booze and the pills. He surrendered to all the junk.

And Max lingered there.

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