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The Dream Machine, by Aaron Han

21/6/2024

"That's enough, I quit!" Leo shouted, slamming his fist. For a decade, the 'successful' physicist had battled depression after losing the Nobel Prize he had promised his deceased wife. Desperate, Leo turned to the ‘Dream Machine,’ a device allowing users to consult their younger selves through dreams.

The machine glowed and within moments, Leo plunged into a deep, surreal dream state.

He found himself in a familiar yet distant place, the orphanage where he had spent part of his childhood. The scent of old wood filled the air. In the yard, he saw his 7-year-old self, playing with a toy airplane, smiling, despite being an orphan who had lost his mother.

Leo approached the boy. "Hey, kid," he called out. The young boy looked up.

"Who are you?" young Leo asked.

"I'm...you, from the future," old Leo replied, kneeling down to meet his younger self's gaze.

Young Leo’s eyes sparkled. "Wow, really? What's it like being old?"

Leo chuckled. "It's...complicated. But I only have a minute left. I have a question for you. What's the meaning of life? Why should I continue when I've failed to achieve what kept me going?"

Young Leo furrowed his brow. After a moment, he smiled. "I sure don’t know what the meaning of life is. I just know I am happy when I play with friends and do what I like."

Leo blinked. "That's it? "

Young Leo nodded. "Yeah! Like flying this plane or painting pictures."

The dream began to fade and Leo woke up. He realized he had been chasing the wrong things, trying to fill the void left by his wife's death with professional success. But true happiness wasn’t in the Nobel Prize or any other accolade; it was in finding joy in everyday moments.

Leo started small, reconnecting with hobbies he had long abandoned. He took up painting, something he had loved as a child but had set aside for his career. He spent more time outdoors, enjoying the beauty of nature. He reconnected with friends and family, strengthening relationships he had neglected.

One day, while painting in the park, a little girl approached. "That's a pretty picture," she said, looking at his canvas.

"Thank you," Leo replied, smiling. "Do you like to paint?"

"Yes! But I don’t have a brush, and my mom cannot buy it right now.”

Leo handed her a spare. "Would you like to paint with me?"

The girl nodded eagerly, and they spent the afternoon painting together. As Leo watched her, he saw a reflection of his younger self, finding happiness in the simple act of creating.

Through these small changes, Leo discovered a renewed purpose. He understood that while he couldn't change the past, he could shape his future. Happiness wasn't a destination; it was a journey, found in the smallest aspects of life and in doing what he loved. And for the first time in years, Leo felt truly content.

Shackled, by John O’Keefe

21/6/2024

“Sean, go ahead order whatever you like. Let me recommend the corned beef on brioche.”

“Frank, I hear a small still voice whispering that you’re not going to publish ‘Subjugated’ after all.”

“Well…”

“You son-of-a-bitch!”

“Sean, listen…“

“No, you listen, Frank. A fortnight ago you sent me an email that the piece had been accepted by the board. Later that day you also left a long message on my phone, praising the article, a truly thought-provoking story if ever there was one.”

“Well, turns out, it’s not a good fit.”

“So why the sudden change of heart?”

“It’s way too political for us. ‘Subjugated’ is clearly about brainwashing, obviously not an issue in America. First Amendment, ring the bell? So at a minimum it’s misplaced paranoia. Maybe leftwing political propaganda, which I would not put past you either. It’s definitely no literary work. My job in the publishing business is to attract talent who’d write nice poems, interesting stories, creative essays. I don’t court controversy, especially the wrong kind. It’s lose-lose.”

“Okay, Frank, you’ve just convinced me that self-censorship is the rule, not the exception.”

“Free country, believe whatever you want. We have thousands of readers, most expecting to get a respite from the daily hurly-burly when they sit down to read in the evening or on weekend. They want their minds to freely travel to a nicer world for an hour or so.”

“No, there’s no nicer world, especially considering the Thought Police is trying to bombard our so-called free minds day in, day out.”

“Sean, you’re wrong, of course, but why would I want to attract unnecessary attention? Especially now that a bunch of academicians, journalists, artists got blacklisted in one fell swoop.”

