Blog Archives

Who'll Stop the Rain? by Jim Bartlett

27/5/2022

Editor's Choice

Dr. Samuels watches as Jacob slips into the office, gently closing the door behind. He takes his usual red chair, just opposite the window, and, with a heavy sigh, pretty much drops into it rather than sitting.

He notes Jacob’s slouch, the heavy load weighing down his shoulders. Not that most of their visits he’s happy-go-lucky by any means, but today gravity has caught him in its grips, and even the dark circles under his eyes seem stretched, as if reaching for the floor.

“How are you doing, Jacob?”

He shrugs. “Bad day. Bad week. Bad year.”

“You taking your meds?”

Jacob gives his head a shake. “Come on, Doc, we’ve talked about that. They make me feel loopy.”

“But in the long run, they’ll help you get better.”

“If you say so.”

It’s then Samuels notices a tightly folded paper that Jacob is flipping in his hands. Over and over it goes, his fingers and thumbs working it as if it was one of those fidget things. Jacob’s eyes, wide, yet dull, stay on the paper, never missing a turn.

“Still having the nightmares?”

Jacob lets his head rise, albeit slowly. He nods. “They seem to happen every day.”

Dr. Samuels makes a quick note, gives it a thought, then erases it and jots down something else. Most of his contemporaries use iPads or tablets, but for him, nothing beats a Number 2 pencil and a yellow legal pad.

He points at Jacob’s paper. “What is it you have there?”

The flipping stops, and the room seems to take on an eerie silence. A light tint of red creeps its way up Jacob’s face.

“It’s a list. One I started putting together some time ago.”

He looks away, takes a breath – a long one – then looks back. His eyes are moist and Samuels wonders if some horrid memory of Iraq has captured his patient, pulling him back into one of his deep, dark holes.

“Can I see it?”

Jacob again looks away, but only for a moment, then finally nods. Rising, he sets the paper - now more wadded than folded – on the doctor’s desk.

Samuels opens it and leans back. In scribbly handwriting it reads:

“Oh, my...” says Samuels.

“I don’t understand, Doc. The government pretended there were weapons of mass destruction in Iraq and we raced off to war, leaving guys like me to come home all messed up. Yet here, when crazy, angry people buy real WMDs and shoot up a school, no one does a damn thing...”

Spinning, by Angela Carlton

27/5/2022

When you open your eyes, you remember where you are, on the floor in your living room. Lately, you’d been confused. The medication wasn’t working so your mind roamed and roamed to find your way back, back to a place where the sun was so bright, and your hair was long with a shiny wave. There was a guy in the mix, too. He laid white roses at your feet when you were crowned Queen of the dairy farm.

Now, you're a prisoner inside your own home, but your daughter appears, daily. She tends to things and a nurse comes. The daughter plays all the albums beneath the turntable. Blues and Jazz, fill the air. It makes you want to move-move. Round and round you go in circles like you did as a child on the playground.

Once, you were the child.

Now, you are the lady, spinning-spinning like that tiny ballerina in the jewelry box, the one with the sweet chimes, music that sets you free.

One Night in Barbados, by David Dumouriez

27/5/2022

We went to Barbados to watch the Test match. Three of us: me, Dan, and Erasmus. We were expecting the usual outcome - the West Indies to give England a hiding - and, after some dogged resistance was finally blitzed, we duly got it.

But you go there for a holiday as well, right? And there were plenty of excursions to go with the cricket. We covered some ground, saw some sights. But one thing we hadn’t really done was to visit a slightly more upmarket restaurant for dinner. We asked around, did our research, and found one that seemed to be what were looking for. Maybe it was going to be a tad pricey, but the trip was nearly over and who knew if we would ever come back.

Stingy Erasmus bailed on us - no surprise there! - so it was just me and Dan. The place was out of town, so it necessitated a bit of bus travel and yomping. Nevertheless, the location was worth it.

As hopeless young singletons, it was painfully clear to us that this was the perfect destination to bring your love interest. If the romance hadn’t begun already, it surely would have done by the time dessert had arrived. The absence of this vital element aside, I’m pleased to report that we had a thoroughly enjoyable night, with the food fully deserving of the praise it had received.

