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Damage, by Eric Smith

31/7/2015

 
Billy found a dull razor in her medicine cabinet, lathered his face with some dirty hand soap, and went to work on his face. In the bedroom she was still sleeping, face down, a bare shoulder blade showing a blue panther tattoo with blood dripping from its mouth. Her underwear, shirt, pants, and boots lay scattered on the floor.

Last night when he’d sat across from her he expected she’d tell him to get lost—he couldn’t believe his luck. Most men go for a woman like her unless she’s been around the block too many times. Some guys get particular about that sort of thing, even these days—but Billy wasn’t one of them. He knew immediately they’d go home together so he tried not to give too much away. He’d found that the more you talked, the more likely it was you’d reveal a deal breaker—a political belief or some objectionable biographical fact, large or small. And you never knew what it was going to be. She’d ordered the meatloaf and Kale dinner with mashed potatoes and beef gravy.

This babe kept it all put together—and would, at least for the time being. Her clean black hair fell down her back and she had one of those crooked parts that seemed all the rage. She had full, natural eyebrows, no bangs, and few forehead lines. Her makeup was well done without being overdone. She drank her coffee while waiting for her food, first pouring in three creamers followed by a stream of sugar from the shaker. He drank his black and decided against dinner.

She couldn’t have bought those clothes recently. Why would someone buy anything that tight—she was gapping between two snaps of her cowgirl shirt and Billy checked to see what kind of bra she had on—she needed well-made underwires to keep those babies up, which were definitely real—he could always tell the genuine articles by the way they moved. He noticed this lady’s boots and jeans were worn. Good at judging ages, Billy put this chick at about thirty-two. When she’d ordered she kept her voice low, breathy. He imagined she would have been an alto if she sang in the choir, but he couldn’t imagine this lady in church—which wasn’t fair, he thought. Before picking up a fork, she closed her eyes and looked down for about ten seconds.

As he scraped the whiskers off he imagined she was divorced, estranged from her family, and that her kids were growing up somewhere else—she had a caesarian scar. Things could only go downhill, fast or slow, from here. The more they knew about each other the worse it would get. Their unhappiness and isolation would seep into anything new they might try to establish. So why shouldn’t he walk out now—in fact, maybe she was pretending to be asleep to give him a chance to make these calculations and was listening for his retreating footsteps.

Roads, by Eric Smith

26/7/2015

 
Call it what you want. We all have our ups and downs, our occasional bad patches, squabbles, periods of silence and looking the other way. Maybe every road is like that literally or figuratively. You have to deal with that. I wonder about people who live in places where the weather never seems to change. I say “seems” because if you live there you can tell—only visitors or newcomers think it’s always the same. And if the weather remains on a relatively even keel or the roads stretch on for miles without a dip or a bend, then the metaphorical changes are bound to manifest themselves some other way.

I always wondered about the people who lived together for years and never showed their cards to outsiders. Everyone must fight or get annoyed with one another. Or, if not, maybe each of them makes a separate peace and lets the days flow by without remarking on their feelings, ever. But doesn’t that mean they aren’t really living at all?

I recall arriving at a friend’s house one afternoon and realizing his wife was nowhere in sight. I asked where she was.

“That no good bitch never got out of bed this morning.”

I’d never heard him speak that way before, but knowing her, I knew what he meant. She’d stayed out all night and come home drunk in the wee hours. I wondered where she’d been and whether she’d had a good time. The library, stores, and bars would have closed long before her car showed back up in front of their house. I wondered if he waited up for her but didn’t ask. Would there be a lot screaming when she finally got up, or would he let it go by without a remark? I wondered when she began staying out like that—how long had it taken? Had she kept it under control or hidden it for the first couple of years of marriage or had she come out of the blocks like that? Then again, maybe he deserved it. I doubted it, but he might have knocked her around on a regular basis. I wondered if this could be fixed—if the wrongs could be forgotten and the cart could be pulled out of the ruts, repaired, and brought back on some road to recovery. I tended to think not. My friend was not enough of a doormat for that and his wife must have already begun planning her next move.

