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There's No Smoke Without Fire, by Steven Lemprière

27/6/2025

Loitering at bus stops was an indulgence on Brian’s part, the kind only a cigarette could address. But tonight, with just a wintery fog for company, Brian kicked his heels. But then, shortly before his bus was due, a young woman joined him and pulled a pack from her bag. The same brand he once smoked. Hackles raised, he’d inched closer.

Brian salivated when the sulphurous odour of a spent match—now discarded, and littering the pavement—drifted by on a chilly breeze. Quivered when she took a long slow pull that scarred the nighttime mist; then sighed after she exhaled, when the curl of smoke he so desired wafted past, tantalisingly out of reach.

Brian shimmied a little nearer, careful not to garnish her attention.

“How long’s it been?” She’d startled him.

“Sorry?”

“Since your last cigarette? I noticed you fidgeting, crabbing toward me, eyeing up the smoke.”

“Nearly two years.”

“How short of that milestone are you?”

Brian’s grin was answer enough.

“Would you like one?”

Brian coughed. “What?”

“Two years and you’re still that desperate. Go on. Take one.”

“My wife would kill me.”

“Well, here’s another nail in your coffin,” she laughed. “Look, we’re all dying. Why not enjoy yourself while doing it? ”

He peered at her extended hand, and the promise it held. For sure, he’d regret it, but the warming glow he’d so sorely missed would be a comfort, however fleeting. He took the cigarette, smiling acceptance as his fingers brushed against hers, and leant into the lit match she cradled.

Straightening up, and having rekindled his love affair with nicotine, Brian was unperturbed as he viewed his bus’s taillights dissolve into a now not so gloomy fog.

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Juliet November Tango, by Nelly Shulman

27/6/2025

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“Tango or foxtrot?”
Her ochre hair gleamed in the dim light of the cheap lamp. Outside, the merciless November wind owned the empty Montreal streets, whirling fresh snow across the cobblestones and slapping handfuls of sludge onto the windshields of the late cars.
“Tango,” Juliet answered, and Victor smiled.
“Bravo.”
The hotel was boarded up for winter, and echoes filled the empty corridors. The man she now knew as Victor had put her in the old-fashioned room with a four-poster bed and a radiator that emanated blessed warmth. Juliet had no idea what Victor’s real name was, but her trained ear caught a faint trace of a Russian accent in his voice.
In the dull reception area, next to a wooden statue of a Zulu warrior, hung some kind of old pennant with Cyrillic letters. Juliet remembered the alphabet from her university years.
“You might want to put it away,” she said, lighting her cigarette. “Visitors might know what the Alpha is.”
Victor shrugged.
“There are no visitors here—ever—and I like to think about my past. I burned my uniform after the war, but this little thing is harmless. I embroidered it myself in occupational therapy.”
He was missing three fingers on his right hand.
The sounds of tango, emanating from an ancient turntable, filled the hall, and Juliet let the music overtake her body, washing away kilos of tiredness accumulated on flights from India to Lima and from Lima to Quebec. Names and faces swirled in her head. Mike in India, Sierra in Peru, someone else on a layover between Asia and South America. New passports and new names.
Tomorrow the Delta team would strike again. Juliet looked at his dry, dark face, made of corners and creases. Victor slid a glass of whisky across the shaky table.
“Drink, and maybe your X-ray eyes will lose their sharpness,” he smiled.
“That’s why Delta employs me,” she said, taking the drink. The whisky caressed her mouth and Juliet inhaled the salty seaside air of her childhood.
“True,” Victor admitted, showing her the phone. “This is Charlie, and he’ll pick you up after tomorrow’s event.”
It was always an event or a job. They avoided the real word—just like the real names.
“You go Yankee-side and get lost in the woods,” Victor continued. “Wait until Papa finishes playing golf and returns to D.C. Romeo will drive you from the cabin to the capital, and the rest will end up in the history books.”
“One day somebody’ll get an Oscar for a film about us,” Juliet said, draining the last dregs of whisky and extending her hand. “Shall we dance?”
He was supple and lithe, like a wild beast—but Juliet could tame any weapon known to man. She led, and Victor followed, until the last sound of the tango dissolved in the plaintive howl of the wind.