And had it not been for the appearance of a visitor to our table, we might have been forgiven for thinking the evening’s entertainment to be over as we finished our drinks by candlelight beneath the vast tropical darkness. For there, perched right in between the salt and pepper pots, sat a beautiful miniature frog. He was the same size as the pots and you could almost have believed that they’d been designed as part of a set. We two boys from the Thames Estuary were truly mesmerised and he became the sole object of our conversation. In fact, we must have delayed our exit by a good ten minutes as we sat there admiring him.

Finally, we noticed that we were now the only customers left. Reluctantly, we asked for the bill.

The waiter brought it and, at the same time, cleared the table. He didn’t see the frog.

With his left hand, he gathered the salt and pepper pots in one swift movement. The clack of one pot hitting the other is a horror that remains with me to this day. I looked at Dan. He looked at me. Two thespians of world renown would struggle to replicate the shock that must have been evident on our faces. I swear neither of us closed our mouths or said a word for a full five minutes. Meanwhile, the waiter remained blissfully oblivious to the act of slaughter that he’d just perpetrated.

I never looked at a condiment set in quite the same way after that.

Editor's Choice, by Doug Bartlett

27/5/2022

“Hey Dad, I’m really bummed out.”

“Why is that?”

“That new site I’ve been writing to has an Editor’s Choice Award, but my story is never selected. I don’t think the editor likes me.”

“Son, this conversation sounds similar to the one we have had about you and school. Teachers didn’t give you a grade based on how well they liked you. In fact, they didn’t give you a grade at all. You earned your grade based on the effort you put into your work.”

“Yeah, you’re right Dad…. I know what I’ll do. I’ll write a story and title it “Editor’s Choice.”

“Son, that sounds like a cheap and tawdry thing to do.”

“It sounds like a creative thing to me.”

“You may pick up a few points for creativity but you’ll lose much more than that with your credibility.”

“Yeah, you’re right Dad, I don’t know what I was thinking.”

Soothe Your Soul, by Don Tassone

27/5/2022

Rick’s mother had been blind for 20 years, but that hadn’t kept his parents from riding their tandem bike. Now, though, his father was gone.

“Is there anything else I can do for you, Mom?” Rick said as he got ready to leave after the funeral.

“You can go on a bike ride with me sometime.”

“Okay,” he said. “I’ll be back in two weeks.”

Two weeks later, Rick returned.

“Are you ready for that bike ride, Mom?”

“Absolutely,” she said with a smile.

His father had mounted a bike rack on the roof of his car. Rick struggled to get the big bike up there. He wondered how his father had done it.

Riding along a trail with his mother behind him, Rick remembered his father taking him for bike rides and hikes through these woods when he was a kid. Rick had loved the woods. But he hadn’t spent time in nature in many years. He was always working.

He remembered his father talking reverently about nature.

“It soothes your soul,” he used to say.

But as soon as Rick moved away, he got busy. On the weekends, when he might have taken his own children on bike rides or hikes, he usually kicked back and watched TV.

He had lost touch with the Earth. Now the sights and smells and sounds of the woods were all around him, and he felt something deep inside himself he’d forgotten even existed.

Rick thought of his father. He could almost hear his voice when his mother said, “Isn’t it beautiful, Richard?”

“Yeah, Mom, it is.”

Buffalo Hunter, by Doug Bartlett

20/5/2022

Many years ago an anonymous young man with thousands of others poured out across the Great Plains of the United States, leaving a trail of havoc and death as they went westward, nearly eliminating the entire population of the buffalo.

With no thought or heart with what he was doing or how it affected the Native Americans, who used every part of the animal for things such as food, shelter, tools and weapons. The Native Americans needed the mighty buffalo in order to survive.

He sat in comfort in his railroad car and everyday he would begin shooting out his window at sunrise and wouldn’t stop shooting until sundown.

Everyday he would lose count of how many were dead because of him.

On May 14th of this year (2022) another Buffalo hunter arose from anonymity. This time Buffalo was not the animal he massacred but the name of the city in which he did his evil deed.

Once again, how sad, how senseless.

“Well, listen everybody to what I have to say . There’s hope for tomorrow, if we wake up today.” — Ted Nugent (Great White Buffalo).

Wild Ivy, by Angela Carlton

20/5/2022

The Poet’s mother, Ivy, was off, her mind was warped. The witch doctor had tried several remedies but nothing stuck. Mostly, she wandered through the town, over yonder, and into the woods while, the poet, Alice, clung to the sheets in a small bedroom for comfort. The village folks, in Vickery Creek, watched her roam and spoke about how the ivy vine is always growing on sidewalks, fences, and up walls. It’s unstoppable, wild.