Everyone has a different story, a different set of rules they play by. Many things enter the risk/benefit equation that keeps people together through the tough times—kids, money and standard of living, fear of starting over alone, and even love. I’d like to think some of us are basically optimists; you know, that we believe that around the next bend the bad times will recede into the past and that things will change for the better—maybe better than ever before.

Brothers Or Friends, by Eric Smith

25/7/2015

 
Two guys, the same size and with the same color hair, began coming in together around five o’clock every day. They always sat in the same booth if they could and even seemed to wear the same clothes every day if that was possible. Their hair was always wet and combed back. They both wore thick glasses. One of them, Steve, had lost a leg and walked on steel crutches. June figured he’d lost it in Viet Nam. It was something you didn’t ask somebody about. If he had a prosthesis, he never wore it, she thought. He’d cut off his pant’s leg, folded it, and kept it in place with a big safety pin. He was built up, probably from using his arms and shoulders to swing himself along. The other guy, Walt, was thinner but looked athletic—he usually wore t-shirts and had well-defined biceps and triceps. She couldn’t remember how she learned their names—in conversation maybe. She didn’t know their last names.

They began every meal with a round of beers—Budweisers in bottles. The night they first came in Steve asked June for a Harp beer and a Guinness stout. She told him them they didn’t carry it. Apparently, he wanted to mix them. She’d heard somewhere that was an Irish thing and this was a German place. Anyway, they ordered Budweisers after that—they never drank liquor or wine.

June always called them fellas rather than guys. Calling someone a fella was her style since she grew up in the late forties and early fifties. These two were obviously sixties kids. She was forty-five and had over a decade on them she thought.

She wondered why neither of them ever made a pass. Other younger guys would ask her when she got off or ask for her number. So she must not have lost it completely; you know, not become solely the province of the older men. Not that she ever dated any of the younger fellas, mind you. But since these two were regulars she thought one or the other of them would eventually get around to making a move she would evade.

One evening the sheriff and his new deputy arrived for a word with her.

“June,” the Sheriff said, “I hear you wait on two guys every night—Steven Schuyler and Walter Xander—one lost a leg.” The deputy starred at her, his mouth open.

“Is that a question?”

“Is it true?”

“I guess so. I only know them as Steve and Walt.”

“When did you see them last?”

“Last night around five. Look, Frank. They’ve been in here for the last month. They drink two buds and always order dinner. They’re polite, don’t tip well, and leave within an hour.”

“The deputy will stay here till we round those two up.”

“What’s going on?”

“We think they’re dangerous.”

“Huh?”

“Two teenage girl hitchhikers ended up dead in their trailer. We’ve no idea where Walt and Steve have got to.”

The Pole Dancer, by Bobby Warner

24/7/2015

 
The Blue Goatfish Bar was jumping the night the club matron pushed young Lilly Lipturn up the steps to the raised dais where the pole dancers did their thing each night.

"I don't think I can do this, Ms. Ragnub."

"Sure you can, honey. Just jump up on the pole and shimmy-swing around till your feet touch the floor. And don't forget to smile for the boys who're gonna be throwin' their money your way!"

The small band struck up a hasty tune, and Lilly moved timidly to the pole and tried to smile. The men, young and old, hunched up to the edge of the dais and began clapping and whistling and hooting and throwing a few bills on the floor at Lilly's feet. She felt obligated to do something, so she tried to pick up the beat of the music, and threw herself up onto the pole. She was a sight to see, all right. Eighteen years of age, fresh out of Beltcorn High with a C- average and a body that would have made Marilyn Monroe envious, she did her best to land like they had showed her in rehearsal, but instead lost her balance and fell flat on her bare chest.

Sitting in the audience was James Emory Laxton, whose pa had recently passed on, leaving the young man very wealthy. For years he had been looking for someone to share their life with him--or at least accompany him to the movies now and then--but without any luck . . . even after he inherited a fortune.

Feeling sudden empathy for the girl lying in a tangle of arms and legs, and topless at that, he jumped up, pushed through the crowd and climbed up onto the stage. He leaned over Lilly, picked her up, straightened her limbs (and magnificent ones they were), and brushed several strands of hair from her face.

"Ma'am, I'm in love with you," he said. "Let me take you away from all this and let's us get married."

