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Grift, by Michael Roberts

11/6/2021

I’m nervous, if you want to know the truth.
I’m in a shady part of town, surrounded by a lot of people I’d rather not be surrounded by, truth be told.
I’m sure some of them are probably friends of the guys we just robbed.
For some reason, our pickup guy got the wrong street and now we’ve got a dozen blocks to walk through, before the guys we robbed let their friends know what we did and they come looking
And I’m carrying about a million dollars in seeds in a baggy.
Yeah, you heard that right.
Swazi Black.
Well, Swazi Silver Black to be precise.
If you’re not into smoking weed, you’ve probably never heard of it but it is the holy grail of Cannabis, the last of the legendary land-race cannabis strains to be actually found.
Travis McGee supposedly smuggled them out of Swaziland in the early 70s, inside a couple 35mm Black and White film canisters.
Rumour is that the silver in the film tainted the seeds’ genetics but made it super potent.
Supposedly Travis wanted to try it out and grew one plant, as a test.
The weed that came from it was supposedly the best weed out there that summer.
Even Jagger and Richards supposedly wanted to get some.
I’m using the word ‘supposedly’ a bit too much you say?
Well, I have to because we’ll never know for sure what went down that summer.
We know that McGee partnered up with Marty Davis, a weed grower up in the mountains.
We know that the Feds got wind of what Marty and McGee were up to and raided their ‘office’.
Marty went one way and McGee the other, right into Federal Custody, where he served 20 years, before dying of cancer in a federal hospital ward.
Marty disappeared, along with the seeds.
And Swazi Silver Black disappeared off the face of the planet just like that.
Until a couple years ago.
Legalization brought a lot of people out of the woodwork.
The internet gave them a forum with which to discuss their love and expertise of cannabis.
And to run a con.
The guy we stole the seeds from?
Connor Davis, Marty’s grandson.
So he says.
He could be lying, like I am about being McGee’s son.

The plan was simple, really.
Get to know Connor, convince him that I’m McGee’s grandkid and that resurrecting the McGee-Davis partnership would be the greatest thing since sliced bread, meet up with him, steal the seeds in Nebraska, where cannabis is illegal and sell them to a grower in Colorado, where it’s legal.
Davis can’t say shit about it without getting busted for possession.
And who cares?
He’s a little punk who got lucky because he’s sitting on a gold mine that his grandfather stole from ‘mine’
Do I care about the real McGee?
Not really.
I just appreciate the opportunity this gives me.
It’s a great con, if I do say so myself.

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The Workshop, by Jim Bartlett

11/6/2021

20 Comments

As Kyle rounds the corner of his parents’ house, he sees his dad standing atop a ladder, hanging the pipe chimes they made back when he was, what, ten? He smiles, then, dancing between his mom’s potted plants, continues across the deck, grabbing hold of the ladder to help steady it.

“Well, look what the cat dragged in. Thought you and Maggie were taking the kids out to pizza tonight.”

“Maggs had to work late, and the boys are doing a sleepover at their bud’s house.”

Stepping off the ladder, he chuckles. “So having been abandoned by everyone, you had to settle for your old man’s company?”

Kyle takes in a long breath. “Actually, I need some advice.”

“Shoot.”

“You remember my teens, and maybe my early twenties...”

His dad’s eyebrows raise. “How could I forget?”

“Yeah, yeah, I know. I guess I wasn’t exactly the best son. Or even a good person.”

His father puts a hand on Kyle’s shoulder. “We all make bad choices now and again. I know I sure did. You turned it around, that’s all that matters.”

“But, for some reason lately it’s all I think about. I know I’m a good dad and husband—“

“And son...”

“Thanks. But I just die when those days steal my thoughts.”

His father nods. “Follow me.”

They cross the deck dropping down to the side entrance of his dad’s massive workshop. As the door is opened, and the lights thrown on, Kyle is taken aback. He’d forgotten how big the shop really was. Standing in the doorway, he can’t help but stare. Tools of every imaginable kind line the walls, while woodworking and metal-shaping machinery fill the floor. There’s an array of winches and lifts for working on cars taking up the middle, and a paint booth to the back. He remembers painting his first car - a Datsun clunker that barely ran. Candy apple red. Though his father said nothing at the time, his face clearly spoke for him.