Over time, the mother fell into the name, “Wild Ivy.”

“Wild Ivy, that poor woman,” they said, “she’s roaming the streets again,” the whispers carried on through the thick, sycamore trees until they reached Ivy’s ears. Sometimes, she cocked her head and tried to remember, think of something, anything. Wild Ivy tried-tried to find a path, this way back home to her daughter, the girl who could spin words, language that could take you anywhere and everywhere, tales that gave you a sense of hope, a bit of promise until the end.

Fifty Seven, by Malvina Perova

20/5/2022

Cold and misty December morning needles Olena’s face with icy drizzle. Two garbage bags in grips, a coat over pajamas, she minces to the waste bins outside as stingy foreboding chases her flip-flops over socks like a hungry cur. It hangs thick in the air: the smell of pending war.

The cat lady salutes her across the lane. “Did you hear about the new law?” she asks. “They want to conscript women! Women, my goodness.” Her cellophane sacks with empty cans tremble as she speaks.

“Me? A soldier?” Olena gasps, “I’m fifty seven for heaven’s sake!”

Grey February dawn shakes her off her sleep with blasts and sirens, shattering her dreams to pieces. The President forgot his tie as he announces Russians invaded Ukraine and, pale but determined, urges everyone to keep calm.

“Bloody hell,” Olena snatches her passport and dials the draft board, “I’m fifty seven. Where can I get a gun?”

Donate to Ukraine

We've set up up a donation system to help front-line defence in Malvina's Ukraine directly. If you would like to contribute, we suggest a very small amount – even as little as 1 US dollar – each time Malvina posts a story. It all adds up. You can gift anonymously if you prefer, and you still get to send a message. Something as simple as "FFF" would be great.

Extended Warranty, by Robert P. Bishop

20/5/2022

Ten years had elapsed since Fred last coated the roof with the white rubberized material that reflected sunlight and helped reduce air conditioning costs in the brutally hot Arizona summers. “It’s going to be a scorcher this year, what with climate change out of control and temps rising,” Fred said that morning to Nadine, his wife. “Time to give the roof a fresh coat. I’m going to the hardware store.”

Fred looked at one brand offering a twelve-year warranty on its product. The clerk pointed to another brand and said, “This product has a lifetime warranty.”
Fred checked the price of the competing brand. The brand with the lifetime warranty was twice as expensive as the twelve-year.
“I’m eighty-six years old,” Fred said to the clerk. “You think I’m going to out-live a twelve-year warranty?”
“Hmm,” the clerk replied. “You have a point.”
Fred bought the twelve-year coating.

The next morning, Fred got on the roof and began applying the thick gooey material with a roller. Nadine stood in the yard, cell phone in one hand and Fred’s do-not-resuscitate directive in the other, keeping vigil, ready to call emergency services if Fred fell off the roof.
Maxine came out of her house, crossed the street and stood next to Nadine. “What’s he doing now?”
“Coating the roof, but not to worry, Maxine, I have things under control if he does.” Nadine flourished her cell phone and the do-not-resuscitate directive.
Maxine stepped back, looked up at Fred and shouted, “You’re an old man. What do you think you are doing up there? If you fall off don’t expect me to send you a get-well card.” Maxine crossed the street and went into her house.

Fred finished coating the roof, climbed down the ladder and sat in a rocking chair on the shaded patio. Nadine brought a pitcher of iced tea, poured two glasses and handed one to Fred.
Fred took a drink. “Mm, good.”
They sat quietly for a few moments, enjoying the refreshingly cool liquid and the quiet of a summer afternoon. Finally, Nadine spoke. “You know Maxine is never going to forgive you for not falling off the roof. You deprived her of the opportunity to jeer and say, See, I told you!”
Fred smiled. “Maybe I’ll fall off the roof the next time I’m up there, but she’s got a long wait. I just got a twelve-year warranty on life today.” Fred took another drink and sighed contentedly.

Pandemic’s Hidden Toll, by Sankar Chatterjee

20/5/2022

Rick Scott was born in Boston to well-educated parents; his mother earned her PhD in English Literature, while his father’s PhD was in Physics. Growing up, Rick was a smart brilliant student. He also developed an eclectic taste for international cuisines; thus making trips to various ethnic restaurants. In middle school, while helping his mother in the kitchen, he began to prepare various dishes, following recipes from cookbooks. At age 14, Rick announced to his parents of his life goal of becoming a world famous chef. Unbeknownst to them, he had already approached Mr. Paul Beck, city’s top chef, to be his understudy. For next four years, every Saturday he would show up in Mr. Beck’s kitchen, learning how to prepare exquisite dishes. His weekly online blog “Foodie at 14” started to get thousands of “hits” and he was profiled in various national newspapers and magazines.