"I think I love you, too," said Lilly, kissing him on the cheek. "And I accept your lovely offer."

So they left the Blue Goatfish Bar, and he took her in his brand new Mercedes to the best shops in town, bought her a nice dress, some silky under things, and a ton of cosmetics (though she needed none of these), then whisked her away to the 24/12/365 Drive in Marriage Palace out on Turnsnip Road, where they were married.

Lilly and James lived happily ever after, or until he developed a gambling problem and went through his inheritance from his father faster than fire through a gasoline-soaked house.

Finally tired of James's reckless ways, Lilly left him and went back to the Blue Goatfish Bar, where they welcomed her with open arms and promised to give her top billing as soon as she learned how to properly spiral sexily from the top to the bottom of the pole.

The Gymnast, by Bobby Warner

21/7/2015

 
This was her big moment coming up. She stood waiting, shifting her weight from one foot to the other, listening to what Mr. Hardistan was saying, but not really hearing. She slowly swept her gaze over the crowd; it was huge. Hard to believe so many people could be crammed together, watching, always watching. And the judges at their table at the edge of the mat. Always judging. Someone always judging her, she thought. Her teammates all turned toward her, comparing, some in awe of her, some resenting her, some jealous and wishing they had a fraction of her talent.

Her mother had insisted, "You must win tonight. We're all counting on you." Judging her; and it would go hard on her if she didn't do well. If she didn't win. Mr. Hardistan most of all, lurking right there behind her, face stony in concentration, as though he were concentrating for her. He concentrated more than she.

Why am I here? she wondered. I don't want to be a gymnast. I hate all this, I always have. Mom started me too young, made me do all this stuff I detest. I'm good at sports, but I don't like doing it.

It seemed like she had been "in training" all her life. After school, on weekends, during summer vacation. They had not let up on her, not allowed her to let up the least bit on her training exercises. "You have to get it down perfect--every move!" This is what Mr. Hardistan drummed into her every day. She heard his voice in her nightmares, awakening in the middle of the night, listening to the echo of his demands.

And then finally it was her turn. And she thought: Yes, it finally is my turn, and I am going to show them. I'm going to do my best to do my worst, and I wonder what they're going to think of that. What I am going to do is going to make them hate me. And that's all right, too. Because what they've made me do all these years has caused me to hate myself. It's time for me to do what I should have done a long time ago, so that maybe I can finally stop hating myself.

And then she got the go ahead, and time seemed to stand still. She had gone over and over it in her mind for the past week, and she knew, as she started forward, exactly how she was going to allow herself to fail . . . .
This was her big moment coming up. She stood waiting, shifting her weight from one foot to the other, listening to what Mr. Hardistan was saying, but not really hearing. She slowly swept her gaze over the crowd; it was huge. Hard to believe so many people could be crammed together, watching, always watching. And the judges at their table at the edge of the mat. Always judging. Someone always judging her, she thought. Her teammates all turned toward her, comparing, some in awe of her, some resenting her, some jealous and wishing they had a fraction of her talent.

Her mother had insisted, "You must win tonight. We're all counting on you." Judging her; and it would go hard on her if she didn't do well. If she didn't win. Mr. Hardistan most of all, lurking right there behind her, face stony in concentration, as though he were concentrating for her. He concentrated more than she.

Why am I here? she wondered. I don't want to be a gymnast. I hate all this, I always have. Mom started me too young, made me do all this stuff I detest. I'm good at sports, but I don't like doing it.

It seemed like she had been "in training" all her life. After school, on weekends, during summer vacation. They had not let up on her, not allowed her to let up the least bit on her training exercises. "You have to get it down perfect--every move!" This is what Mr. Hardistan drummed into her every day. She heard his voice in her nightmares, awakening in the middle of the night, listening to the echo of his demands.

And then finally it was her turn. And she thought: Yes, it finally is my turn, and I am going to show them. I'm going to do my best to do my worst, and I wonder what they're going to think of that. What I am going to do is going to make them hate me. And that's all right, too. Because what they've made me do all these years has caused me to hate myself. It's time for me to do what I should have done a long time ago, so that maybe I can finally stop hating myself.

