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Circus Lights, by J. Iner Souster

26/5/2023

Laughter echoed menacingly behind Alex as the hideous clowns from his worst nightmares closed in. The twisted features were all he could see as blackened, decayed teeth haunted his every waking moment. Alex's eyes were fixated on its empty sockets as if they were portals to a dark abyss. The gaping maw cackled maniacally, its twisted lips contorting into a mockery of a smile, taunting him with its sinister glee.

Terror paralyzed Alex as he felt the cold, lifeless hand of the clown brush against his skin. Its putrid, inhuman visage grinned menacingly. The circus lights flickered and died, leaving him alone in the darkness with the creatures that escaped from his nightmares.

The world turned into a desolate wasteland, replacing the laughter and joy of the performers with eerie silence and darkness. The once vibrant colours of the big top faded away, leaving a bleak and lifeless landscape. The fond memories of the circus were erased from Alex's mind, leaving an all-consuming void of emptiness and despair.

The cackling intensified, echoing through the darkness and relentlessly pounding against his suffocating mask. Alex stared at his clown shoes, twisting and contorting in the mirror as he slammed the door shut.

Moment of Truth, by Don Tassone

26/5/2023

“Hang on,” she said. “What’s DEI?”

He smiled.

“I guess you’re not old enough to remember,” he said. “It stood for diversity, equity and inclusion.”

“I’ve heard of those things, but not DEI.”

“That’s because, years ago, regulators began to set standards for what DEI means.”

“So ...”

“All of a sudden, organizations that made claims about diversity, equity and inclusion had to show their results in these areas.”

“And they couldn’t?”

“Not many. Organizations had all kinds of programs that sounded good. But for the most part, they were simply virtue signaling.”

“Virtue signaling?”

“They were talking about social issues without really doing anything about them.”

“Why would they do that?”

“To attract customers. To appease employees. They wanted to be seen as progressive. But when it came to actually being progressive, most organizations had very little to show for it.”

“So what happened?”

“Organizations began to reflect on what they really stood for. What was their purpose? What values guided their decisions? That became their focus.”

“But what happened to things like equity?”

“That’s the irony,” he said. “When organizations began to rededicate themselves to what mattered most to them, things got better for a lot of people, and things like equity became more than a slogan. They became real.”

She shook her head.

“You look skeptical,” he said.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “But you’re telling me getting rid of DEI made the world a better place?”

“Yes. It was a moment of truth.”

The Weeping Well, by Mimi Grouse

19/5/2023

When Father Lane took over the parish church of St Faith, the first thing he noticed was the large stone well that stood, overshadowed by some windswept yew trees, in a distant and chilly corner of the vicarage garden.
'It's nearly five hundred years old,' the verger told him as they approached, just before Vespers, and the sudden wariness in the old man's voice didn't escape the new vicar's attention.
'Is there water in it?' he asked, looking at the small bucket that swung from the end of a thick, shiny rope wrapped around its pulley.
'Yes. But it's not good to drink. It's briny.' The verger cranked the handle and the bucket descended with a squeal that reminded Father Lane of souls and the abyss.
When the pail reappeared, the verger offered him a scoop full of murky liquid. 'Taste it,' he urged, and the vicar muttered a prayer before doing so.
'It tastes like tears,' he said.
'Yes. The tears of the heretics who were thrown down there during the Dark Ages.'
'My goodness! Is that so?'
'Yes. Three women and two men.' He gestured to the rope that was once again coiled around the pulley. 'This is made of their hair.'
Father Lane tried not to retch. He peered over the wall, down into the abyss, but there was nothing to see. 'Do you think it'll be better tomorrow morning?'
'No. The sun never shines in this part of the garden. If I was you, I'd forget all about it and carry on with your business as though I'd never told you.'
'I can't do that.' He and the verger moved gladly back into the warmth of the sun's last rays. 'If you give me the names of those poor souls down there, I'll hold a memorial service for them. Then we'll have the well closed and sealed, so it can be treated with all the respect that's due to someone's grave.'
'Yes. Right. Thank you, Father.'
The two men parted; one to go home to his family and his dinner, the other to dry toast and prayers. But before bedtime, when the owls were hooting and the moon turned the scraggy yew trees silver, the verger knocked on the vicarage door.
'Sorry for the hour,' he said, unapologetically, 'But I brought you those names. I thought you might like to hold a vigil for them, too, seeing you're so set on putting things right.'
'That's a good idea.' He took the sheet of paper from him and frowned when he saw what was written there. 'But this is your surname.' He looked at his visitor again. 'Are they relatives of yours?'
'Yes. Only one son escaped the Purge, and that was because he'd run away to sea.'