However after high school graduation and sensing his parents’ inherent disappointment about his career choice, Rick changed his mind and decided to enroll in a prestigious business school instead of a culinary institute. Upon graduation, he received several lucrative job offers from various financial farms in New York’s Wall Street. Over next few years, he steadily climbed up the corporate ladder. Due to the very nature of his job, many nights he would take his prospective clients to various fancy expensive restaurants. While there, he would take short breaks to visit the kitchens and meet the famous chefs preparing their dishes. Soon, he began to miss his teen-age days of a chef’s intern.

This was also the time when a lethal virus brought on an international pandemic, requiring employees to work from home, while limiting outdoor activities. Such social isolation would bring on mental health issues worldwide. Rick himself became the victim. His high-paying financial job demanded his 24/7 presence on the job via modern technologies of computers and smartphones, creating a lone stressful existence. This in turn forced him to criticize himself for not following through his original passion of becoming a chef. Soon this dual crisis began to drown him in a state of mental upheaval. However, Rick kept it secret not only from his parents, but also from his girlfriend. Instead, he began to use and soon got addicted to potent street drugs, thus entering into a perpetual cycle of depression and addiction.

On a Sunday afternoon, Rick would decide to take a subway to visit his girlfriend living in another part of the city. Once inside the station, he suddenly entered into a “mental dark tunnel of hopelessness” from which he couldn’t pull himself out. At the sound of an incoming train, he took out his smartphone, sent a text message “I love you” to his girlfriend and jumped in front of the fast approaching train.

Next day, Rick’s hometown newspaper carried his obituary, written by his grieved mother, under the title “Death by Suicide”. He was only 29 years old.

[Author’s Note: If you are having thoughts of suicide (or know of someone having similar thought), please dial the following country-specific help lines:

In USA, National Suicide Prevention Lifeline: 1-800-273-8255
In Canada, Suicide Prevention Helpline: 1-833-456-4566
In UK, National Suicide Prevention Lifeline: 0800 689 5652
In Australia, Lifeline: 13 11 14]

The River's Treasure, Deborah Shrimplin

20/5/2022

As Luke steered the wooden raft down the river, he could see the Countess standing beneath the west tower of Willowmede Castle waiting for him to pass by. He prayed the raft, laden with clay pots, baskets and sacks full of supplies for the Count's army, could withstand the treacherous journey ahead. Clutching his cloak against the rain and wind, he looked at the distant clouds and thought the oncoming storm was not a good omen.

Luke's journey was uneventful until, after his midafternoon respite, a torrential rain erupted. The blinding rain and wind battered Luke's face and tunic. His legs ached from maintaining his balance as the raft tossed and buffeted. The precious army supplies jostled. The river current grew stronger creating whirlpools and dangerous rapids.

A sudden, strong surge of water attacked the wooden raft tossing Luke and the supplies overboard. After letting out a scream, Luke's head smashed onto a rock. He lost consciousness and his limp body rode the current further downstream. The supplies scattered, sank and released their contents into the moving water.

Four hundred years later, Maggie, a climatologist, drove her jeep down the dirt road alongside a shallow river. She shook her head for two reasons. The shoreline told the river's geological history. At one time, the river was five feet higher. The second reason was the pain behind her eyes. It was coming more often.

Maggie parked the jeep at a designated observation point where every ten years a scientist documented the changes in this remote section of the river due to global warming. She grabbed her laptop and set off on foot.

After fifteen minutes, she came across something that made her heart beat a little faster. She checked the previous report. There were no remarks pertaining to what she saw. The river had been high enough to cover it.

Maggie cursed the pain behind her eyes, ignored it and stepped into the water's edge. She took several pictures and sent them on to the university. She knew she shouldn't touch anything. But, the sparkle and color barely perceptible through a thin layer of mud was too curious for her to resist.

Maggie splashed water over the objects and, with a gentle touch, wiped the thin layer of mud off the objects. When she saw the large collection of amethyst, rose quartz and agate and sensed their energy, she thought, "It's a cache of healing crystals!" Then, feeling guilty for having touched them, she stood up. Her head spun and she almost lost her balance. When she recovered, she documented her find and continued on her walk.

