Blog Archives

Déjà Vu, by Sankar Chatterjee

29/7/2017

Lounging on his green lawn in a lazy summer evening, Mr. Ranjit Sen, a prominent immigrant scientist was drinking a cup of Darjeeling tea. He had brought back his favorite brand from a recent trip to motherland. A cool breeze was blowing, chirping birds were returning to their nests and a few fireflies were occasionally flickering at distant. Slowly, his mind drifted into a sea of memories.

After earning a PhD in chemical sciences three decades ago, he joined a start-up biotechnology company to discover new medicines for several life-threating diseases. Majority of the personnel then were top level scientists, highly spirited and motivated to their causes. But as their years of successful research efforts started to bear fruits and the organization began to expand, the mission of the place started to change. More monetary profit from innovative applications of past successes with less funding for new research, became the new mantra. And that’s when they hired Mr. John Wills, PhD, DSc, as the VP of Operation, all of his degrees being earned in prestigious overseas universities. One of his stated primary goals was to steer the organization towards this new direction.

Though his CV mentioned that he had retired from a similar role from a larger pharmaceutical company, words got around that Mr. Wills was forced to resign from his post. This was due to his dictatorial nature of leadership, arising from his narcissism as well as arrogance, being the only holder of two highest degrees in sciences within the organization, and thus making him smarter than anyone else. In addition, he instituted the destructive divide and rule policy along with personal attack in a very public humiliation fashion to anyone whoever opposed to his views.

Soon, he started to display the same qualities in Mr. Sen’s workplace, destroying the free-wheeling atmosphere and collegiality that existed there before. His immediate subordinates formed various subgroups to gain his favorable attraction. The practice of ground-breaking original research started to suffer, while top-notched scientists began to leave the organization disrupting ongoing research. A few good ones were forced out due to their scientific disagreement with Mr. Wills, while infighting among his henchmen escalated. The organization started to lose its scientific reputation along with its market value, eventually being forced to be taken over by a rival farm.

The last sip from his cup brought Mr. Sen back to present time and reflect on last few days’ developments. This nation’s top leader went to a boy scouts’ gathering and lectured them on political issues, while disparaging his opponents. The historians saw a frightening resemblance of Third Reich’s preaching to the brown shirts. In addition, he urged the military to lobby congress for more funding, thus dangerously politicizing that branch. The infighting among his henchmen exploded in public views with utterance of vulgarity and threatening words.

Then, Mr. Sen remembered a wry humorous quote from Late Yogi Berra, once country’s famous baseball player and coach: “It is déjà vu, all over again!”

Tiny Specks Of Her, by Zane Castillo

29/7/2017

Tears froze to his face as he rowed the boat out into the open water. The cold wind pierced through his multiple layers of clothes. He glanced back at the dock that was a quite a distance away.

He let go of the oars and slowly unwrapped the blanket from the urn. He picked up the urn, lifted the top off and slowly poured the ashes out into the water. Memories of her rapidly appeared before him. That sweet crisp smile, her soul-baring almond eyes, and her delicate way of speaking flooded his vision. He struggled to keep the urn lifted, as waves of emotions rocked him.

When the last of the ashes hit the water, he placed the urn back in the boat. The wind violently beat against him, but he barely noticed as he looked out at the water. His eyes watching the tiny specks of her float away.

The Blue Balloon Goes Free, by Maria DePaul

28/7/2017

On a summer Saturday, a father took his son to the local farmer's market. Street musicians serenaded patrons of an outdoor café. Vendors sold fashions, jewelry, potted plants and produce. Canvassers leafleted patrons on almost every corner in support of political causes.

A vendor was selling helium balloons, and the boy wanted a blue one. It was sky blue, and it bounced on a string as the boy and his father walked along, admiring the people and the vendors.

After they paused to admire the paintings and sculptures of various artists, a sudden wind caught the balloon, and the boy lost his grip. The balloon was swept above the roof of a building, and it disappeared from sight.