Wake Up, the Skies Are Falling, by Malvina Perova

12/5/2023

Many of you will have worked out by now that I just love Malvina's stories and artwork, and I honestly think there's a potential book in a collection of these – I'd snap one up, anyway – Ed.

A castle on a bustle was the last thing Prince True Love expected to find in the enchanted woods. Busy servants packed warm socks, napkins, and baked sausages into carton boxes and cut through the thicket of blackthorns in the garden to make way for the delivery coaches. Even Princess’s cat wasn’t asleep, but sat at the desk, noting down every item in the boxes with a white fluffy feather.
“Yes? What do you want?” asked the pretty girl in khaki gear, as she opened the door for him.
“Er… I um… looking for Sleeping Beauty,” Prince mumbled.
“It is I, what do you want?”
True Love stared back at the girl and looked her up and down in surprise. “It is you?”
“Yes. Are you lost? Can I get you water or something?” Sleeping Beauty blurted and, since the lad at her doorway kept gaping at her, added, “Make haste, I’m busy, you see?”
“Well, actually… I came to help you,” Prince puffed his chest a little and put his hand on his waist to make the right impression that she obviously missed.
“Oh? Will you give me a squadron of F-16s?”
That was unexpected. “No!” he frowned. “We are a peaceful country. We never solve our problems by violence.”
“How are you going to help me, then?” the girl exclaimed.
True Love found the question rather stupid. “By marrying me, of course.”
She raised an eyebrow. “And waste another decade of my life on kids and household? No thanks! I’ve already missed a century and overslept the break of war. I do not just need to build my life anew, but also fight for my country.”
“Oh, you… you fight, too? But war is…”
“What? Men’s business? Look, I’d chat with you more about that, but the boys’ lives on the front line depend on me, so do you need water or not?”
True Love felt like no water could save him from dying right now. “It’s not what the prophecy says!” he cried. “You were supposed to fall for me, and we’d live happily ever after!”
“Oh, that prophecy,” Princess rolled her eyes. “It was written by a man. What else did you expect? It’s not what the real one says.”
True Love paused. “Is there a real one?”
“Of course there is a real one. And it says if I fail to get myself together, my only chance to survive will be to marry someone rich and powerful. You thought the old hag wished me harm? Ha! She gave me the best gift ever. Time to make up my mind. Beauty and such—who needs that? Surely not when the skies are crashing down.”
Prince batted his eyes at her stupidly. “But what am I going to do now? What is my destiny?”
“First, get out of the driveway,” Princess said and glanced at her watch. “Then I’d suggest you do what men do best. Write yourself a new prophecy.”

The Whistling Woman, by J. Iner Souster

12/5/2023

The Whistling Woman read her notes for a few seconds before coming over. The rain from the night before was no longer pounding, the night air was still, and her umbrella had come in handy.

"What happened?" she asked. "I hear you changed your mind. What's the deal with that?"

I reached into my pocket and pulled out the photo.

She took it in her hands, her fingers closing around it as she looked down.

"Oh my God, is that...?" She looked up at me as her eyes opened wide.

"Yeah, it is," I said.

"Are you…?"

"Yes." I said.

She lowered her head.

"I'm just a guy who's tired of the bullshit."

The rain had started to fall again, but I didn't want to complain with The Whistling Woman by my side. I had enough to worry about without her bringing it up. She looked at me, finally, with a smile that showed me she believed me.

She smiled again. "I think it is too late to change your mind about all of this."

"I know."

As the rain grew heavier, The Whistling Woman and I started to walk, lost in our thoughts. But something was different. The air felt heavy and smelt strange.

The Whistling Woman returned the photograph, and I shifted my attention to the picture. The image of the person in the photo was burned into my memory, haunting me like a bad dream. A reminder of the darkness that had consumed my life, a past I couldn't escape no matter how hard I tried.

I turned to The Whistling Woman, but she had disappeared. Panic set in as I realized that I was alone. I knew what I had to do. It was time to end it all.

I walked to the cliff's edge, the wind whipping my hair around my face. I felt a sense of peace wash over me. Finally, I would be free from the demons that had haunted me for so long. But as the ground rushed up to meet me, I realized too late that I had made a terrible mistake. Echoes of my body colliding with the jagged rocks below reverberated through the lonely darkness, driving me to the brink of madness.

"NO!" I screamed. "Why can't I die?"

My voice resonated through the empty void, piercing the dark cloud surrounding me.