A week later, while reviewing her assignment, one of her co-workers asked, "How is the pain behind your eyes? Are you going to a doctor soon?"

"I'm not going to bother with a doctor. I haven't had the pain in a week."

"Hmmm....And, you touched the healing crystals last week?"

"Yes. You don't think?"

The Saddest Man I Ever Met, by David Dumouriez

20/5/2022

We had some problems with the TV aerial. It was complicated by the higgledy-piggledy nature of the apartment blocks. Ours was so old and rickety that each flat still had Constantinople over the door frame. The neighbouring building was taller and more modern. It was suggested that we pay a visit next door to discuss some kind of cable sharing arrangement. This was duly achieved. In fact, the elderly couple were extremely friendly, and I was surprised to find that the man spoke English of a more than passable standard. It turned out that he was a retired doctor and my impression was that this adjustment in his circumstances had sent him into a state of utter boredom. After decades of being consulted and respected, he was just another old man in a rooftop apartment, counting down the days of sunshine that still remained. He was pleased to welcome a stranger into his home, and was keen to keep the conversation going beyond the banalities of cables and satellite dishes. ‘Come and visit me anytime,’ he said to me as we left. And I could tell that this was more than just a pleasantry. More, in fact, like disguised desperation. Usually I take up these kinds of offers, when I can see it might be beneficial to another person or, from a more selfish angle, when he or she might promise to be particularly interesting. I can’t deny that he probably qualified in both categories, but for some reason I never went back. I do regret that. But, if it means anything at all, I’ve never been able to forget him.

The Witch's Elixir, by Angela Carlton

13/5/2022

You had to take the first sip, didn’t you?

It slid down your throat until a quick jolt moved through your bones. When you woke up later on the floor, she peered over you, this woman with a fat nose and squinty eyes. She looked familiar, one of those nosey coworkers. What the hell was her name? Your throat was sore and your head pounded.

“Where am I? Where is my wife?” your voice sounded, puny, hoarse.

“You mean that sweet, little thing with the doll eyes? Well, she fell for one of my tricks! She drank from the wrong cup, my love, tsk-tsk, such a pity, really, the doll was gullible but nothing you can do now!” Her laughter was nauseating, sharp.

You gritted your teeth and wished you could punch her but you couldn’t move your arms.

“And, you thought I was just another “boring girl” at work behind the computer in my cubicle but ahh, I studied black magic at night. That golden elixir you drank at the bar made you see what I wanted you to see.”

Your lips were so damn dry now. You were thirsty and her voice kept droning on-on-on.

“Remember dear, my magic worked at happy hour. Wasn’t my glossy, blonde hair and cleavage stunning? Oh yes, you fell for it so fast, and now you're here at my feet.”

“Where is my damn wife? Where?” you were spitting now, groaning.

“Oh, that, well,” she sighed. “It’s such a shame the doll made a stupid choice. She’s gone. But everyone knows there are no real happy endings,” her laughter filled the tiny room, rising higher-higher-higher.

“Maybe it’s a terrible, black dream?” It’s just a pathetic dream,” you mumbled.

You forced your eyes shut again and slipped away into a sweaty, blurry sleep but the witch, she was still there, laughing.

Out of Luck, by Robert P. Bishop

13/5/2022

The man sat on the sidewalk with his back against the shop’s brick wall, his head down, eyes closed, knees tucked under his chin, arms wrapped around his legs. A faded and worn backpack, likely containing everything he owned, lay next to him. The man didn’t look up as I neared. Perhaps he was asleep or praying to a god only he knew. The hand-lettered cardboard sign at his feet asked for money and ended with God Bless.

A black dog lying next to the man lifted its head and looked at me. I saw reproach in those eyes and a feeling of dread swept over me. I knew if that dog somehow gained the power of speech it would say, “You can ease the suffering of one of your tribe. You can be a better human being. It is not a difficult thing to do.”

But the dog didn’t speak. It dismissed me and rested its head on outstretched legs, closed its eyes and became still. The dog knew I was not going to help another of my kind down on his luck. As I walked away from the sleeping man I wondered which of us was the one whose luck had run out.

