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The Fortune-Teller, by Angela Carlton

24/6/2022

She sits in the dark, there are candles everywhere and beaded curtains in the room for a doorway. She waits for the woman to appear, to speak to her and tell her the things she must know.

Eva found the flyer in the library. She pulled it from the wall and shoved it in her pocket. She stuffed it away for days until she found the courage to find the address, and step into the brick house with the bronze metal moon and all the stars plastered on the front door.

When the woman emerged, she had a bandanna in her hair, rings on her fingers, and bracelets on her wrists. She was barefoot, and she was humming a familiar tune that Eva knew from somewhere.

“Welcome,” she said with large green eyes that had a hint of gold near the pupil.”Sit down at my table. I know why you are here, child.”

She pulled a tiny piece of hair from Eva’s head and held it near the candlelight. The fortune-teller had requested her birthday and the exact time she was born before she visited. Now, her piece of hair was burning in the flame as the fortune teller closed her eyes and continued humming.

“My child, she says, “ I see your name associated with great things. You will be recognized in the arts. This is your path, one you cannot deny or lose sight of.”

Eva swallows and tries to breathe it all in, this news so many exciting thoughts before the fortune-teller's eyes turn dark and she grabs both of Eva’s hands and begins to chant-chant-chant.

The candles burn on and a cat screeches in the distance. The fortune-teller breathes a long sigh as if all the air has left her body when she whispers, “There is a dark, vast cloud that follows you, child. It is larger than life and it will take you down. You must be aware of your surroundings and you must be brave, stand tall. I am here and I am watching over you.”

And with that, the fortune-teller turned and slipped into the curtain of beads as the light bulb above them flickered.

That night as Eva walked out and into the chilly evening, the sky was black-black. There wasn’t one star to guide her home.

Star Power, by Don Tassone

17/6/2022

“I’m sorry,” said the interviewer, closing the empty manila folder on her desk. “Apparently, I didn't get your resume.”

“I didn’t send one.”

“You didn’t?”

“No, I just made a call.”

She looked puzzled.

“Well, let’s go ahead,” she said, picking up her pen.

"Great. What would you like to know?”

“Why don’t you tell me a little about yourself?”

He chuckled.

“Don’t you know who I am?”

She studied his face.

“I’m Phineas J. Whoopee.”

She blushed.

“Oh, Senator Whoopee! I’m sorry. I guess I’ve only ever seen you on TV.”

“No worries. It happens all the time.”

“Well, your record in the Senate speaks for itself. Why don’t you tell me what you did before you were a Senator?”

“I played golf.”

“Golf?”

“Miniature golf actually.”

“Miniature golf?”

“Yes. I won the Harris Cup.”

“The Harris Cup?”

“I was the international miniature golf champion.”

“Congratulations.”

“Thank you.”

“And your experience before that?”

“I was in the restaurant business.”

“Interesting. Did you own restaurants?”

“No, I was an assistant manager.”

“I see. And what were your responsibilities?”

“I mainly worked the drive-thru.”

She cleared her throat.

“So you were elected to the Senate based on your fame as a miniature golfer?”

“It certainly helped.”

She put down her pen.

“Senator, I’m sorry to be so direct, but can you tell me why you believe you’re qualified to be the CEO of this company?”

“Star power.”

“Pardon me?”

“People know me.”

“And you think that’s sufficient?”

“Well, it’s worked pretty well for me so far.”

“That it has."

He smiled.

“I think those are all my questions for now, sir. Do you have any questions for me?”

“Just one.”

“Yes?”

“Is there a corporate jet?”

When the Full Moon Comes, by Padmini Krishnan

17/6/2022

The veil of darkness enveloping him, Sahil walked away from the smoke, stick in a hand and a hardened rock in another. His heart burned at the politician’s remarks and now the whole city was on fire. He looked at the shopping complex he had helped destroy. It had started as a small clothes’ store 40 years ago; his late father had told him. As a kid, he remembered shopping there with his mother, hiding behind dresses and shaking hands with the child mannequin. Sahil turned to the half-torn poster of the politician and tried to garner hate, but all that remained was emptiness. He stared at the full moon until the last embers of fire left his mind.

Inspector Chaand tossed in his bed; he still heard the cries of rioters screaming as he and other policemen beat them with sticks. Many of them had cried, ‘’I didn’t do it. I was a pedestrian.’’ Among them was a 10-year-old boy. Chaand shuddered; he no longer loved the city in which he was brought up. He looked out of his window at the full moon. It seemed stained with all the blood he had caused and endured that day. Turning away, he stared at the dark, quiet ceiling with glassy, tired eyes.