The boy was distraught. His father offered to buy another balloon, but the boy was heartbroken. He only wanted the blue balloon. Teary eyed, he said he wanted to go home, so the father and son strolled through the park toward their house.

"Maybe," his father said, "the blue balloon will land at somebody else's house and find a home." This made the boy feel better, so they talked about where the blue balloon might travel before it landed.

"Maybe to the sea," the boy told the father, and he was happy again.

When his mother opened the door, the boy announced that "the blue balloon went free." The boy proceeded to tell her how he was sad about losing the balloon, but that the balloon needed to go free and find a new home.

"Sometimes, you have to go free before you find your home," the father said. Then, they told the mother about all the adventures they had imagined that the balloon might have.

Moral Compass, by Sankar Chatterjee

27/7/2017

Sitting at the front counter of his neighborhood café, Jack Leif was drinking his morning coffee. The place has been popular for its fresh pastry, thus attracting visitors from surrounding communities too. As he put down his cup after a few sips, he sensed a tall and masculine gentleman was about to take seat next to him. Both extended their arms to introduce themselves and exchange pleasantries. Jack learned that the gentleman was none other than Mr. William Blake, the legendary top attorney of the nearby metropolis Atlanta. Born into a poor family from minority background, Mr. Blake motivated himself to get educated, eventually attending prestigious Harvard Law School. As a top government lawyer, he prosecuted several noteworthy criminals, both blue- and white- colored. As he won more sensational cases, his legend multiplied. But, Jack didn’t feel any sense of arrogance in Mr. Blake’s manners. He was there to try the famous pastry that he heard so much about, even in Atlanta.

That evening, returning from his regular job, Jack turned on his TV, set to an Atlanta station. Suddenly, there was a “Live Breaking News”. The reporter from the station, standing in front of the court house, was announcing that the local head of the Federal Bureau of Investigation had just charged Mr. Blake committing several felonies over past ten years. And the occurrence of these misdeeds only came to light recently after several local investigative agencies banded together after getting anonymous tips. Next day, not only the local press, but the national newspapers also picked up the story, due to Mr. Blake’s prominence and his stated desire to enter national politics. While his critics lambasted him, his defenders brought up the issue of race, as the reason for falsely charging him.

It took several months for the case to go in front of a judge, while Mr. Blake remained free on bail, always insisting on his innocence. For first two days, federal attorneys described in details how over past several years, Mr. Blake had accepted expensive gifts, paid vacations for his entire family as well as backdoor favors that allowed his daughters to go to expensive summer camps in Europe. In return, he didn’t pursue several cases, while bringing lesser charges in many cases. On third day, Mr. Blake took his stand in front of the judge. With the entire nation watching the proceedings in live telecast and his aged mother sitting on the front row with tears flowing down from her eyes, Mr. Blake took responsibility in taking part in every charge that was levied against him. The judge in the case decided to lock him up immediately, while taking time to decide what should be the extent of his punishment, given his stature and breaking of public trust so blatantly.

Mr. Jack Leif who was attending the proceedings for all three days, came out of the court, murmuring to himself “At what point of his life, did Mr. Blake’s moral compass brake down completely?

A Burning Bush, by Bobby Warner

22/7/2017

Wally turned over and scratched. His aging mother was in the kitchen, praying her heart out again, speaking gibberish he couldn't understand. He got up, staggered into the kitchen.

Just a week out of prison, he often thought how lucky he was. Ma loved him, would do anything for him. Even let him stay with her while she cooked for him and washed his clothes--and asked nothing in return.

"It's outside," she said.

"What's outside?"

"Go find out, son."

In the back yard was a scraggly looking bush he'd never seen before. His mother prayed some more, and the bush burst into flame. The flame shot up and up, almost touching a low cloud.

"It's your Salvation, son. Bow down and worship."

"Damned if I will do any such a stupid thing!"

The bush began to grow, shooting up into the air as it threw off sparks of fire. Wally fell back, mouth agape. The bush burned up and up, and in the flames he could make out a dark figure, a something taller than buildings. The figure leaned down, extended unbelievably long arms, scooped Wally up and carried him into the dizzying heights.