13 Men, by Doug Bartlett

13/5/2022

The sun was beginning to set and it would soon be Friday. The bedraggled men slowly made their way up the dilapidated stairs. They entered the room one by one and properly placed themselves at the dining room table, totalling thirteen in all. They all looked forward to this special meal, not just for its ceremonial significance but also that it would include meat, which was a luxury they could rarely afford.This would be their last meal they would enjoy together for quite some time.

Little did they know they were establishing the origination of a custom that would last for millenia.

Friday was nearly upon them, the number thirteen was hanging over them and death’s shadow was appearing upon the horizon. It was truly an eerie combination.

In a short period of time the leader of this motley crew would be dead.

He would experience an excruciating death that was beyond imagination.

Was the leader unlucky as we have come to associate Friday the thirteenth to be?

Or was He in complete control, voluntarily giving up His life for our benefit and later would return back to life?

Each one of us will make our own decision of which one it is.

It is a decision of tremendous magnitude.

Decide well my friend.

Intelligent Design, by Jim Bartlett

6/5/2022

Malcolm tugs off his boots, stretches his arms across the back of the couch, and plants his socked – and sore – feet on the coffee table.

“I’m not sure how much longer I can take these twelve-hour shifts.” His words come out in a long sigh.

“Aren’t they going to hire more people?”

He gazes over at his wife, Ellen, just as she kicks her high heels in the general direction of their bedroom and plops onto the barstool. With her elbows propped on the counter and her hair still dripping wet from the rain, she looks as if she melted onto the chair rather than sat there.

“Fat chance. Rumor has it they’re planning to add robotics and AI. At this rate I’ll be sitting at some desk selling insurance next year instead of stacking boxes at the warehouse.” Straightening, he reaches down to the coffee table and flips open his laptop. “Or I’ll become a YouTuber.”

Ellen smiles, then spins around and picks up her phone. “I seem to remember reading something about AI and robotics.”

As she thumbs through her screen, Malcolm has a peek at the day’s depressing news. There are updates on the war. Articles on how the price of gas, along with everything else, continues to climb. But when his display fills with the image of Marjorie Taylor Greene, her picture much clearer than her memory, he shakes his head and shifts to things happening locally.

But it’s not any better. Another shooting, this one at a shopping mall. A man was crushed under a car trying to steal a catalytic converter. Parents in an outlying suburb have pulled their kids from school in protest of critical race theory.

“Enough,” he says, a little too loud.

Ellen looks up from her phone. “Enough?”

“Sorry. I just think we’re slowly going insane.”

“Slowly?” she asks with a sly smile.

Appalled by the news, he clicks on Facebook. But only a moment passes before he’s waving a dismissing hand at the screen. To the Keystone Kops theme music, a video plays showing “workers” setting one long ladder atop another, the bottom one balanced on a bucket, in the pretense of painting the upper part of a staircase. He knows exactly where this is headed. “I hate these reels and short videos. They’re worse than TikTok and Mark won’t let you permanently hide the damn things.”

“Mark? Oh, the Facebook guy.” She sits up in her chair. “I found it. There are some new advances on teaching AI how to reason. For us it’s intuitive, but in the world of bits and bytes, it’s much harder to master. They say if it takes, it won’t be long before robots and their AI minds will be more intelligent than us.”

Malcolm lets his stare fall to the laptop. A video is playing in which a woman is trying to dress a raccoon in a fairy costume. Wings and all.

“Hate to say this, but I think they already are.”

Sprite, by David Berger

6/5/2022

I can’t stand these freakin’ Sprites! I put up with ’em in the pantry and places like that, although I can do with without them in the bathroom. (They’re females after all, and a guy needs his privacy.) But this was too much. I come in from outside, make myself a cup of hot chocolate, check my messages, and there she is. And that hat! Where did she get that stupid hat?

“Out!” I said, “Before I get the swatter!”

“If you do, I’ll pee in your cocoa,” she said.

“It’s not cocoa. It’s hot chocolate.”

“Then I’ll pee in your hot chocolate.”

"Whatever.”

“What d’you mean, ‘Whatever’?” she said.

I reached down and picked up a marshmallow.

“Where’d you get that hat?” I asked.

“I knitted it myself. I make all my stuff.”

“Where’s the rest of your clothes?”

“Behind the cup. Turn around and I’ll get dressed.”

“First you bathe in my hot chocolate. Then you threaten to pee in it. Now you’re telling me what to do in my own kitchen!”

“Just turn around. I’m gonna get dressed and become human-sized.”

“You can do that?” I asked.