Ignoring a group of waiting investors, politician Raaz went to his study to prepare his next hate speech. He had become the most revered and the most hated amongst two sections of the country. His new speech would create further divisions, but what were a few lives compared to his progress? His leader had promised him a seat in the parliament. Raaz smiled. He turned, as he often did, to the full moon for inspiration.

The Bottom Line, by Jim Bartlett

17/6/2022

Franklin leans back in the plush chair, his focus lost to his phone rather than the board members gathered around the table. When he finally sets it down, his antsy fingers shift to his name plate – William Franklin, CEO Americana Commercial Holdings – tapping it back and forth as he lets his gaze slowly circle the room. He abruptly stops, seeing an empty chair where Marsha Clemens, his Marketing Director, should be sitting.

“Where is she?”

Thomas Prickerton, the CFO, bristles. “Her nanny didn’t show this morning. Something about not being able to afford the gas.” He smirks. “Damn hard to get good help these days.”

“Guess we know where her priorities lie,” Franklin huffs. He juts his chin at Roger McDuff, his Logistics Director. “Okay, let’s make this quick. I’ve got a tee-off at 1:30 and I’d like to have some lunch at the club first.”

McDuff nods, his face flush. “Well, as noted, fuel costs are higher, so even with a doubling of home deliveries we’re not quite up to the 30% profit margin we’d hoped for. I think that—“

The CEO cuts him off, stabbing a finger in his direction. “Make it happen.”

“Yes sir.”

“Next.”

Andrew McKinsey, Construction and Sales VP, nervously slides his chair forward. “Sir, with interest rates tripling, real estate sales, with the exception of luxury homes, have tanked. We’d projected a 40% profit this quarter, but when you add the dismal sales to the new construction costs—“

Franklin raises an open hand. “Enough. I know where this is going.” He turns to Dennis Frazier, Automotive Sales. “You got anything better?”

“Well, Mr. Franklin, as with housing, luxury car sales are through the roof, particularly the hybrid and electric models. And that’s helping to take the edge off the drop in standard model sales. But with inflation, fuel prices, and worker complaints about wages and benefits, we’re having to lower our expectations.”

“’Lower expectations’ is not a phrase I care to hear. Ever.” He looks down at his phone, noting the time. “Marty, with all this nonsense about rising costs and the damn poor people, I can only hope our energy division is pulling its weight.”

Marty smiles. “We’re booming, Boss. Profits way, way up. Even with oil at $125 a barrel, we’re raking it in.”

“Finally some good news,” Franklin says, winking. He looks to the last man at the table. “What’cha got Chris?”

Chris stiffens. “It’s been tough times for folks out there, sir, so grocery sales are off. Except for soups and broths. They’ve become extremely popular because they’re less expensive.”

Franklin leans back. “Tough times, indeed. It would seem we all need to help out wherever we can, eh?” He points at Chris. “And here’s where you can help out...with our profits, that is. Raise the price of soup and broth by 15%.”

Chris’ mouth opens, but no words escape.

Franklin stands. “That’s it, gentlemen. There’s a martini with my name on it waiting at the 19th hole...”

A Fishy Farewell, by Samantha Michelle

10/6/2022

“War is not hell. Hell is a thousand wars and sufferings, a thousand loves and losses. Hell is eternity. Ever expanding, never ending. I live in hell; I live in eternity. I have seen empires built and crumble. I have witnessed the rise and fall of monarchies. I have lived through the creation of relics and religions and watched them fade to obscurity. There will always be another war.

Hell is not other people, either. Other people are the flashes of life and time, when both have lost their meaning. When there is no end in sight and decades mean nothing, love and friendship are how you mark your time. They make eternity a little more bearable. Even though you know they will inevitably leave you.
Which is why it is always both sad and beautiful when people from all walks of life gather together to mourn the loss of someone, we all knew. All loved. Someone who in their own way shaped our lives. And while I will envy his peace, the rest and solace he finds in the eternal sleep that continues to elude me, I know he will be in a better place. A place free from senseless war and needless violence. And now, a moment of silence.” I bowed my head in reverence to my lost friend, the good soul that was moving on to some new, grander adventure.

“Oh, my god! Are you quite finished,” a voice chimes out through the silence, the figure moves closer as she continues to speak, “I mean, it was just a fish. And you give basically the same eulogy every time one of them dies. Fish die. They only live like five years. Get a tortoise! It will outlive me and spare me from hearing this speech again. I get it, immortality sucks, boohoo! Can you just flush him already? I have to get ready for work. And I’m not telling my boss I was late because I was held up by a fish’s funeral.”