And then she got the go ahead, and time seemed to stand still. She had gone over and over it in her mind for the past week, and she knew, as she started forward, exactly how she was going to allow herself to fail . . . .

The Snake, by Bobby Warner

21/7/2015

 
I see it more and more, both during the daytime and at night. A small, thin snake with the colored markings. Venomous; deadly. It slithers down the hallway when I get up in the mornings; I see it curled in the back seat when I leave for work, though it manages to escape before I can kill it. It sometimes glides swiftly into the bushes at the front door when I come home from work.

The snake. Surely the very same damn snake!

Why didn't you let me go? I didn't love you anymore. I wanted my freedom. Why didn't you just give me the divorce? Why did you make me put the snake in your sleeping bag when we went on the fishing trip last summer? You didn't have to die. You could have lived--and found someone else.

All this is your fault. You've sent the damn snake--the same one that took your life--back from the Other Side, or wherever you went after you died, to get revenge. Yes, it's just like you to do something like that!

I've gotten to where I stay up most of the night. Maybe I'm paranoid, but it would be just like you to put the snake in bed to wait for me. Just as I put it there to wait for you. But my reasons were justifiable: I simply wanted to get away from you, to part peacefully. Your reasons are purely demonic: You simply want revenge.

I am so sleepy! I haven't seen the snake tonight, but I know you probably have hidden it somewhere in the house. I've got to go upstairs and lie down for awhile. I'll sleep in the nude, with no covers, and with the lights on. Maybe that way I can stay safe and get enough rest to keep going.

If I'm quick enough, I'm going to catch that damn viper and chop it into tiny pieces. Then what will you do? Send another one?--or something even worse? Of course you will. That's just the sort of mean, underhanded thing you would do.

I don't know what I ever saw in you, in the first place!

Confession, by Bobby Warner

21/7/2015

 
When I got to Interrogation Room 6 Wilson was waiting with McReady.

"Get anything out of him?" I asked.

"Nothing. Other than what we've already got, that is."

"You're in a world of hurt, McReady," I said to the man sitting on the other side of the table, hand-cuffed. He looked up at me and grinned. This was the man who had killed Wilson's wife and two sons.

"I waited, because I wanted to let you know that I'm going to question him--my way."

He dug into his right pant pocket and brought out a pocket knife, flipped open the blade, which looked to be at least six inches long. He pretended to clean his fingernails.

"You can't--"

"I can, and damned well will," he snapped. "Now that I've let you know, you get on downstairs and have a coffee or something. Wait half an hour then come back up. I'll have what we want to know by then."

What we wanted to know was where the rest of the bodies of his wife and children were hidden. McReady had been apprehended with parts of the victims in his car; very few parts.

I started to protest, but Wilson held up his hand. "Thirty minutes. Okay? I have to do it."

I shrugged, turned and left. I went downstairs, moped around the lounge for half an hour, then went back upstairs. Wilson was alone in the room.

"Did you get him to talk?"

"Yeah. He talked. We know where they are, and I'm on my way there now."

He slipped on his coat and pushed past me.

"He back in the holding cell?" I asked.

"No, he in the morgue by now. Heart attack. That's how the doc put it down. 'Cardiac arrest'. Now I gotta go."

I was alone in the room. I looked around. I could almost smell the lingering odors of fear and pain and blood. It looked like the place had been hurriedly cleaned, but there were still a few spots of rust color on the floor. There was nothing more I could do there, so I left too.

The Super Troop, by Bobby Warner

20/7/2015

 
Grimes was our general, so he addressed the troops:

"You're the bravest, fightingest bunch I've ever seen. I sent you on a nighttime sortie and you snunk into the enemy camp and clobbered the aggressor forces whilst they slept. Then you rounded 'em all up and marched 'em back here without having to kill a single one."

Then he walked slowly amidst the ranks, pinning medals on every single soldier's tunic.

"I'm gonna name you The Super Troop, 'cause that's what you are; and your praises will be sung for years and years to come!"

And we all threw our helmets into the air and shouted out our victory cry--from Captain Blair at twelve years of age down to Buck Private Singleton at 7 and one-half years.

"Formation dismissed!" said General Grimes, looking much older than his sixteen years but giving us a snappy salute. We all scurried to our tents, fell into our sleeping bags, and slept the deep, peaceful sleep of the victorious warrior.