That's when I heard it. The whistling. Soft at first, but growing louder with each passing moment. It was a tune I had never heard before; it filled me with dread. I knew then that I was not alone, the Whistling Woman was with me, but she had changed.

Her figure emerged from the darkness, eyes glowing red in the dim light. I could feel her breath on my neck as she whispered in my ear.

"You can't escape your fate," she hissed. "You belong to me now."
And with that, everything went dark, and the Whistling Woman's haunting tune carried on the wind.

Vivi and Sophia, by Angela Carlton

5/5/2023

Life was messy, breakfast eggs cracking in her mother’s hands, yolk spilling, running down onto her slippers. Vivi talked-talked, mumbled to herself, and spit out her meds in the garbage can. She screamed out to the sky in her nightgown and directed her anger toward a line of puffy clouds as they floated on by. She wandered the streets in the same filthy gown over and over until her feet were swollen and blue, sometimes hiding tucking her face beneath a gold, silk scarf, as the daughter Sophia's tears fell into her sweet tea, and rolled over storybook pages. She gained strength as each day passed, for language and books were the teachers, her mother, as she grew-grew, swiftly with the wind, amongst the lull of the field crickets reciting words, under the pale moon. She recorded the rhythm and beat, inside her black journal as it seemed to leap off the pages and dance in the air.

Yes, someone listened.

Classifieds, by Barry O'Farrell

5/5/2023

“There are women in our town who will swap sex for cash,” said Granddad turning through the pages of the daily newspaper. Granddad is at the stage of life where he prattles on. I found it’s best to just humour him.

“How do you know that?”

“The other seniors. The blokes in the Seniors Club told me. They said just look in the classified ads section.”

“And they would know, right?”

“Eureka, I found it! Gee there’s quite a few ads in here. I’ll have to write down a list of all the phone numbers…but before I start making phone calls, I’ve got a question.”

“Hmm?”

How much money do these women intend to pay me?”

“I don’t think it works that way,” I replied trying to keep a straight face.

“What do you mean?” he asked, all the while continuing to scan the page.

“You might have to check with the wise old men you’ve been talking to.”

“Holy crap! Look at this,” cried Granddad holding up the newspaper. “Look what I found!”

“I can’t see it from here. Why don’t you read it to me?”

“Ok. It’s a proper big ad. Announcing the Grand Opening. Friday night. The first topless bar in our town. What do you make of that?”

“Sign of the times perhaps.”

“Maybe. I’m thinking I’ll have to be there for the grand opening. But I’ve got a question.”

Not more questions, I thought, but resignedly said, “Okay.”

“What if I go inside the topless bar, and take off my shirt, will they let me leave my singlet on?”

“Why don’t you go and find out?”

“I just might.”

Ramparts, by Alex Blaine

5/5/2023

Shots fired shots fired ... narcotics, dirty money... moonlighting officers with ghost-guns borrowed from the evidence lockers as gunshots ring through the night ... another corpse of a rap-star is found ... There's blood on the wax as hip-hop bleeds over the turntables, the case turns cold before it's in the ground ... Yet another closed casket with no clues ... Just another homicide where the evidence never left the locker room ... waiting to be disposed of after the original case is closed... It's simply a mystery, just another nothing murder ... At the stop-signs with flashing lights, gang members hide in plain sight behind a badge and a smile ... Nobody cares if they skim off the raids ... A room full of hookers, cocaine and dirty money ... it's how they like to party ... Some neighbourhood kids were set up for a little bank robbery that the cops themselves committed ... a classic case of wrong place wrong time, now they're down for twenty-five-to-life without the possibility of parole ... A victimless crime - as the evidence don't lie - especially when it is planted by professionals ... If nobody saw it, it was never there ... If you did see it, you simply wouldn't be believed ... but who would dare question them, as they act up like big stars, living life beyond their means ...

Play, by Don Tassone

5/5/2023

“Where to?” he asked his granddaughter Lucy as they stepped off the merry-go-round.

“Roller coaster!”

“That one?” he said, pointing to the kiddie coaster.

“No, Poppy. The big one!”

“Are you sure you’re ready for that?”

“Yes,” Lucy said, rolling her eyes. “I’m seven!”

“Okay.”

When his kids were growing up, he’d taken them on the big coaster many times. But he hadn’t ridden it for 25 years. It had made him sick, and he swore he’d never ride it again.

Now he and Lucy were heading for that very ride. He’d begun taking her to this amusement park once a summer. Until now, she’d been content with the kiddie rides. But she was growing up. She was adventurous and full of energy. Now, as they approached the big coaster, Lucy jumped up and down with excitement.