Inside the house, Wally's mother, eyes closed, continued to pray, hoping that her prayers would soon be answered.

It, by Shawn Frendo

22/7/2017

It's a touchy subject but screw it. It was a feeling that I was lost in an endless cycle for nothing. And that it was getting too exhausting to keep up with. That was the first time in my adult life, where I had thought about it. I stood, sober, in a night club and after work, with a bottle of beer in my hand, having this thought occur in my head. I had a feeling of despair with a cold face on. Just numb and wanting to cry. Wasting away the night, with the knowledge that I had to get up at nine in the morning, which was just a few hours later. Thinking, and reconsidering, my entire existence.

Limitation of Modern-day Inventions, by Sankar Chatterjee

22/7/2017

Prof. Paula Sen, a distinguished faculty member in the modern arts and literature department of a reputed university in US, was born and grew up in Calcutta, India. In her younger days, she was exposed to various historic Indian classical dance forms, but she enjoyed the genre Kathak most. Due to her expressed interest, her parents had hired a master practitioner of the art for their daughter to learn and enjoy the art. Throughout her teenage years, Prof. Sen practiced her dance with passion, sometimes even performing in public cultural events. After her graduation from college, Prof. Sen landed a scholarship to do her PhD work in a university in US. It was no wonder that she picked up the subject of Kathak to do research on its origin, practice, mode of spreading throughout India along with the current status of the dance form. In parallel, she also learned about the various western dance forms, covering Ballet to Tap. In fact, her ingenuity allowed her to fuse some elements of Kathak and some elements of Tap to come up with a brand new fusion form. From her teaching curriculum, many of her students learned the new dance form to perform in cultural events throughout US.

Prof. Sen’s reputation in the field soon earned her a prestigious Fulbright Fellowship to do exploratory research in native dance forms in any country of her choice. She selected Nepal, a tiny country, nestled in the Himalayas in Far East Asia. Now, as her flight was landing in Kathmandu, the country’s capital in a narrow valley, Prof. Sen noticed from the sky only rows of congested buildings, sprinkled with the domes of a few historic religious temples. In 2015, Kathmandu experienced a devastating earthquake, destroying many parts of the capital as well as killing thousands of people. Foreign aid poured in and reconstruction went ahead in full steam due to city’s importance as the getaway to climbing fearsome Mt. Everest. Proliferation of modern technologies of smart phones and flat screen TV-s displaying international channels in local bars has been ubiquitous.

In her second day in the city, Prof Sen was drinking her morning coffee in a local café, when she picked up the city’s only English-language daily newspaper. Hidden in the corner of the last page, there was a report about the death of a teenager from a poisonous snake-bite in a village, not that far from the capital. Her family was practicing a centuries-old superstitious act, locally known as “chhaupadi”. The recently menstruating woman was not allowed to spend the night in the family house in fear of “bringing bad luck”. Instead, she was sleeping in an outdoor open hut inviting the snake-bite. The report mentioned her lifeless body still holding to her smartphone.

Prof. Sen wondered whether modern-day technological inventions would ever be able to get rid of ancient superstitions involving women, still practiced in various patriarchal societies worldwide, when it came to women’s rights and equalities!

True Love, by Sophie Fleetwood

21/7/2017

They say when love comes along, there is no right or wrong, your love is your love and a genuine love is not the easiest to find. Not to sound like I’ am a cheesy sort of a man, but let me tell you about my new love. We first met on the Friday night, my takeaway night. She was such a gorgeous sight. Nothing like those other artificial beauties and let me tell you she was nothing like those un-curvy sticks of celery you see in magazines. She was true curvy beauty and true charm. She just seemed to have that wow factor that warmed my heart and even made me drool. I loved the warmth when we held hands and her beautiful scent.

Damn it… I have fallen in love with my Pizza again.