Touching, by Bobby Warner

20/7/2015

 
The man came upon the boy sitting alone on a bench waiting for the school bus. He sat down and patted the youngster on the knee.

"You don't supposed to touch me," the boy said, pulling away.

"Sometimes it's okay to touch."

"My daddy says grown men shouldn't touch kids. It ain't natural. Means they're up to no good."

"No one's around to watch," said the man. "This is just between you and I. Let me touch you again. You look like a good boy. Let me hold your hand. The one you got stuck in your pocket. I'll give you a dollar. A dollar, and maybe something much better."

"Gosh, Mister, I don't know. Gimme the dollar, then you can touch my hand, but that's all."

The man dropped a bill into the boy's upturned palm. The boy took his other hand out of his pocket and held it out to the man to touch, and the other did so, briefly.

Suddenly the boy dropped the dollar in his excitement, and rubbed both hands together.

"It's done cured!" the boy cried, flexing the fingers of his left hand. "My hand got hurt real bad a long time ago, but now it's well. You touched my hand and made it all good again!"

He turned to the man, but there was no one there. So the boy, forgetting he was supposed to catch the school bus, jumped up and ran home laughing--anxious to show his family his cured hand, and to tell his dad that sometimes it was okay to let a stranger touch you.

The Mouse, by Bobby Warner

20/7/2015

 
I didn't kill her. I loved her, for God's sake! It was the mouse. That damned little gray mouse.

This is how it was: Marie was brushing her teeth when she screamed. "A mouse, a mouse--oh, a horrid mouse!" I leapt out of bed, thinking something serious was wrong.

She was standing on the commode; the mouse was on the floor, looking up at her.

"Quick," she said. "Don't just stand there. Kill it!"

I reached for the nearest thing to use as a weapon: A heavy metal lamp. I yanked the cord out of the wall outlet and let fly the lamp at the mouse. The lamp clunked against the hard tile of the bathroom floor, and bounced up and struck my wife in the shins, then fell back upon the floor. Off balance, she fell--and struck her head on the lamp. Then she went limp. I tried to waken her, but she was gone. That's when I called you.

No, of course we didn't have a fight. No, I did not strike her with the lamp and kill her. Why are you handcuffing me and reading me my rights? I've done nothing wrong. It was the mouse, I tell you--that damned little gray mouse. It caused a terrible accident, but that's all it was--an accident.

Do I want an attorney? No. I've done nothing wrong. What you should do is look for the mouse. It must still be here somewhere. Once you find it, then maybe you'll believe me!"

A Matter Of Time, by Bobby Warner

20/7/2015

 
Duffinger wiped his forehead and stared dejectedly at the chronograph over the viewscreen. His ship was on its last revolution of entry orbit, and still had 57.85467 minutes till touch down.

Santorblk the robot valet and caddy stared at his master with concern in his optical sensors. "What's wrong, sir? We've made the trip without incident, and will be landing momentarily or thereabouts."

"Can't expect you to understand, Santoblk; you're not programmed for such data. But that's Pluto down there, as you well know. My purpose for making this trip was to play in the first ever Interplanetary Golf Tournament."

"I know all this, sir. But we're here, and the games haven't started. What's the problem?"

"The problem is that someone back on Earth forgot to adjust the chronometer for sidereal time--and I've just realized this. I'm first up, with a tee time exactly 2 minutes and 16 seconds from now. There's no way I'm going to get there on time. Why, I'll be the laughing stock of the entire Solar System! Even worse than that--I'll lose my entrance fee refund, we'll be damn near broke--and have to hitchhike all the way back to Earth!"

"But sir. The Uranus Lesser Tournament is coming up in less than two years. Perhaps you can make that."

"Uranus? Uranus!!! Confound it all, Santorblk, what's Uranus got when compared to what I'm going to miss here on Pluto!"

Voices, 1973, by Eric Smith

11/7/2015

 
Because he was a guy nobody said anything to Tom about hiking the ridge trail alone. If he’d been a woman, surely someone would have admonished him about potential dangers. There’d been newspaper stories about people—usually women—who hiked alone and wound up dead or presumed dead—either disappearing altogether or lying in shallow graves near the trail. In some cases the motive seemed to be sex or robbery. In others, the motive was unclear. But Tom was young—code for stupid—or to put it diplomatically, like most guys his age, he awoke each day assuming his own immortality.