“Sure,” she said. “Turn around!”

I dutifully turned around and loudly whistled “Daisy, Daisy.”

“You can turn around,” she said.

She stood there, human sized, about five feet tall, wearing a onesie.”

“You look nice,” I said. “You wanna drink that hot chocolate?”

“Sure, she said. “Wait a minute, though. I gotta go pee.”

Hush and Shh, by Angela Carlton

6/5/2022

I didn’t know I could escape.

I didn’t know lipstick and heels could save me from your destruction. My first memory was you, being UP all day and night, for four days straight as a kid. There my mama was, sputtering, mumbling to a cheap floor lamp as if it were God above.

In the beginning, I sat in my pajamas with a plastic baby doll. Her eyes were a shiny copper color. It brought me warmth, as I whispered, “Hush and Shh, we don’t bother Mama,” until I passed out on the floor with no blankets.

Later, I watched them tie you to a gurney as I stood with my Grandmother hand in hand. I slept with my doll for eight more years until I found blue jean mini skirts, rock music, and boys.

By then you had been in and out of the hospital six times. Still, I was used to it, the way a gambler or a druggie can never seem to find their way. I found my power with make-up those glossy, sleek gowns. I walked stages under bright lights as the others judged me on articulation and poise.

And, then, wa-la, like that, there you were, with Grandmother looking all doe-eyed and feeble in the audience as I took a bow and made the final three.

One tear fell, then there were a few, rolling, slipping, quietly from your empty eyes.

Mrs Job, by Myram Huey

6/5/2022

My dear husband, It grieves me to hear you lament so. That you should do so among those who call themselves your 'friends' is not more than I can bear, but it IS pretty galling. It's not that I begrudge their being privy to your innermost thoughts, nor that you allow these friends ample time to respond to your woes; it's that you do so and remain unmoved by the sheer guff that issues from their mouths! The man I married would have winced on hearing such cant! The man I married would not have taken counsel from a mere stripling who has, by his own account, been there, worn the tunic. There's many a thing the man I married would not have tolerated. But there you sit tolerating it! While all around you matters worsen. Your loved ones suffer; your house is broken. And these friends of yours gather round, solemn as owls, their voices stinking of print, their silences hopeless, as they sit there not listening to you but hearing you out! Husband, your lament is mine.

Last Call, by Robert P. Bishop

6/5/2022

It’s hot outside, 119 degrees and it is only mid-morning. The sun, blindingly white, uncaring and hanging in a pale blue sky, scorches a helpless earth drying and dying under its relentless blaze.

It’s too hot to sweat. It’s too hot to move, to breathe. I call the suicide hotline.
Can you hold?
No, I can’t hold.
I’m sorry sir. We have a backlog of callers.
Please don’t put me on hold.
Remain on the line, sir. The next available counselor will take your call.

After an hour I hang up, open a beer and press the cold bottle against my temple. I drink the beer then call the suicide hotline again. The line is busy. I hang up and look out the window. The streets are empty. There are no cars, no people, no dogs running loose over the hot pavements. Birds sitting on electric wires collapse and fall to the asphalt below, briefly flutter their wings then die in the ferocious heat.

I call again. The line is still busy. Everybody is inside calling the suicide hotline. I open another beer and press the cold bottle to my forehead. Tomorrow I will be the only one left alive.

How bad can that be?

Who'll Stop the Rain? by Jim Bartlett

Spinning, by Angela Carlton

One Night in Barbados, by David Dumouriez

Editor's Choice, by Doug Bartlett

Soothe Your Soul, by Don Tassone

Buffalo Hunter, by Doug Bartlett

Wild Ivy, by Angela Carlton

Fifty Seven, by Malvina Perova

Extended Warranty, by Robert P. Bishop

Pandemic’s Hidden Toll, by Sankar Chatterjee

The River's Treasure, Deborah Shrimplin

The Saddest Man I Ever Met, by David Dumouriez

The Witch's Elixir, by Angela Carlton

Out of Luck, by Robert P. Bishop

13 Men, by Doug Bartlett

Intelligent Design, by Jim Bartlett

Sprite, by David Berger

Hush and Shh, by Angela Carlton

Mrs Job, by Myram Huey

Last Call, by Robert P. Bishop

Longer
Stories

Longer Friday Flash Fiction Stories

Archives

LongerStories

Longer Friday Flash Fiction Stories

Archives

Longer
Stories