A Fateful Day, by Sankar Chatterjee

20/7/2017

On a gorgeous summer day, Native American Chief Flying Eagle was watching a live baseball game on his modern smartphone screen, the game being played in Phoenix, 320 kilometers away. He was born and grew up in a nearby Navajo Reservation. The land was kept aside as a part of a treaty between the past members of his tribe and the citizens of a newly liberated nation. Suddenly, he began to remember his own early childhood days growing up with no access to a phone, a refrigerator, a car, or a TV. The children then grew up playing “hide and seek” in the hidden narrow canyons that reflected gorgeous colors when the sun was high in sky. Later the tribal leaders, to earn some extra revenue for the community members, decided to open some of these canyons to the outside world and he became one of the earliest guides.

Without any warning, his memory then took him back to that fateful day in his youth, three decades ago. Like today, it had been also a brilliant summer day. He was guiding a group of foreign tourists from Europe and Asia through the passages of one such narrow canyon, also called a slot canyon, built mainly of sandstone and limestone. In addition, he was also helping them to find the correct corners to capture the beauty of the place in light and shadow with their cameras. Outside, the sky as seen through the opening at the top, was clear and blue with no trace of any threatening rain cloud. And that’s when, everyone heard a loud distant noise. Though startled, the group moved forward, inching upwards. However, the intensity of the noise started to magnify, soon changing it to the sound of a downward rolling thunder. Looking upward, all saw as if a huge locomotive engine was coming downhill in full speed and in no time, the mass hit them with a violent force. In reality, it was a flash flood formed from a torrential downpour into a canyon basin and flooding it, ten kilometers away. Finding its way downward, the body of water picked up loose boulders and broken branches of trees to strengthen its force of destruction. Growing up in the area and having the experience of swimming in downhill swift water, Chief Flying Eagle was able to survive the calamity, while all eleven tourists that he was in charge of, perished that day.

With advancement of modern technology in predicting suddenly developing weather patterns over a narrow region, the entrance points of all these narrow canyons have now been equipped with gathering latest information directly from the National Weather Service. But, that’s no solace to Chief Flying Eagle. As he continued to watch the live game on his modern gadget, the face of each smiling tourist from that day started to flash on his mind.

Eyes, by Bianca Radulescu-Banu

15/7/2017

I’ve always had a thing for blue eyes.

You look into them, and imagine the ocean or the sky. Or maybe a Forget-Me-Not in a field of roses. Sure, green is radiant, but blue is ethereal, with so many different shades to choose from.

And there’s this thing about eye contact that I absolutely adore. With a person’s eyes on you and yours on them, you both know you’re giving each other your undivided attention--

Attention--

It’s the loveliest feeling in the world.

With beautiful eyes, you’ve hit the jackpot. You can admire them and feel special at the same time, with their thoughts on you.

But out of all the eyes I’ve ever seen, I liked Becka's the most. She had the softest shade of baby blue that contrasted with her jet black hair in the most satisfying way. For the life of me, I never understood why she had to smother the eyes in black liner--but I held my tongue. In the long run, it wouldn’t matter anyway.

One afternoon, I finally took matters into my own hands. Becka had left the window open a notch to her room--probably intending to let the breeze in.

I couldn’t help what happened next. Her eyes are just so beautiful. I have to say, though, it’s not the same sensation when they’re on my shelf.