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Too Late, by Don Tassone

20/6/2025

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She looked across the room at her husband, sprawled across the sofa, dozing off as he watched TV.

For a moment, she tried to think of him as he was when he was a young man. When he was handsome and fit, when he was confident and ambitious, when he was fun and energetic.

She had loved him then, madly. When they were together, she was euphoric. When they were apart, she ached for him.

Over time, though, he changed. His drive waned, and his looks faded. He retired and traded his suits for sweats. He stopped shaving. He seldom left home. He was quiet and always seemed a little sad.

To his wife, he had become a colossal disappointment. He bore little resemblance to the man she had married. She could hardly look at him anymore. She barely spoke to him.

Still, he loved her. Once he brought her flowers. The next day, he found them in the trash. He didn’t bring her flowers again.

One morning, when he didn’t come downstairs, she called up to him. When he didn’t answer, she went up to his room. He was in bed, under the covers.

“Wake up, you bum!” she yelled from the doorway.

But he didn’t move.

Now she lives alone. She wishes she had asked her husband how he was doing. She wishes she had kept those flowers.

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1600 Transylvania Avenue, by Eric Delong

20/6/2025

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“Silvia, have you noticed that the boss is acting odd lately?”, the Vice asked the press secretary.

She thought for a moment and carefully replied: “In what way sir?”

“He spends the whole day in his residence sleeping. Then he’s up all night, tweeting.”

The Veep stroked his beard, deep in thought, and added: “Did you notice how he behaved last night at the state dinner?”

“Now that you mentioned it, yes. He showed up late in the evening and ate nothing. He did have a glass of what I guess was tomato juice. And -- I’ll be honest with you sir. The way he stares at me gave me the creeps.”

“I’m concerned. He hasn’t been the same since his meeting with Vladimir, two weeks ago.”

In his quarters, the President looked out he window at the deepening twilight.

He thought: My opponents say I’ve been draining the public’s lifeblood for years. He smiled, a disturbing Cheshire cat grin, revealing two prominent fangs. And now I get to do it for real. He opened the window. A black cloud enveloped him, quickly dissipating to reveal a large black bat, flying widdershins around the room.

Who should I visit tonight? Yes! The Ex-President! He’s half dead already! Red eyes burning bright, the hideous creature flew out the open window, into the wide darkling night.

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Salad Days, by Steven Lemprière

20/6/2025

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“Tomato Tarte Tatin?” Sophie questioned, and not in her customary soft-toned whisper as she glanced over Tom’s notes for this evening’s celebratory dinner with her parents. No, her voice’s timbre was more of a holler, to be heard over the relentless murmur of the kitchen’s stand mixer busily whirring away as her husband gradually added ice-cold water to the bowl. “Surely a Tarte Tatin is a dessert. Tomatoes are a vegetable?”

“The farmers’ market had a glut of some interesting heirloom varieties this morning. You don’t see them very often, and they’ve a shorter season that’s ending soon. Besides, they don’t store well, so the stall slashed their prices to clear them out.”

“And you can’t resist a bargain.” She interjected.

“You know me,” and in riposte to her mildly sarcastic tone, “by the way, they’re a fruit from the nightshade family.”

“Yeah, right? Next you’ll be telling me the same goes for a cucumber,” but before Tom could confirm this to be the case, she continued. “Don’t get me wrong, you know I love your cooking, but my father’s old-school. A meat and potatoes man. He’ll find fault in anything fancy. Last year, it was a hair in the Vichyssoise you made for the first course. It was grey. I’m pretty sure it was his own. Guaranteed, he’ll poke fun at you. I can see it now, something about a man’s place being in his workshop, not the kitchen. Tonight, let’s not supply the ammunition. I don’t want the dining table to become a battleground. By all means, use your fancy tomatoes. Maybe in a side salad, but please, please could you make something else for the starter? Perhaps a terrine? You can still show off your skills, and here’s an idea. You could pass it off as a cold meatloaf.”