It took Tom only an hour to prepare for the five-day hike. He made mistakes and knew it—too little food and water and construction boots with worn-down soles and nails that pushed up into his heels. He didn’t concern himself with such details. His pack was small and didn’t tie around his waist for support. He could tough it out since he carried a light load.

Tom’s rations consisted of trail mix—peanuts, raisins, and M&Ms. He didn’t care to start fires or boil water even though his canteen held only a quart and he knew he’d have to find water along the way and who knew how clean it might be.

Tom at least had a tarp and be-droll, which he resented, since he’d have to carry them, along with his other gear, up and down the steep trail. At least he wouldn’t have to worry about a mess kit since all his food was ready made.

Tom’s buddy drove him into the mountains where the state highway crossed the trail. He hadn’t decided which way to go yet. He stood with his pack and watched his friend’s truck disappear around a couple curves as it headed back to town. It was already early afternoon and he felt alone for a minute or two while deciding whether to head north toward Pennsylvania or south to Virginia. He picked north for no particular reason.

After walking for several hours Tom began losing sunlight. He’d seen several decent places to camp but passed them up so he could make more mileage on the trail. Finally he stopped along a stream to camp. As he ate his trail mix he heard voices—not real ones—the ones from the stream. Then he heard thunder. Within twenty minutes the storm dumped rain on him unmercifully until the following dawn. He sat on top of his pack shivering underneath his tarp and wondering why he’d taken this hike.

The following morning Tom heard a real voice. A tall guy with a beard, German shepherd, and a buck knife stood be-hind him.

Five day’s later Tom’s buddy waited for him for two hours at the trail head. Then he headed home. He figured Tom had hitched somewhere else or maybe had taken a longer hike. Nobody reported Tom missing for three weeks. That’s just the way it was back then.

Current Affairs, by Rejoice Denhere

8/7/2015

 
“You work far too hard Kevin. You need to take a break from the Colberg account and chill out.”

“Listen, I am not like you Peter. I have responsibilities and have to work.”

“We all do Kevin, we all do. But that shouldn’t stop you from having fun. You should…”

Kevin interrupted him in mid-speech, “Let it go man. If I wanted the lifestyle you have I’d have remained bachelor.”

“Yes, and I also know that once a man’s married he can’t even change the TV channels on the remote because the wife’s in charge. I’m just trying to help you. What’s really going on in your life?”

“Don’t dig too deep – otherwise you’ll drown.”

“Right, I’ll see you in the morning then.”

When Kevin opened the paper the next morning he was pleased to see that Colberg had announced its financial performance results with no major issues meaning the company’s stock would continue to rise. He was still looking at the report when Peter entered and closed the door. “To what do I owe the honour of a visit by our Chief Executive Officer?” he asked sarcastically.

Peter stroked his chin as a smile formed on his lips. “The Colberg Board's called an urgent meeting to discuss the new contract and I have to catch the next flight to Bangkok. Please drop this package off at my apartment.”


Kevin balanced the package on his left hand and wondered what was inside as he placed the key in the lock. He pushed the door with his shoulder. Giggles, laughter, and loud voices filled the air. He placed the package on the table near the entrance concluding that Peter’s sister was inside with her friends. The noise seemed to be coming from the bedroom. Not wanting to startle whoever was in there he decided to make his presence known and walked into the bedroom. The sight that greeted him made his heart jump and quivers began to rock his core.

He rubbed his eyes then zeroed in on a young, dark-haired girl who lay on the bed with legs splayed out like she'd been taking a nap. Another girl, with hair so blond it was almost white got up from the bed and moved close to him. Her feminine stride was confident, full of life as she made suggestive moves. A sudden movement behind him almost startled him. When he turned his eyes locked with a voluptuous redhead, stuffed into a body-moulding dress wearing four-inch pumps. She kicked them off with abandon.