A Night With Rats, by Paritosh Chandra Dugar

14/7/2017

I was suddenly awakened by a scratching sound from under my pillow. I switched on the light and lifted the pillow to look for the reason. What I saw was horrid enough to freeze me. There was a huge black rat with its beady eyes fixed on me. The rat and I, facing each other, remained motionless for a while. Then, the rat outsmarted me in taking a decision. It stood on its hind legs and trotted towards the edge of the bed where I was sitting terror-struck. The rat’s advance made me jump up instinctively. And the rat bounded into the air, landed on the floor, swiftly climbed the wall, reached the window and hid behind the curtains. Oh, it was a narrow escape for me! But I wondered if the rat regretted having missed the target! As I stood restoring my courage, I spotted another fat rat climbing and hiding behind the window curtains, followed by a smaller one. Suddenly I heard a hiss from somewhere. In a fit of panic I turned around to witness a monster rat scurrying towards my friend who was lying fast asleep on the other side of the double bed. It was a hair-raising sight. I shouted repeatedly to alert my friend to the approaching danger, but my shrieks had little impact on him. But, to my surprise, the monster halted with a short squeak, took a U-turn and vanished behind the window curtains. For a long while I didn’t hear any sound nor did I notice any movement. I began to feel relaxed and drowsy. As I was about to fall asleep, I saw with my half open eyes that the window curtains were fluttering. I got up with a start. I saw the rats come out from behind the curtains one by one and run across the room as if it were their playground. It was at that moment that I heard a loud knocking at the door. I had no courage to leave the bed and pave my way through nasty little monsters. But the incessant knocking compelled me. With my eyes half-closed, I walked to the door with extreme caution as if there were landmines around. When I opened the door, my friend who occupied the adjacent room dashed in and entreated to be allowed to sleep on the sofa in my room. He said he would in no case go back to his room to be tormented and terrorized by rats. And without waiting for my response he just threw himself onto the sofa and fell asleep. I looked at the open door which seemed to be signalling a new menace from the neighborhood. I just made a dart for the door and slammed it shut. Though I saw no rats afterwards, I could not sleep for the rest of the night. Maybe, they were all waiting for the door to be open for their escape!

A Proverb, The Life Savior, by Sankar Chatterjee

11/7/2017

Chimanunda Nngoby, a young long-distance runner from Nigeria, landed in a university in California, USA with a scholarship in track and field. One late afternoon, after attending all his required classes, he went out to the local mountain trails for a few kilometers of practice run. His coaches had warned him not to go alone for practice run, especially when dusk approaching. Various wild animals had been spotted during that time on the mountain tracks. Chimanunda, one of thirteen siblings, from a poor village in Nigeria, had his sight set on competing in the Olympics to bring glory to both his country and family. Like many African youths of his age, he attended his high school by running daily about 7–8 kilometer each way. He was bent on practicing as hard as he could to achieve his goal of becoming a national hero like many of his famous predecessors.

This day, just after he finished a five kilometer stretch, his sixth sense heightened. He felt that someone had been shadowing him. From the corner of his eyes, he noticed a male mountain lion, prevalent in the area, had been following him, maintaining a short distance. He realized that the animal had been waiting for Chimanunda to stop for a break to make his final move. And that’s when his loving granny’s smiling face, singing a childhood lullaby to him, flashed in his mind:

A lion wakes up in the morning
He thinks if I don’t run my fastest today, I will go hungry.
A gazelle wakes up in the morning
He thinks if I don’t run my fastest today, I will become a lion’s food.

Chimanunda accelerated his pace remembering that a few weeks back, he met a caring older couple who had built a house on a cliff overlooking the ocean at the distant. They invited him for a cold drink. Then, after listening to his life’s mission, they showed him how to open the front-door of their gated compound from outside, in case someday he wanted to take some rest on their porch, while they were away. Today, Chimanunda sprinted like that proverbial gazelle, found the couple’s house, unlocked the gate, entered the perimeter and re-locked the gate. Soon, standing on the porch, he heard the scratching sound from the mountain lion on the other side of the closed door, trying desperately to find his disappearing prey.

The sound stopped almost after half an hour. Only then, Chimanunda took out his cell-phone from his back pocket to place an emergency call to the Park Rangers Office. Soon, a rescue helicopter started hovering over the house, eventually lifting him out of the danger.