“Come on Sophie, you can plead all you like. Look, the kitchen’s my domain. But hang on for a minute. How about this for a solution? I could use the deadly variety of nightshade for your father’s serving. That would put an end to his carping.”

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The Council of Silk, by Nelly Shulman

13/6/2025

They came one by one, silk robes rustling, hair streaming down their backs or towering over their elegant heads in grand chignons. The Council banners unfolded over the round stone table, hewn from precious marble in times immemorial—red and orange, purple and blue, pink and green, black and white, brown and silver. The circle was closed.
The golden banner remained folded, waiting for the moment when the voting would be done and the imperial crown, its sharp spikes rising in the middle of the table, would adorn the head of the Immortal Empress.
One of them was destined to leave their planet tonight, traveling through space to her future consort, never to return home again. The ceremony was always conducted at sunset, when the endless ocean, nursing the granite mass of the only island in its midst, was at its most beautiful. The fiery star on the horizon bathed in the deep waters, coloring them the shade of blood.
The tall windows were open, and the wind played with the scraps of silk they had to place in the carved chest, guarded by an angelic-looking girl—one of the future cohorts. The other maidens stood silent guard next to the windows and the majestic ornamental door, waiting for the twelfth strike of the clock.
The twelve around the table had also once been like that—pure and eager, carefully selected from all the planets of the Empire for a life of seclusion, duty, and training. Brought here when they were barely able to walk or talk, they knew nothing else, having forgotten their parents and been given new names.
The clock echoed in the hall, and they rose from their chairs. One by one, they approached the chest, dropping the silk scraps until the few colored pieces were buried beneath the abundance of white.
The choice was made and the golden banner fell down. The young woman with a mass of wheaten curls and eyes the color of deep azure bowed to her sisters, putting the crown on her head.
The White, like the others, had been taught never to be angry or resentful, so she only smiled, as the others left the room one by one. From now on, the Council of Silk would follow her orders, sent with Imperial Dispatches, and choose wives for governors and generals. She would never utter a word or move in public—becoming the living goddess and embodiment of the Imperial spirit, the one who is forever silent and still.
The maidens had also left the hall, and the ocean darkened under the shadow of the monstrous spaceship descending from the twilight sky. Her time had come and, spreading her arms, the White jumped from the window. Catching the wind, she soared toward the ship.

House of Whoops, by Graeme Copland

13/6/2025

Derek pointed to the cold-food section. “Anything worth having there?”

Doris walked over and looked in. She shook her head. “Some bashed tubs of yoghurt and a couple of packs of dried grapes. That’s about it.”

Derek was annoyed. For years he had been coming for the Whoops discounted food at this supermarket and he had been hugely rewarded for his determination. “Never pay a penny more than you need to” was Derek’s motto in life.

But that was before the low-cost housing had been built in the neighbouring estate. Now, boatloads of people on low incomes would regularly swoop into the supermarket at the time prices were being cut. They’d stand around, block access to the bargains and generally prevent Derek from maximising his spending power and grabbing whoops-priced groceries.

On this day, he and Doris had arrived 15 minutes earlier than usual. Derek reasoned that an early assault on the cold food section would be a useful exercise and, even if the food had not been fully discounted at that time, at least he and Doris would be in the prime position to pounce when the price was right.

“Stand here beside me,” Derek instructed his wife. “We’ll create a blockade.”

Dutifully, Doris took her position beside her husband and they locked arms.

“Excuse me,” said a diminutive, elderly lady pushing a small trolley. She was trying to see what was available in the fridge. “If I could just squeeze past…”

“Nothing to buy here, love” said Derek as he wrestled the trolly from the lady’s grasp and pushed it further down the aisle. “Run along, now,”

The old lady felt a little put out and shuffled after her trolley.

Derek retook his position and looked around for the shop assistants. He had expected them to return and further discount the foodstuffs but no-one approached. “Strange,” he said to Doris. Then suddenly he had a thought. “Stay here” he ordered and took off down the aisle. Dorris watched him go and he disappeared round the corner.

Within seconds he was back. “Quickly, woman. They’re repricing the stuff on the other side. We’re at the wrong side of the aisle!”