“Money down the drain.”

They stop at a workbench to the front, a tall shelf just behind filled with the toys and projects they used to make together so long ago. That is, until he became a teen...

His dad motions Kyle closer, then points out into the shop. “Okay, got pretty much every tool known to mankind here, tell me which one you need.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Gotta be something in here that we can use to wrench out those bad memories.”

“Well, no...”

“Right answer. The past is past. Not one thing here, or anywhere else on this good Earth, can change a single minute long gone. It’s all dust in the wind.”

“Kansas.”

“Yup.” Smiling, he pokes Kyle’s forehead, then his chest. “Look here, my wayward son, if you fill your head and heart with yesterdays, you’ll never have a stitch of room for today. Or for that lovely wife and those great boys. Let yesterday go. We kinda like having you around today.”

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Holiday Escape, by Mary Wallace

11/6/2021

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“Should we ask the Captain to go back for him?” Doreen asked earnestly.
Maud looked at the deserted rear deck which had been their perfect relaxing spot to soak up the sun and have a good gossip. Until George had discovered them! Maud’s husband George was like a black cloud sprinkling doom all over their hard earned slice of paradise.
Doreen and Maud had saved for years to take this cruise through the Greek Isles. Their cabin was miniscule but the weather, and the wine, were perfect. Two weeks without the stress of cooking meals, or being asked to care for sick grandchildren. Just two friends escaping.
Doreen was the lucky one, it was easier for her to escape; Bert had passed away four years ago. She and Maud had planned the trip over coffee, two days after Bert’s funeral.
Maud still had George. She had come home on the day of the funeral and looked at George stretched on the couch, his thin strands of hair combed over in a failed bid to disguise his bald crown.
“Get us a beer love,” had been his greeting. Not one word about the service or how her best friend was coping. Maud decided to escape.
They told no one. Maud switched to no name supermarket brands and pocketed the savings from her housekeeping budget. Gorge paid no attention to what she cooked anyway..The savings increased slowly. The friends celebrated when the final stamp was placed on their passports. George didn’t bat an eyelid when he was told the grandchildren had measles and Maud would need to be away for two weeks.
“I suppose I’ll have to eat at the pub,” he made it sound as if he was sacrificing himself.
Maud had underestimated George though. For all their secrecy, when the ship had docked at Mykonos, there was George, floral shirt straining across his large belly and what resembled a dead animal attached to the top of his head.
“Not a wig,” he insisted, “a toupee”, he boasted, rhyming it with tee-pee. “I’ll share your cabin; after all my money paid for it.” He was at his most obnoxious.
Doreen and Maud did their best to ignore George as he strutted around,”checking out the talent,” as he called the other female passengers. They retreated to their quiet spot to discuss the problem. George followed, fiddling with his new hair in the breeze.
“I’ll need the cabin if I score.” George trying to sound like James Dean was too much for Doreen and Maud, they broke into a fit of laughter. George turned back angrily, his progress interrupted by a gust of wind that took his hair over the railing.The two friends were in hysterics, tears streaming down their faces.
“My toupee,” George screamed, climbing after it and losing his footing.
“Well should we?” Doreen repeated looking at the water, “ask the Captain I mean.”
Maud, still chuckling, wiped her eyes. “Perhaps later love, it's almost happy-hour.”

11 Comments

The Waitress’s Note with the Receipt, Angela Carlton

11/6/2021

12 Comments

Max,
I glow a bit when you sit in my section. I wait around again for our lunches or sometimes a long dinner. Most of the time, I find myself undressing you. I think of tracing my finger ever so lightly, circling your arm, creeping down-down until I reach your thigh. I love the way you glare at me with those “icy blues.” Maybe you can read mine and you’ll get warm as the blood rushes-rushes like hot lava. It’s all those thoughts that make me dizzy, sweaty, aching for the unknown.