“I am getting a headache here, Frank. You know what, I don’t give a shit, I just send ‘Subjugated’ somewhere else.”

“Good luck with that. I bet they’ll reject it one by one, and more or less for the same reason; it’s too political and lacks literary content. Unless you find a libertarian- socialist or nativist publication, the subversive kind that only the FBI reads.”

“Then I’ll send it to Canada, how about that?”

“Why not to the Ministry of Truth? The Canadian version of free speech is that scores of small businesses have lost their licenses for mischaracterizing customers’ gender.”

“Okay, England then.”

“Ever read the news? A couple years ago it took a single phone call to the Labour party headquarters to fire Corbyn and Ken Livingstone. One call and their asses were grass.”

“Was that a local call or international?”

“It was certainly not a prank call.”

“Fascinating. Okay then, I’m going to submit ‘Subjugated’ to an Australian lit-mag.”

“Really? To the kangaroo people? You know they spend their entire existence upside down? The Earth is spherical and gravity’s doing its thing. Why do you think those Aussies have to sleep on their stomachs?”

Royal Elegance, by Roberta Beach Jacobson

14/6/2024

The insurance office where I work asks us to wear red for Valentine’s Day week. I always comply, having an an ample supply of red sweatshirts and t-shirts.

I amp it up a notch. Every year I wear tiaras that special week of the shortest month. I sparkle! My boss has named me the Valentine Queen.

February is very sweet at work. The week of February 14th, we find candy bars hidden in our desk drawers, chocolate-covered cherries in the break area, gift bags full of decadent treats. Nobody remembers why or when this tradition started. We never dress up to celebrate any other holidays.

Who says you can’t relive your childhood? As a kid, I was a princess every Halloween. This adds up to a royal assortment of rhinestone tiaras, now stored in a box in my hallway closet. While I appreciate the chance to model them again decades later, it saddens me I have to revert to being a commoner 51 weeks of every year.

Chef Eternal, by John O’Keefe

14/6/2024

There are two photos hanging on the wall in the Neapolitan restaurant: the first is Diego Maradona’s (1960-2020), who played seven seasons for the SSC Napoli soccer team, and is still considered a saint by older Neapolitanos; the other is Cesare Stellino’s (1946-2020), the “ristorante’s” famous owner/chef who cooked for royalty, artists and Maradona himself. According to reliable sources, the two died on the same dreadful November day.

Stellino’s reputation is the main reason we’ve chosen this particular place for dinner.

Even with my rudimentary Italian I understand the head waiter telling us he knows today is our Thanksgiving, and if we want they can serve us turkey a la Stellino. Frankly, not a single one of us had jenny roast in mind while touring Italy, especially not here in the “trattoria” district of Naples. Okay, what the hell, “tutto bene.”

He admits, turkey is not a favorite cooking poultry in Italy, but he can assure us “nessun problema.”

After we take our first bites into our Thanksgiving meal thousands of miles from home, we conclude that the assumption about Cesare Stellino’s immortality was greatly exaggerated.