I turned to my friend and roommate, Georgia, who is not a morning person, and spoke as calmly as possible so as not to provoke her, “seeing as how you killed him, do you think you could be more respectful at Mackerelmore’s funeral?”

“Uh, excuse you, I didn’t start a pillow fight right next to his tank. You did. Also, you’re like 500 years older than me, maybe you should grow up.” She rebukes pushing past me to turn on the shower. Which is not entirely false. It was my fault the fight started.

But- “you dealt the final blow that knocked him off the table and out the window. What a sad way to go. Fish were just not meant to fly.” And with that, she flushes Mackrelmore down the toilet, without even breaking eye contact with me.

Good bye, fish friend. You will be remembered well for all of my eternity.

Soulless, by Mimi Grouse

10/6/2022

Sunday is the worst day of the week.
The adults who aren't my parents run, screaming at each other, through the house. Glass shatters as furniture crashes into the wall.
From my bedroom window, I watch smooth-faced, shiny children walking down the road to church, their best clothes bright in the sunshine, holding hands with grown-ups who look as though they wouldn't raise their voices even in an emergency.
A mother stoops and kisses her little girl.
A father ruffles his son's hair.
Behind me, the screaming gets louder and my name is scattered like buckshot. Dragging my eyes away from the angels and their guardians, I force myself to concentrate on reassembling the automatic pistol for which I sold my soul and a diamond ring to the local drug baron.
Drug baron, the loser. I don't have a soul, but he doesn't know that.
Someone's banging on my bedroom door then the woman who is not my mother rattles the handle and my name is a curse in her mouth when she finds herself locked out. She stomps away and voices rise like hysterical demons.
I insert the magazine. Pull the slide.
Hold the barrel to my nose.
Gun oil gives me a high.
The front door slams.
I watch the people who are not my parents stride towards their car. I push the window open and lean upon the sill.
There is no-one on the street to see them fall.
I step out of the house into silence and the gun presses against the small of my back like a friendly hand.
Tonight, my soulless body will lie between the angels.
Tomorrow morning, my name will be in the headlines.
Monday is going to be the best day of the week.

Semorov's Mistake, by Robert P. Bishop

10/6/2022

Semorov looked out the barred window of his cell to the courtyard below; empty this morning, but he knew he would soon be on his knees on its cobblestones.

Keys jangled outside his cell door. Semorov stepped away from the window and sat on the narrow cot covered with a coarse wool blanket. The lock turned, the door swung open and Babarin, dressed in a blue suit and followed by an armed guard, entered.

“It is time,” Babarin said. “We go.” The armed man drew his pistol and pointed it at Semorov.

Semorov stood. “How many today?”

“Just you,” Babarin replied.

Semorov turned to the guard and smiled. “Today will be an easy day for you, yes? One execution will not over-work your finger.” The guard did not reply.

“This chit-chat is pointless,” Babarin said.

“I was always faithful, Babarin. You know that. She was my life. I loved her. I still do.” He paused, waiting for Babarin to say something. When Babarin didn’t, Semorov said, “I never betrayed the Party.”

“It is no use, Semorov. Nothing can be changed.” Babarin jerked his head toward the cell door. “I am surprised a man of your insight and intellect ignored that old piece of wisdom,” Babarin said as they left the cell.

The three men walked across the courtyard and stopped at the spot where Semorov had, from his second story window, seen many men get on their knees for the last time. Sometimes he wondered if the kneeling men ever prayed. He knew when his turn came he would not pray to a god that didn’t exist.

The rough cobblestones hurt Semorov’s knees. He felt something cold and hard press against the base of his skull, heard a metallic click. “Babarin!” he shouted. “What piece of wisdom did I ignore?”

“Be careful what you wish for. You may get it,” were the last words Semorov heard.

Breathless, by Angela Carlton

10/6/2022

They sent you away. You took a security position in another state at one of those glass buildings that rose up and into the sky. They needed someone who was trained and skilled with a gun. That was you.

I was in the park. You wanted me to meet you in the park when you told me you were leaving with her. I heard sounds of water trickling over the rocks in the fountain, and the katydids humming when I turned my face away.

Once again, someone was wandering off, roaming, leaving-leaving. All those images of my mother walking the streets without shoes, the whispers in her ears more frantic than her rapid thoughts as she talked to herself until she lost her way and would go missing for days. From a distance, a crow called out and circled the sky. I watched as the bird moved round and round with fierce speed until I found the courage to say, “Go, James, you go, follow your path.”

I didn’t hear you pleading, all those breathless words, promises that filled the air. I didn’t hear you, not a word. For you were my childhood pal, you were the safe, loyal friend until this year. Yes, it became, more so much more. You filled the gaps James, all those holes.