Your laughter seems to say, “Ain’t got no worries, Babe,” and I smile for hours. When you move, it’s with great ease, that coolness that seems to set me free. When you whisper those lyrics from certain songs, it gives me chills. I write this to tell you, if you ever truly let me in, you won’t need that booze, junk, the damn coke anymore the way my Dad did. The earth tends to rattle and spin when you experience the power of real connection. You see what it means to unleash and sink into someone who has the same heavy vibe and flow much like lava and the sea.

It's a better high Max, a brand new one.

Will we come up if we dive into deep waters?? Maybe, maybe not?

Still, I know there’s a part of you who wants to stay buttoned up and coast along. It’s easier to sit around with old comforts. Isn’t it? It’s easier just to play it safe by the shore. Ultimately, there are some of us who will never leave the shore.

But...

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Togetherness, by Michael Mitchell

11/6/2021

1 Comment

“Fred Potton! I want a word with you!”

“Yes, Love.”

“I never expected to say this, but I don’t like the way you gaze at Lizzie McDougal down at the bowls club. And I’m not the only one who thinks you’re paying her too much attention.”

“It’s nothing, Love. She’s just a very friendly, happy person.” He paused and looked at the ceiling. “And I was asked… by the club captain to… give her a bit of coaching. Honestly, there’s nothing more to it.”

Fred had been studying cruise brochures for some weeks.

Welcome to sailing from Southampton to New York on a Transatlantic Crossing…
Find your perfect cruise… be carried away in the spirit of celebration…

He had decided that Cunard offered unmissable deals on double cabins and incomparable tradition. His mind was made up. But he knew Dorothy had some odd ideas about ships and the sea. “Idiosyncratic” he called her. What if she wouldn’t go?

As he finished his morning coffee, he closed his eyes and imagined the gentle, soothing motion of a great liner in mid-Atlantic. The waiter refilled his glass. At his side a lady companion in raptures over a new wardrobe and a real reason to dress up. This was the life…

A lop-sided smile lit up his face and he began to snore.

“Are you OK, Fred?”

……………

Later Dorothy poured afternoon tea.

“Dorothy, this cruise idea,” (He only called her Dorothy when he had something really serious to say.) “I can’t put it off any longer. We need a change of routine, a new, challenging experience. This COVID stuff is getting to us, limiting our horizons, making us cantankerous.”

Dorothy thought of Channel ferries and island-hopping in Greece. Then she wondered why Fred was suddenly so oratorical and what cantankerous meant. She winced.

“Isn’t it a bit risky, Fred? I never was the world’s greatest sailor, and I don’t think I could face being cooped up with all those other people in a tin box.”

“This isn’t a tin box, Love, it’s the Queen Mary 2. World class. All mod cons and all necessary precautions.”

“Well, I’m not at all sure. I need to sleep on it.”

“Think on, Love. And remember that you’re not as old as me. We’re neither of us getting any younger. If I don’t do it soon maybe I never will. If you won’t come…” He stood up suddenly and went into the garden for a cigarette.

A week later an imposing envelope plopped onto the mat. From Cunard: “Final reductions. Few cabins remaining.”

Dorothy was making lunch.

“Now then, Dorothy. Are you coming to New York? Or... or should I …”

Liz McDougal walked past the kitchen window on her way to the bowls club.

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Another Queen of Hearts, by Susan Fairfax Reid