“Do you love this ride, Poppy?”

“I used to. I haven’t ridden it in a long time.”

“Why?”

He didn’t want to scare her.

“Because I haven’t been out of kiddie land for years!” he said.

That was true. But it was also true that he just wasn’t up to riding roller coasters anymore.

“This is going to be so fun!” Lucy said, looking up at him with a big smile.

She looks so much like her mother as a kid, he thought. That seemed so long ago, before his life became so serious, when he still took time to play.

They had reached the front of the line. Watching the coaster slowly glide toward them, he felt lightheaded. He felt like baling out.

But then it came to a stop, the aluminum gate in front of them swung open and Lucy said, “Come on, Poppy.”

She slid into their car. He sat beside her and helped her with her seatbelt before buckling his own. Then he lowered the safety bar. Too late to turn back now.

A ride attendant made her way along the cars, tugging on all the bars to make sure they were secure.

“All clear,” someone said over the loudspeaker.

His heart was pounding. He was breathing hard.

The coaster slowly took off. They went around a bend, then began climbing the big first hill. Click, click, click.

“How high will we go, Poppy?”

He looked over at his granddaughter. She looked worried. She’s too young to worry, he thought. Life will get serious soon enough.

He held out his hand. She took it and squeezed it tight.

“Everything will be okay,” he said with a smile.

As they reached the top, he let out a whoop, like he used to on roller coasters as a boy. It made Lucy laugh. They held hands and screamed in delight the rest of the way.

As they rolled into the station, Lucy said, “Let’s go again, Poppy!”

“Okay,” he said, still holding her hand.

Diana's Depression, by Ibrahim Alhiyari

5/5/2023

As Diana set foot in the bathtub, blade in one hand and the liquor bottle in the other, Cherubin plaintively meowed as though the little critter divined her owner’s terminal intentions. What irked Diana was that she knew Cherubin wasn’t hungry. She had already made sure to leave her a plateful of food and had intentionally left the bedroom window ajar. In case her suicide went as planned, Cherubin would exit to safety. But her vocal persistence distracted Diana from her mission and snapped her out of her intoxication–the idea that a soul cared, albeit an animal's, made a difference. She hence donned her bathrobe, set down what was in her hands, and picked up Cherubin gingerly: “Concerned for Mummy, Arrenchye angel?”

Diana’s despair was rooted in her separation from her five-year-long hubby, the loss of her mom to COVED, and the ensuing suicide of her grieving father, in rapid succession.

She set Cherubin on the floor, calmed down. Diana went to the living room and crashed on the sofa, falling in deep sleep.

She woke up the next morning with a hangover, so she made a latte and seated herself on the tattered sofa on the porch of the dilapidated country house she resided in. As she reflected on what she plotted to do last night, she smiled at her furry angel napping beside her. She firmly believed Cherubin, relevantly named, knowingly and purposely intervened.

As she looked down on the porch's wooden floor, suddenly a large wasp dropped and beat its wings frantically before its fluttering came to a quick halt.

Soon after, a rambling, tiny ant approached, checked the dead insect, and feverishly traced back its steps. Diana sipped her drink, pensively engaged.

Many minutes passed, then a group of ants came and made repeated attempts at hauling the huge wasp. About two dozen of them worked in unison to haul it down one of the porch's wooden beams, but as they reached the end of the floor, the sharp angle made many haulers lose touch with the ground and left them suspended in the air.

The crowd fell down. Upon hitting ground, they were in disarray but quickly regrouped round the insect. They repeated the same attempt over and over, not minding the precipitous fall nor the wasted effort. Gradually, they decided to dismember the wasp. Some invaded its wings, others went for the limbs, hacking on voraciously, tirelessly, till all that was left was a headless torso. Within an hour, there was no trace of the wasp. Their collaborative effort paid off.

Diana reflected, life is full of hardships but perseverance and communal engagement create purpose. She must go on, for Cherubin's sake, for her country. It was cowardice to give in, to call it quits before she even began life. A young, pretty woman in her mid-twenties like her full of promise ought never to succumb to depression. She got up, rode her car heading to town, determined to get a job somewhere, anywhere.

Circus Lights, by J. Iner Souster

Moment of Truth, by Don Tassone

The Weeping Well, by Mimi Grouse

Wake Up, the Skies Are Falling, by Malvina Perova

The Whistling Woman, by J. Iner Souster

Vivi and Sophia, by Angela Carlton

Classifieds, by Barry O'Farrell

Ramparts, by Alex Blaine

Play, by Don Tassone

Diana's Depression, by Ibrahim Alhiyari

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