They both set off at speed and turned the corner. In front of them at the newly-created discounted food section, mayhem had erupted. People were clamouring and shouting, pushing and shoving and generally behaving in a manner one never sees at M&S.

Derek pushed his way into the melee. A large, tattooed man stood at the front of the group next to the Whoops food. Derek tried to reach past.

“Oi! Wait your turn.” The large man said. “I was ‘ere first.”

“I think you’ll find I was here well before you, my good man.” said Derek with the manner of someone used to getting his own way and he pushed the large man to the side.

Later that afternoon, Doris carried a bashed tub of yoghurt and a pack of dried grapes into the hospital at visiting time.

Gastronomic Entrepreneur Par Excellence, by Cheryl Dahlstrand

13/6/2025

The chef/owner called on his brother, the doctor. He was worried.

“Hey Dr. Bro, I noticed many of my patrons’ stomachs growling at the restaurant. Could be a bad sign.”

“It actually could be good,” his brother reflected. “Medical professionals listen to stomachs all the time and learn a lot that way. I’ll lend you my stethoscope. Try it for a month and see what you find out.”

After the allotted time, the chef called with an update. “Dr. Bro, I took your advice, and you were right. After the growling, there were many positive comments. True gastronomic stomachs even made suggestions. For instance: ‘try finely minced scallions instead of chives.’ Sure enough, I modified the recipe, and more patrons ordered the appetizer. So, I decided to diversify my business model.”

“What? Franchise? New restaurant across town?”

The chef winked. “Actually, matchmaking.”

“Matchmaking?” His brother appeared doubtful. “Sounds like a separate business.”

“No, absolutely not. I selected my most popular dishes as determined by my male stomach data. Then I opened up cooking classes for single women who were interested in attracting a mate.”

“The way to a man’s heart is through his stomach,” observed the doctor “A well-known medical fact.”

“I have held three classes so far. They resulted in four marriage proposals. It was so successful I decided to take up your franchise suggestion.”

“It may require a different marketing angle,” the doctor advised.

The chef smiled broadly. “That’s exactly where you come in. You and your buddies listen to a lot of stomachs- could you put in a good word for me?”

The Year of the Locusts, by Don Tassone

13/6/2025

Thousands of worker ants fanned out across the forest floor to find food, leaves and twigs. In an orderly fashion, they then bore them back to their home and queen.

It took them months, but they laid up supplies enough to nourish and protect every member of the colony through the long winter.

But this year an enemy was watching: a swarm of ravenous locusts. Perched in the trees, they saw the ants as easy prey, in part because they knew they would do anything, even sacrifice themselves, to protect the colony.

“How foolish they are,” said the locust king. “They could leave the weak behind and run for cover. But they risk their lives to save others. They’ll make a good meal.”

The following morning, the locusts swooped in with a loud, continuous buzzing and attacked the ants, who huddled together, surrounding the injured, the old, eggs, larvae and the queen.

There were many more ants than locusts, but locusts can fly, they have killer jaws and their appetite is nearly insatiable. By day’s end, they’d decimated the colony, whose hardiest members burrowed deep underground, saving the queen.

“Suckers,” laughed the locust king, devouring the last of his feast. “Losers.”

Then the locusts, fat and happy, flew away to find new prey in another forest.

But not for long because the average lifespan of a locust is only four months. Ants, by contrast, can live for years, their queens for decades.

Soon the locusts, too weak to attack, their selfish lives ebbing away, began to fall dead to the forest floor, where detritivores consumed their carcasses.

All the while, the ants carried on, forming columns, marching, gathering supplies, fortifying their home, raising new generations of ants and protecting the colony, where values and wisdom reside and abide.

There's No Smoke Without Fire, by Steven Lemprière

Juliet November Tango, by Nelly Shulman

Too Late, by Don Tassone

1600 Transylvania Avenue, by Eric Delong

Salad Days, by Steven Lemprière

The Council of Silk, by Nelly Shulman

House of Whoops, by Graeme Copland

Gastronomic Entrepreneur Par Excellence, by Cheryl Dahlstrand

The Year of the Locusts, by Don Tassone

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