A City Of Two Tales, by Sankar Chatterjee

9/7/2017

On a bright day, Rick Scott, a young American college student, arrived in Amritsar, a city in North-East Asia, with dual tales to tell the world. First, the city has been a holy city to the followers of Sikhism, practiced in this part of the world. Second, it also has a tragic past that to date resonates with the citizens from all walks of life here. While entering the holiest complex of the religion, Scott noticed a shining temple in the middle of a lake with its upper outer façade covered with gold. The temple was open to practitioners of all religions. Thus, there were four entrances to the main sanctuary, representing the openness of the religion. As the evening approached, the entire complex got illuminated by the strategically placed lights, creating a mythical appearance. Soon, the entire complex began to be filled with the devotees as well as the visitors of all faiths, slowly encircling the temple. It has been estimated that several thousands of people visit the place every day, not only to worship, but also to take part in communal services, a hallmark of the religion. After standing in a queue for an hour, Scott entered the temple to be dazzled by ornamented inside walls. The holy book of the religion Adi Granth also came to his view.

Next day, Rick returned to the same neighborhood to learn about the second tale of the city. Just next door to the temple, there was a memorial complex, a sacred place of national importance. The place is known as the Jallianwala Bagh. Entering the complex through an extremely narrow path, squeezed between two facing buildings, Rick arrived at a well-maintained park (bagh in local language) where green bushes were neatly pruned into the shape of soldiers firing their guns. In addition, there was a monument honoring the murdered victims of a brutal suppression that had taken place here in last century. That event took place on April 13, 1919 when the area was under a foreign rule. On that day, local citizens gathered inside this park to celebrate a holy festival of Baisakhi. Hearing about the crowd, the local Brigadier General of the foreign power appeared here with a group of soldiers, blocked the narrow entrance (through which Rick came in), positioned the soldiers on a higher ground and ordered them to start shooting without any warning or provocation. At the end, the official version of the event identified 379 dead, though historians estimated the death figure to be close to 1,000 with many wounded. A memorial sign here partially reads: “This ground was hallowed by the mingled bodies of about two thousand innocent…….”

Rick thought how ironic it was that these brutal mass-murders had taken place next to a holy place of worship that would welcome people of all faiths, reminding him those famous words from Pogo: “We have met the enemy and it is us.”

Intensive Curve Unit, by Mike Davidson

8/7/2017

Inside. BEEP BEEP BEEP.... Life support monitor sang monotone proof of my not so vital signs after emergency lung surgery -- after being carved to cure infected pneumonia caught from prolonged care given to my draconianly dying mother -- after being tortured by family's protracted moron mourning post-cemetery shyster celebration of her long overdue demise.

With ascent from anesthesia, poppy fields scented by antiseptics sprouted in my skull -- morphine insights of how in this Evanston hospital, in this galaxy, in this dimension, everything was mostly nothing, of sorts -- glue for the night -- enabler of light.

Outside. BEEP BEEP BEEP.... Garbage truck backed up: reverse progress upon trash.

A Timely Reminder from the Mount Rushmore, by Sankar Chatterjee

7/7/2017

Simon Jones was visiting Denver, Colorado. On the spur of a moment, he would decide to make a trip to the legendary black hills of South Dakota, a state in the north-west corner of the country. Next morning, after crossing the state line of Colorado and then driving through the entire state of Wyoming, he entered into South Dakota in the early afternoon, heading towards the small town of Hill City. As he traversed the state, first glimpse of the geological formation of the black hills, more like an abstract art of a modernist on a canvas, slowly appeared at distance. Soon the daylight dimmed into dusk, the mountains in the horizon started to become silhouettes of dark waves forming at a distant ocean. Hill City, a picturesque small town, is next to the Custer State Park. Next morning, driving through the park, Simon arrived at Sylvan Lake, a majestic mountain lake that allowed him to appreciate the hidden beauty of his own country. From there, he headed up to the top of the Little Devil’s Tower to enjoy a panoramic view of the surrounding nature’s magnificence.