Kevin gulped before swallowing. He wanted to say something but couldn’t find his voice. If this was the kind of welcome Peter received each time he came home then maybe he too could …

The sexy red-head smiled invitingly. All sense of responsible behaviour was eclipsed as a single thought consumed him.

Chicken, by Eric Smith

8/7/2015

 
Some vacant lots—hidden beneath canopies of full-grown oaks, tulip poplars, black locusts, and catalpas, and overgrown below with golden rod, Queen Anne’s lace, and clover—had held out somehow against development of stores, offices, and houses. Too rough and tangled to allow young boys to play baseball and football, these lots were a mystery to any adults who walked or drove by. Most must have assumed the lots remained empty, free of any human activity.

One of these, in particular, before the war and the depression, had been part of a large farm. Now surrounded by an aging residential neighborhood, only five or six acres remained. Along one edge, below a steep cliff, the tracks ran west to Ohio. On the lot’s far side a small creek bed, usually dry, ran into huge sewer pipe that disappeared into a labyrinth of smaller pipes beneath the neighborhood.

We spent hours in this vacant lot. I walked through it on the way home from school and discovered something different nearly every day. I spent hours with friends in the sewer pipes. In there I smoked my first cigar—a friend had stolen two from his grandfather. I’d never been so sick.

One of the pipes was big enough that we could walk through it standing up. To gain access to the main pipe, we either crawled through feeder pipes that started at each neighborhood block or we walked to either end of the big pipe in the old farm and entered from there. I’m not sure what the fascination was. It must have been the feeling that we could spend hours away from the adult world without having our whereabouts known or traceable.

In addition to the storm sewers, we spent a lot of time by the tracks. Above them someone, probably other kids years before, had dug out what amounted to a mine into the side of the cliff. The tunnel was small, permitting only a single kid at a time to crawl in and out. It was dug in ten-foot sections. After each section, the tunnel bent at a ninety-degree angle, gradually working farther into the cliff. Someone said they dug it that way so it wouldn’t cave in. Hearing that only heightened my anxiety as I crawled through. The first three ten-foot sections were more or less the same, but the temperature fell noticeably in the final section. It was hard to turn around at the end and head back out. I was happy to stand only five feet three and weigh just over a hundred pounds at that time.

No one ever explained why there should be a tunnel dug into the cliff over the tracks. It seemed to me even then it was a dangerous place to dig a tunnel, given the tremendous vibration the trains caused when they rumbled by. I only knew I needed to crawl all the way in so I wouldn’t get a reputation as a chicken.

The Field, by Bobby Warner

3/7/2015

 
They drove through the spring countryside until they came to an empty-looking field where an old man was cutting the grass on a riding mower. Larry pulled over, got out and walked to the fence.

"Hello, there," Larry called out. He had to call several times before the man heard him over the noise of the mower, and stopped the machine. Larry climbed a wooden fence surrounding the field and approached the man, leaving Wanda to wait from him in the car.

"Hi. I'm afraid we're lost. Looking for the road to Zackersville."

"Missed the turnoff about twelve mile back," said the old man, wiping his forehead with a red bandana. Lots of folks do."

"Nice field," said Larry. "Doesn't appear cultivated. More like a nice lawn."

"This here's Planey Corners Cemetery. Or part of it. This part's for all the Christians we know was good people, and likely in Heaven. The other section is for them as we're not too certain about."

"Cemetery? Old timer, if this is a cemetery, where are all the headstones?"

"The good people buried here lived simple, clean lives; humble souls to the last one. We bury 'em simple, like they lived, in unmarked graves. God knows their bones are here, but their souls're with Him up yonder in Heaven. Well, I gotta get my mowin' done. You turn around and go back about twelve mile and you'll see the road to Zackerville on your right."

When Larry got the car going again, he told Wanda what the old man said. Then added, "If we were buried hereabouts, I wonder which part of the cemetery we'd be put in."

Wanda looked back at the fenced-in plot of land as it receded in the distance and shook her head.

"God only knows."

Incident At Sea, by Bobby Warner

3/7/2015

 
It was one of those little sight-seeing voyages. The boat was rather small, but comfortable. He was alone; and after a meal of Greek cuisine he ventured to one of the upper decks and stood at the rail, watching the lights of Athens in the distance.