11/6/2021

7 Comments

Her personal secretary's hands shook as she showed the ecru envelope to the hot-tempered Queen of Hearts. "That looks like an invitation," said the Queen, raising her thinly- pencilled eyebrows. "Do you know what it is"?
"I do," Your Majesty, "the secretary said in a trembling voice. "Open it, you stupid woman, and read it to me," the illiterate Queen glowered from her private quarters in the palace.
"The Duke and Duchess of Sussex invite you to the christening of their daughter Lilibet Diana at their home at 2 p.m July 20 in Santa Barbara, California. Transportation will be arranged. Please R.S.V.P.
Sitting on a sofa the queen was a colorful decoration, looking like a portrait in her multicolored Victorian jacket. Typical of that period in England, the jacket had puffy sleeves and raised shoulders.
Her Majesty's red hair, piled high on her head and brushed away from her face, flattered her made up face but couldn't hide her horridness.
"Of course, they want me there," said the Queen. "They surround themselves with famous people. I've been famous for decades for my 'Off with their heads' execution orders. Send my acceptance, and get out of my private quarters immediately," she said. "And take my tea with you. It tastes like someone emptied the sugar bowl in it."
The stiff, square Queen, who had been placed on the sofa, began her plans. "My hair stylist must go with me," she thought, "even though the hairspray smells worse than dead meat in the smokehouse.
"My makeup artist must travel with me, too. She paints my lips into a red heart, lines my eyes and eyebrows, pencils a beauty mark below one of my eyes, and shadows my eyelids blue.
"Then I'll tell the dressmakers to sew an outfit
for me to wear to this historical event. If they make one single mistake, I'll say, 'Off with their heads.' Who cares about their lives"?

The Queen spent most days on the velvet sofa flanked by two pillows. The cozy look lured new servants to rest against the Queen's square stuffed body, and adjacent pillows. "Get off of me, you ignorant fool," she screamed. "Don't you know I'm the Queen of Hearts, and you are my servants The nerve of you," she said, golden sparks flashing from her small, brown eyes.
A week later, the secretary rushed in with another ecru envelope, catching her breath. "Open it, and read it, you simple woman," shrieked the Queen. Her uniformed bodyguard covered his ears with his white-gloved hands, knowing what was about to happen.
"The letter says you can't go to the christening," said the secretary. "How dare they,"
the Queen snarled, poking her upturned nose into the air. "Is it because I am the Queen of Heart and my husband rules The House of Playing Cards and not the House of Windsor?"
"No, Your Majesty," she said, smiling like the Cheshire Cat. "It's because you are a silly little decorative pillow."

7 Comments

Jack, by Marjan Sierhuis

11/6/2021

10 Comments

He enters the private room while medicinal smells creep under his mask and tease his olfactory receptors.

His solemn gaze shows concern as it settles on his wife’s petite form and pale face. Her chest barely rises and falls with every breath. Once filled with vitality, her body is now motionless under white hospital sheets.

He walks to the bedside and calls out her name. But Michaela remains silent, and her eyes stay shut.

After a restless hour at his wife’s side, Jack runs fingers through his salt-and-pepper hair, and he shakes his head.

He hates this pandemic and feels life isn’t fair. With his heart pounding in his chest, he pulls off his mask, takes a deep breath, and bends down. He gently kisses Michaela’s forehead, and whispers in her ear, “I love you.”

He fails to see a tear roll down her cheek as his childhood sweetheart takes her final breath.

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Knock Knock, by Miya Yamanouchi

5/6/2021

3 Comments

Wind blew the door open and Death came waltzing in.

He looked her up and down.

“So. Did you do everything you wanted to? Achieve all your dreams, use all your talents? Say all you could’ve said, been all you could’ve been?”

He examined her more closely, with narrowed eyes. “And those natural gifts nobody has but you. Did you use them?”

She shook her head. “I was too afraid—I didn’t want to force things—I knew I’d have a long time to try.”

“Mm.” Death lit a cigarette and nodded. “And now? Now do you have time?”

“It’s just that, I’ve been waiting around for things to happen for me, I think— give me another decade—I’ll do everything I’m supposed to—I’ll fulfil my purpose.”

Death scoffed. “A decade?” He puffed smoke into her face. “Nah. I’ll give you a year.”

“A year? What can I possibly do in a year?”

Death shrugged. “Make it count. I rarely give extensions.”