Little League, by Tony Covatta

7/6/2024

The Rossi family lived on the edge of working class Germantown, site of skinny, low white clapboard railroad shacks. Their street was marginally nicer, sporting an embryonic subdivision, tiny two story brick edifices crowded together—one of them the Rossi’s. This setting was one of several reasons young Gino Rossi felt out of place. Others: his schoolmates’ fathers worked in factories or construction while his ran a small luncheonette. His housewife mother lived with the premise that the Rossis were too good for the place and the people they knew. Worse, Gino faced misfortune as the “brain” of his grade school class. His classmates were only enduring school until real life, grinding, boring work, caught up with them. Gino’s actually trying to learn engendered not admiration but hostility.
Reading the local sports pages one morning, Gino noticed that the Germantown Little League was holding open tryouts. Sports fan Gino signed up and surprised himself by playing well. He earned a spot on the Lone Wolf VFW Post team, a middling squad, perennial also rans to the Shelby Shell eleven. He loved wearing his uniform, one of the lucky fifteen, spending hours on the splintered bench at dusty, bald St. Michael’s ball diamond, part of something bigger than himself. Still, alas, an outsider. Most of the Lone Wolfs knew one another otherwise. They came directly from the railroad shacks hard up against the field.
Many were better players than Gino. His enthusiasm did not make up for dismal performance. He achieved good field, no hit status. quickly. That did not stop him from developing a case of hero worship. Tommy Byrd, pitcher for the champion Shelby Avenue Shell team, a year older than Gino, was a lithe tow-headed blond, tall for his age, a rangy lefty with a strong bat and wicked fastball. Enormously self-assured, he wore his uniform well. Like many others, Gino admired Tommy. The superstar ignored insignificant Gino, neglecting even saying “Hi.”
Gino didn’t discard, only laid aside, idolizing Tommy after they aged out of Little League. At fifteen, Gino spent little time playing ball. He rode his no speed bicycle aimlessly around the streets of Germantown. One Saturday afternoon, close by the Shelby Shell, ironically enough, he passed an idling, parked car. He noticed its passengers, Tommy and his longtime girlfriend, Marilyn Cassidy, and another couple, all in suits and dresses. News Gino had half absorbed in neighborhood scuttlebutt flashed into consciousness. Tommy had gotten Marilyn pregnant. This was the day of their shotgun wedding. Tommy was dropping out of school to become a bricklayer.
Gino visualized Tommy muscling hods up wobbly ladders, hands and face gritty, clad in worn Carhartts, gray, smeared with cement dust. No immaculate baseball uniform. Gino felt very young astride his shabby bike on the oily asphalt. He sensed that Tommy’s early prowess would get him nowhere. Gino foresaw problems ahead, but knew he was headed in another direction.

Poison Apple Complaint Department, by Haley Carter

7/6/2024

“Poison Apple Farms. How may I help you?”

A distraught-sounding woman pants into the phone. “Yes, hello? I have a complaint. Three people fell over dead at my luncheon this afternoon.”

Walter leans back in his chair. Here we go again. “I’m sorry to hear that, ma’am. Am I to understand that you didn’t want them to die?”

“Of course not!” she barks. "I am absolutely mortified. The entire neighborhood will be talking about this for months. I’m the president of the HOA for crying out loud! It’ll be a miracle if my neighbors ever trust me again.”

“I see,” Walter says, doing his best to sound sympathetic. “Didn’t you see the warning label on the crate, ma’am? It would have been in large bold letters.” Walter takes a sip of his coffee. Ooh, still too hot.

“Is that what that was? I’m afraid I didn’t pay it any attention.”

“And the skull stickers attached to the apples, ma’am? Didn’t you notice those?”

“I assumed the skull and bones meant they were for weight loss.”

Walter palms his forehead. “No ma’am. It means poison, as our name suggests.”

“How was I supposed to know? Seriously, you should give people more warning for something as deadly as poison apples.”

“The cashier that rang up your groceries didn’t warn you? They’re obligated by law to do so.”

“Is that what she was saying? I couldn’t tell you, I had my earphones in.”

Walter rolls his eyes. “I’m sorry ma’am. It sounds like we fulfilled our obligation to provide adequate warning.”

“I don’t care,” the woman snaps. “I’d like a refund. Three of my friends are dead!”

“Alright. Just calm down. I’ll transfer you to our refund department. One moment, please.” Walter hangs up the phone.

“Another one?” Ralph asks from a nearby cubicle.

Walter shakes his head. “There’s just no pleasing some folks.”

“Tell me about it.” Ralph laughs. “I just talked to someone upset about the apples not being deadly enough!”

“If only I had a nickel for every time I’ve heard that one. You ready to punch out?”

“Yeah,” Ralph says. “Let me get my coat and lunch. I’ve been so swamped I didn’t have time to eat it.”

Walter begins to comment that he’ll wait then watches in horror as Ralph pulls an apple with a company sticker from his bag.
“Ralph!” Walter cries, swatting the apple from his hand. “That’s one of ours!”