Someone approached him, stood a little ways away, also looking toward the city. She was tall, well-built and athletic-looking, and alone.

"Nice evening," he said, moving closer to her. Nothing special in mind; he merely wanted company for a while.

"Please, not too close," she said in a husky voice, not at all unpleasant. "I had a nasty incident on a cruise vessel like this awhile back, and I'm still nervous, thinking about it."

"Sorry," he said, smiling. "I quite understand--I think. By the way, my name is John Weems." He extended his hand, and she misunderstood, thinking he was grabbing for her. She took his wrist in both her hands, swung him, off balance, toward the rail, and gave him a strong push. He hit the water with a great splash, and she looked over the side to see him floundering in the water.

"Throw me a life preserver," he said, choking on water. "I can't swim!"

She spun on her heel and marched away, murmuring to herself, "Men. They're all bastards. Out after only one thing. I wish they were all dead!"

With no one to sound an alarm, the boat moved lazily on through the night.

The Tapping, by Bobby Warner

3/7/2015

 
There it is again: The faint tapping on the front door. I open the door a crack. There's no one there. Well. That's the second time today. Perhaps it was the wind.

No. There is a light tapping on the back door. Quickly, let me peek out the window. No one. The back porch and the back yard are empty. No one there.

And another bit of tapping. This time on the basement door. Someone is on the top step, knocking. I cautiously open the door, holding an iron skillet that belonged to my grandmother in my hand, just in case. But of course--when I open the door--there is no one there.

Wait! There it is again. Down in the basement. Someone is tapping on the side of the furnace. What a hollow, scary sound.

I start to close the door, and the tapping grows louder, more urgent. Who is it down there?

I go get Pa's old double-barreled shotgun, and I load both barrels. I open the basement door, look down, see only the darkness below. But the tapping continues, as though mocking me.

"All right!" I shout, starting down the steep basement steps, holding the shot gun out in front of me. "That's enough of your mischief. We're going to have it out--right now! Ready or not--here I come!"

An Unwanted Act Of Kindness, by Bobby Warner

3/7/2015

 
A traveler came across an old man sitting beside the road holding his right ankle.

"Have you hurt yourself?"

"My ankle," the old man replied. "Just a slight sprain. I'll be all right. Don't bother about me. Be on your way."

The other squatted beside the old man. "Let me help you. Lean on my shoulder and use your staff. The next town is not far. Together we can get you to a doctor."

The old man's face began to twitch, his cheeks grew red; his anger mounted. He pushed the traveler away, reached for his staff and quickly beat the life from the one who had stopped to help him. Then he rose to his feet, using his bloody staff to help keep his balance.

He spat on the fallen traveler and said, "Are you my keeper? Did I ask for our help? No and no."

And leaning on his staff, the old man hobbled away toward the town to seek out a doctor to relieve his distress.

By Bobby Warner

2/7/2015

 
Sometimes it takes the horrors of a dream to remind us of the wonders of awakening – Anonymous

In slumber I walked alone through a dark, cold forest, fearing all the things of the night. Faint rustlings in the underbrush; the cracking and falling of a dead tree branch; the snuffle-snuffle of some unseen creature, not far away. And the night dampness, falling over me, flowing over me, chilling me so that I shivered. And as an undertone to all of it, the near-silent, sinister sounds of careful footfalls, as though someone or something were stalking me. I had no weapon, no light to see by; I was alone and at my wit's end.

And then I awakened, and the sheets of the bed rustled as you turned to me. I took you in my arms; we did not speak, only embraced. The horrors of my dream world dissolved as ice melts in the glare of a mid-summer's day; and I spoke your name. And you spoke mine back to me.

I drifted back to sleep; this time to a bright spring day with the world alive with love and wonder. There was no more fear. There was only the two of us, walking along hand in hand, deeply, thrillingly in love.

    Longer
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    Longer Friday Flash Fiction Stories

    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.


    However, in response to demand, the FFF team constructed this forum for significantly longer stories of 151-500 words. Please send submissions for these using the Submissions Page.

    Stories to the 500 word thread will be posted as soon as we can mange.


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    ​Please note that we tend to post longer flash fiction exactly as we find it – wrong spacing, everything.

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