3 Comments

A Special Donation, by Heather Robinson

4/6/2021

2 Comments

“It has been authenticated. The provenance is unassailable,” the Museum Director told the Head of Special Collections.
“But… I… it is a very unusual object and one not in keeping with the rest of our collection.”
“I understand that. However, I’m sure you know that its display would guarantee a massive new audience whose interests we don’t currently address. I believe we should accept it gracefully and with enthusiasm.”
“We would need to limit its viewing to adults, of course. Has it been sufficiently sterilized?”
“Of course. And I never said that it should be available to all our patrons. In fact, I’m wondering whether we couldn’t develop a small secure area that includes similar objects. Perhaps we could take over the space now occupied by the Franco collection. Has anyone even been in there in the past few months?”
“There has been a decline in enthusiasm for Mr. Franco’s sketchbooks and journals.
“They are indecipherable.”
“True, true. However, you’re going to have to present this idea at our semi-annual meeting next month. I hardly know how our managers will respond.”
“As you know, the pandemic has left us in a critical financial state. This donation could change that. People will flock to see it. They will view our institution in a different light, and it will provide the funds we need to grow.”
“It has gems embedded in it.”
“Quite. You do recall the Huysman exhibit at the Musee D’Orsay? They included a replica of Montesquiou’s jewel-encrusted tortoise.”
“That was a tortoise. This is a – I can’t say it.”
“Ms. Nin was particularly fond of it."

2 Comments

Ready-Fire, by M.D. Smith

4/6/2021

2 Comments

It was the first time we’d been hunting with Mardis and his new, though used, Benjamin Pump air rifle. It was the first gun any of us owned powerful enough to kill a squirrel. We’d only owned Daisy BB guns up to now. Hunting in the woods behind my house with Hayes, the three of us kept sharp lookouts, silently plodding along.

“There’s one,” I whispered.

Mardis had already put the maximum of eight pumps on the Benjamin, and it was ready. He lowered the muzzle as he squinted to see in the cover.

Just as Mardis said, “I see him,” Hayes and I saw the BB drop from the barrel on the ground. Hayes snatched it up.

“The BB came out.”

Mardis already had the squirrel in his sights and said, “Drop it in the barrel. I don’t want to lose him in the cover.”

Hayes moved the BB toward the mouth of the barrel with his thumb and forefinger.

“Tell me when it’s in,” Mardis said with one eye closed, sights on the squirrel.

“Okay,” Hayes said as he dropped the BB.

The air rifle cracked the instant after the word, but Hayes’s forefinger was still there.

Blood spurted everywhere as he shrieked and shook his hand.
“You shot a hole by damn finger, idiot. I said I’d tell you when I had loaded it.”

“But you said, ‘Okay,’” Mardis replied.

2 Comments

Lou Lou, by Angela Carlton

4/6/2021

11 Comments

My Aunt mumbles during our visits. She talks to the sky. I take her to lunch once a week. She calls me “Lou Lou,” a nickname from childhood even though my name is Anna. I’m one of the few she trusts. Mostly, she talks about the FBI and the four banks that have all her money. She might break into a show tune or a love song at the table. Sometimes, she falls asleep in front of her spaghetti. Her mind’s on overdrive, you see, and she’s weary. She’s weary from all the medicine and lack of sleep. She’s weary from a heart that beats wildly with fear and a mind that has let her down her entire life, but I won’t.

If she looks lost, I immediately come up with a wisecrack to make her laugh, the kind where she shuts her eyes and covers her lips like a tiny child.

“Auntie,” I might say, “Don’t fall asleep in your pasta, your lazy niece wants to snatch it for dinner.” Other times I might reach across the table and touch her hand so she knows I’m there. When her eyes sparkle, she’s having a good day, but if she looks right through me and covers her ears, I know there is a storm inside her that is rolling, roaring and it’s loud-loud.

Today, she says, “I remember the day you were born, it was like I floated with the clouds and swallowed the sun. I felt happy.”

And, so we walk on, we walk together, my Aunt and me, we walk into the parking lot, arm and arm with the cool breeze that tickles our skin to remind us we are alert and we’re alive.

11 Comments

None of Us are Really Lucky, by Daniel Hybner

4/6/2021

4 Comments

The one crayon I brought broke half way through. I picked up the two pieces and tore the paper off both before getting back to work. That actually made it a little easier.

“I’m sorry I’m a few days late. I tried to get here Monday. I don’t know what happened.”