Ralph’s eyes widen as realization dawns. “I took it out earlier to eat but got distracted. I must have put the wrong one back in the sack!”

“Maybe don’t bring apples for lunch anymore, yeah?”

“Right. Good idea.”

“It’d be a shame to lose you,” Walter says, giving his friend a pat on the back as they head toward the elevator. “You’re the only other associate in our department to make it past a year. I’ve grown attached to you.”

“Thanks, man.”

Sophia, by Angela Carlton

7/6/2024

I wanted to name you Sophia, Sophie for short. It’s a cheerful name, there’s something sweet about how it rolls off the tongue. But he named you Eva, it’s a bit sharp, bold sounding. it’s not the vision I had for you when I brought you into this world.

It’s true I do have another daughter, but I didn’t know I was pregnant when I held you. After your father sent me home to live with my mother, I found out another baby was on the way. It wasn’t planned, but I made it work in secrecy with the help of my own mother.

I need you to know that your father escaped with you. Unfortunately, I was broken and too weak to fight him. I had no idea where he was and had to make peace with knowing that if you chose to find me one day, it was meant to be. I don’t have many memories of you before he took you away, but I do remember your first word was Mama. I do remember your tiny fingers gripping mine when I looked into your wide eyes. I remember you smiled and cooed a lot. I remember you were a happy baby for the most part and that’s what I chose to hold onto when he ripped you out of my life. I remembered your sweet gestures, that feeling of a child looking into her mother’s eyes with absolute, complete trust.
I do, I remember all of this.

I remembered it when I was down-down, in a black depression like my life had been sucked right out of me and it had, truly so I didn’t take my meds, the ones that balanced my brain. No, I didn’t, instead I walked the streets humming songs trying to find my way. I searched and searched and searched for the path, a beam of light that might bring me to you. I roamed around, out of my mind, until the blue lights flashed-flashed, and they sedated me time and time again until I became weary, lifeless, in a trance so I finally swallowed the damn pills and found some clarity.

See, one day, I woke up and realized that my grief for you was keeping me from living, and that I still had another daughter to live for.

I still had one more chance.

Few are the Winners, by John O’Keefe

7/6/2024

Another Friday night at the poker table.

He is dealt nines, hits the set on the flop, bets the pot, but at the end his opponent shows a six-to-ten straight. He chugs his beer. “Smooth as a Playboy bunny’s butt,” he says and orders another. He counts his chips; about fifth of his stack is already gone. Still, he knows from experience that luck turns, you can’t force it, but when it does turn you’d better be ready.

His next hand, pocket AA, is rivered out by trip deuces. He senses he should have bet at least pot or higher before the flop; the winner held 7-2 offsuit in hand, the worst possible hole cards in Texas Holdem. Well, such is life, he wanted to trap the other guy and ended up trapping himself. As he drinks his beer he realizes that to change his luck he has to change his drink. He waves to the waitress. “Double moonshine, miss.”

An old road gambler sitting on his right whispers to him, “You know how to tell who’s the fish at the poker table?” He says no, he doesn’t know. The old man smirks. “If you don’t know who’s the fish then you’re the fish.” He recognizes the witticism but decides it was still worth listening to because there was a unique Western tang to the way the geezer told it. He nods his head, drinks his hooch and orders another one.

“Better watch the booze,” someone warns him. He shrugs. “I drink, therefore I am.” He looks at his cards and announces, “Literally, if I stopped drinking I would die. I would check out, croak, buy the farm, kick the bucket.” To stay alive, he orders another whiskey. Then he goes all-in on unsuited KQ. “Bubble, bubble, toil and trouble,” he says.

Back home, climbing out of his car he shouts into the starless night, “I am Paralichthys Dentatus, and…” The rest is obscenities.

His inarticulate tirade wakes up the neighbors. “Flounder is drunk again!” Unfortunately, living in an aquarium, they cannot swim to a nicer neighborhood.

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Friday Flash Fiction is primarily a site for stories of 100 words or fewer, and our authors are expected to take on that challenge if they possibly can. Most stories of under 150 words can be trimmed and we do not accept submissions of 101-150 words.

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