I walked on-on-on toward the stone fountain shuffling the coins in my pocket wondering if it was worth it to make a puny wish, wondering if I could bargain with God.

Deja Vu, All Over Again, by Doug Bartlett

3/6/2022

Danny woke up thinking this was the happiest day of his life. He would be released after serving twenty-eight years of a forty year sentence.

He was given fifty dollars, a bus ticket and a ride to the bus station.

Finally, he would be reunited with his wife and children. He exited the bus and walked to his house, actually it was his wife’s as he had transferred his right of ownership to her when he was first incarcerated. He discovered an unkempt yard and a foreclosure notice posted on the front door stating there were only two days left before the bank would be taking possession of it. He knocked on the door for several minutes before realizing that it was an exercise in futility.He took a few steps back and charged the door with his six-foot four-inch and two-hundred and sixty-five pound body. The door gave way and he plunged through the doorway. He suddenly found himself in the middle of the living room which was devoid of all furniture, as were all the rooms. However, he saw on the floor before him a note that had been left by his”beloved” wife.

Tears rolled down his cheeks as he read that his wife tried to hang on. Hang on to him, the children and the house…..but it all slipped away. The kids grew up rebellious and she couldn’t afford the mortgage payments anymore, despite selling the furniture.

But the dagger to his heart that went the deepest was the fact that she had found someone else and ran off with him.

Danny began to count his options, which included suicide.

He decided he wouldn’t make a rash decision and would sleep on it. He wadded up his coat and used it as a pillow as he stretched out on the floor.

He woke up the next morning with a clear mind. A large smile crossed his face as he knew what the answer was to his dilemma. He was on his way to commit a crime and would deliberately get caught.

In the parking lot of the liquor store he was planning on robbing he ran into his wife.

It turns out her “Prince Charming” wasn’t so charming.

“Danny , would you be willing to take me back?”

“Most definitely, I’m still in love with you. But what about the kids?”

“The kids have been in counseling and have turned into wonderful, responsible adults.”

“That’s great but where will we live, we’re losing the house?”

“Oh, that’s a mistake. The bank wasn’t supposed to foreclose. There are government funds under the Covid 19 Relief Act that will pay all the past mortgage payments and bring us current.”

As Danny was telling his wife how his luck was changing a police car pulled up.

An officer got out and asked, “Are you Danny McCormick.”

“Yes, I am.”

“You’re under arrest for breaking and entering and trespassing.”

Deja vu, all over again.

Queeny, by Angela Carlton

3/6/2022

They called her “Queeny.” Lilly Grace carried herself well in tight dresses, diamonds dripping on her wrists and ears. Once, she had been crowned the Queen of the dairy farm in town. No one ever forgot her. Everyone just called her “Queeny.”

After her reign, she married a wealthy man who built houses for the rich with his tools. Later he built Queeny, a cottage of stone complete with a balcony and a koi pond for her viewing pleasure.

Her life was as she wished until her baby was born and though baby Iris was beautiful with emerald green eyes and a head full of unruly curls, something was wrong. The child pitched violet temper tantrums and threw her toys. She didn’t like dolls or teddy bears. Instead, she curled up with the lizards, black ants, and bugs in the grass and spoke to them loudly as if they were friends, Gods.

Later when she was a teen, Iris’s father died suddenly of a heart attack. Still, Iris found her true escape in the yard and spoke to all the lizards, those wild insects in the woods sitting in her black make-up, fish nets, and gold shoes.

At last, Queeny wailed and wailed in deep despair until the sky finally opened up with harsh rain, as the lightning covered the town and the smack of the thunder was all anyone could hear.

Natures cry for the unhinged.

Soil, by Nihit Kaul

3/6/2022

It didn't need much. A handful of soil in which to find a footing. Something to hold on to with its tiny toes. Something to help keep its head up while it learned the ways of the world. Learned how the wind and the rain and sun would all beat down on it in their own ways. Helping hands that could just as easily uproot it.

It didn't need much. Just some time to grow - just a little more. A few days where it could keep its head down and spirits up. Where it could live life voraciously through those around it. The tall trees in the distance and the green grass soothing its tiny fluttering heart. The dew tickling its face like a mother as it lovingly caressed the tiny being trying valiantly to come to life.

It didn't need much. Just some hopes and dreams. Vaporware! That can't be asking for too much? Dreams of being out there in the wild one day. All grown up and wise. Teaching other saplings the ways of the world. Hopes of reaching new heights with every passing day. Hopes of having roots so big, no storm could upend. Its strong branches home for many birds. Its broken, discarded twigs becoming parts of warm and welcoming nests. Its shadow a cool respite from the scorching sun for many struggling to find their own roots. Its life a meaningful footprint in the sands of time.