As I worked, an old man in uniform walked up behind me.

“Friend of yours?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Afghanistan?”

“Iraq.”

He looked down at me with the most knowing eyes I’d ever seen. His cane wobbled as he sat down beside me.

“Got too many of those of my own,” he said, a little out of breath from sitting down. “Used too many crayons myself.”

“He was my best friend, actually. Went in together. I watched him-” I don’t know why I blurted that out to him, but my words trailed off before I could finish. I dropped the crayon in the process.

The old man picked it up and began working with it slowly as I helped him hold the piece of paper in place. I could tell he’d done this many times before. Even though he was a bit shaky, the half he did was much cleaner than mine.

“Is he the only one you have to do?” he asked as he finished up.

“Yes, sir.”

“I’d say you’re lucky," he chuckled. "But none of us are really lucky, are we?”

I wasn’t sure how to answer him, so I said the only thing that came to mind.

“We’re lucky to be alive, aren’t we?”

He got to his feet. I did the same. He shook my hand and saluted my friend before he started walking off. He didn’t get too far before he paused, looked over his shoulder, and said, “Try to come on Monday next year. Don’t know if I’ll be here or not, but there's a whole lot more of us here that day who know that none of us, them or guys like you and me, are really lucky.”

I looked down at the grave rubbing in my hands. I traced the letters of my best friend’s name with my finger.

I made it out. He didn’t. All I had left of him now was this crayon rubbing of his name from his headstone.

Part of me knew the old man was right. None of us are really lucky.

4 Comments

The X Factor, by Doug Bartlett

4/6/2021

13 Comments

Mark and John were good friends and were seniors at the same high school. School was getting boring for them and they decided to take a day off. There was a lake nearby and they both loved to fish. They gathered their gear and off they went. When they got to the marina they rented a boat and tried several spots to fish but without success. They finally ended up in a shady cove near some tall reeds. They began catching fish one after another and in no time had reached their limit of some of the largest fish they had ever caught.

“We need to mark this spot so we can come back here next time,” Mark exclaimed.

“I’ll take care of it,” John responded.

Driving back home Mark asked John how he had marked the spot.

“ I put a large X on the side of the boat,” John stated.

“ You idiot, “ Mark exclaimed, “ What if we don’t get the same boat next time?

13 Comments

Another Chance, by Sivan Pillai

4/6/2021

8 Comments

The restaurant was crowded. I nodded my consent when the waiter asked me if another customer could share my table.
The newcomer was middle-aged, and seemed vaguely familiar, but I could not place him. I thanked the waiter with a broad smile when he came with my order.
“Do you remember me, Sir?” my tablemate asked me. I shook my head, looking closely at him from above my spectacles.
“My name’s Joseph, Sir. I was your student.”
“Glad to hear that. When?”
He told me.
“What do you do now?”
“I’m a teacher. And, Sir, it was you who inspired me to choose that career.”
“Very interesting. How’s that?”
He told me.
The incident happened years ago when he was a seventh-class student. The school was patronized mostly by the poor. Hardly any student came well-dressed. Most of the writings were done on slates and only some important notes were taken on notebooks with pencils. Except for one Arun, whose uncle, foreign-employed, had given him a fancy pen with four refills of different colours. Joseph wanted that pen from the moment he saw it. One day he stole it from Arun’s bag and hid it in his pocket. It didn’t take much time for Arun to find the pen missing and complain to me, the teacher.
All students were asked to stand up and close their eyes while I checked. Soon I found the pen in his pocket. To his surprise, I continued the search silently without making any announcement.
“Now you can open your eyes”, I had said, “Arun, here’s your pen”.
There was no mention of the thief though every student expected it. I could have exposed him as the thief, taken him to the principal, shamed him in front of all, but had done nothing of the sort.
“That was the day I wanted to be a teacher like you. However, please don’t tell me you don’t remember me, Sir. It was from my pocket that you found the pen.”
“I remember the incident but not the culprit. I, too, had closed my eyes while searching.”
I had done nothing like that but had kept mum to give him another chance.

8 Comments

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