It didn't need much. It didn't have much. Perhaps, it was all too much. And so, out of the blue, came that gush of air that blew all the little that it had. The soil scattered to the winds. Its tiny fingers forcefully unclenched. Uprooted, it crumbled under the weight of nothing around it to hold on to. It became one with that nothingness and went back to where it came from. Where was that? Where do unanswered prayers go?

"I am very sorry, ma'am, but you have had a miscarriage."

She heard those words in slow motion. They took their time reaching her as they etched themselves in her mind. They were meant to shock her out of her stupor. A slap on the face. Telling her something that she already long knew. But all that they did was pull her eyelids down with the weight of that nothingness. What did it mean? A part of her, literally, had just died, and she was supposed to just keep living. Crying. Hoping. Braving the elements and their best intentions. Was it all for nothing? Was it?

Maybe. But isn't all life ephemeral, no matter how long it is? Isn't it always just a blip of time in that grand drumbeat echoing through the universe? Or could it be that this story was the purpose of its life? It lives on through it. It pours into you through these words and finds the soil that it needed for its roots to take hold.

And so it lives on.

The Enemy Within, by Robert P. Bishop

3/6/2022

After long years of bloody and vicious combat the enemy was defeated and the victorious soldiers were brought home from faraway battlefields. Clad in resplendent uniforms that concealed deep wounds the triumphant soldiers marched proudly behind brass bands playing music that thrilled the soul.

The soldiers paraded down the streets of towns large and small across the land. Colorful battle flags whipped in the wind above the columns. The citizens, raised to a frenzy by the euphoria of victory at last, lined the streets, cheered and clapped and proclaimed the soldiers Saviors of the Country.

Soon after the victory parades ended the people became uneasy. A feeling of disquiet crept into their lives. We do not have an enemy, they lamented. We have no one to fear or to hate. In their desperation for an enemy to confront, the people turned on each other. Alliances formed, hateful slogans were written and broadcast nation-wide. Accusations, lies, and half-truths became common. Finger pointing and petty grievances grew into intractable animosities that divided the people into opposing groups. Battle lines were drawn, and the people went to war among themselves.

When the war ended there were no victory parades, no brass bands playing rousing patriotic music, no colorful battle flags whipping bravely in the wind. Stunned survivors, clad in rags and tatters, stood amid the ashes and asked, “Why did we do this to ourselves?”

One Plus One Ain't Two, by Jeremy Leariwala

3/6/2022

After the fifteen minutes break, having had a cup of tea and snacks, everyone came back to the conference room refreshed. From the look in the eyes, they were all enjoying the sessions and looked forward to another interesting-interactive engagement.

Majority of those in audience were opinionated community members-experienced and very resourceful. The presenter walked to the whiteboard and wrote: SYNERGY. He paused then stepped away, for a moment.

“For the next half hour we will be looking at synergy. And, to introduce you to the topic, I want all of you to think about this simple sum...” He went back to the board and scribbled.

‘1+1=?’ Even before he turned to face the attendants...

“One plus one is not equal to two.” One of the men shouted.

The presenter felt like frowning. Towards the far end of the room, someone-a farmer, raised a hand.

“Go on, please.” He urged him to speak.

“One plus one is more than two!” Said the farmer.

“But why?” The room turned attention to him. He cleared his throat and answered...

“It’s more than two, because one worker teaming with another worker will achieve more than two quarrelling workers can.” Here, the presenter turned to the first man who had shouted earlier.

“Kindly, tell us more of what you had in mind.”

“One wife plus one concubine is not two families. Unless...” The audience giggled, draining away his voice.

Immediately, another hand shot up to the left. There was murmuring all over the place.

“Alright fellows!” The presenter waved. “All of you are correct. This is an adult class and all answers are right. Let us proceed, please.”

The Fortune-Teller, by Angela Carlton

Star Power, by Don Tassone

When the Full Moon Comes, by Padmini Krishnan

The Bottom Line, by Jim Bartlett

A Fishy Farewell, by Samantha Michelle

Soulless, by Mimi Grouse

Semorov's Mistake, by Robert P. Bishop

Breathless, by Angela Carlton

Deja Vu, All Over Again, by Doug Bartlett

Queeny, by Angela Carlton

Soil, by Nihit Kaul

The Enemy Within, by Robert P. Bishop

One Plus One Ain't Two, by Jeremy Leariwala

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