Then, on the way down, it hit him why he wanted to come to these black hills of South Dakota in the first place. Definitely, it was to pay a visit to a national monument that honors the past four presidents of the country: Washington, Jefferson, Teddy Roosevelt and Lincoln. An astonishing feat of sculpturing, their busts had been carved out of granite at the top of the black hill of Mount Rushmore by the artist Gutzon Borglum and his son Lincoln Borglum. Simon arrived at the site and looked up. The collective gazing of all four Presidents would conjure an impression in Simon’s head as if they have still been looking over this country’s ongoing building process, from past to present leading to future. Simon had arrived at Mount Rushmore right after this country’s most divisive presidential election. The process resulted in one of the political leader’s ascendency with his rhetoric against the minorities and the religious beliefs, different than leader’s own, leading up to his Presidency. Subsequently, displaying his power, he issued an executive order of closing of the country’s border to the citizens of a different religious order from a few selected countries. His spokesperson famously fabricated historical fact about Germany’s past Nazi leader Hitler “...he was not using the gas on his own people…” while labeling the Nazi concentration death-camps collectively as “Holocaust Centers”.

Simon looked up a second time to realize that all those great Presidents from the past have been reminding constantly this country’s founding principle from the Declaration of Independence “We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness.” Simon felt assured remembering those historic words, while believing that humanity will survive this dark period.

A Human Alien, by Paritosh Chandra Dugar

7/7/2017

“Hey! Who are you? You look like a human being and speak a human language, but we doubt you are one of us.” The cops of the Militia Earth started interrogating him. True, in his basic anatomy he did not appear different from them, yet his height and regular facial features set him apart and made him an object of doubt and investigation. The cops’ questioning continued:

“Where do you live?”
“On the Earth, sir.”
“Your name?’
“Mark Honest, sir”
“What’s your work?”
“I am a teacher at Fearless School.”
“Your exact annual income?”
“Seventy thousand dollars.”
“Any crime record?”
“Yes.”
“What?”
“Once I stole my girl friend’s gold necklace.”
“What happened, then?”
“Nothing. The girl didn’t complain. She loved me.”
“What’s your politics?”
“None.”
“What’s your ethics?”
“If I borrowed money from my friend, I would return it before his first reminder.”
“Who did you meet first on entering the precincts of the City?”
“I met a bleeding man on the road. I took him to hospital where you copped me.”

Immediately, his answers were transferred to Galacter (the Computer of the Galaxy) for processing. A minute later, on the screen flashed: “No Plagiarism. All Statements Found True.”

The cops reported the outcome to their senior. Promptly, a committee was constituted to discuss the issue and take a decision. On the third day, the chairman of the committee announced: “The captive is not a human being. He is an alien. Tomorrow he will be transported to the Galactic Lab for a genetic study.”

Latte Interruptus, by Maria DePaul

7/7/2017

On Friday afternoons, Sandra always treated herself to a latte, except on really hot Summer days, switched to iced tea.

Today, however, she was delayed by a last minute memo that the boss needed distributed by the end of the day on pilferage of office products. Supposedly, company profits were evaporating as workers took home their pens.

In reality, Calvin's marriage was on the brink of divorce, and he distracted himself by fixating on underlings who blithely walked home with small items after work. He was sure that they were happier than he was, and in many cases, he was right. So instead of planning for his soon-to-be single status and preparing for his personal future, Calvin Drew up stringent new rules assuring that office supplies would stop disappearing at such an alarming rate.

Calvin's attempt to control the work environment only served to interfere with Sandy's coffee break and solidify Calvin's reputation as the "office goof."

Nobody was falling for it, not even Calvin.

Sp / ring, by John Gerard Fagan

6/7/2017

She held a box full of useless items and waited. A now defunct ID itched around her neck. People on the crowded platform were wearing masks. Someone sneezed and she felt the spray on her cheek. The train on its way. Could hear them sniffing, wiping drips away with fingers. Beads of sweat on the man’s nose beside her.

The train came in view. It was going to be packed and everyone going to push on, squeezing their sickly wet bodies together. Should have never left Hokkaido. Tokyo a nightmare from the start. No job. No money for rent. No friends. Tomoki long gone and blocked her on all social media. Couldn’t return home an embarrassment.

Her childhood ran before her eyes like an old fashioned movie reel. The summers with the paddling pool in the garden. The laughter of her brothers as they built their first snowmen. Her mother’s cooking. Her grandmother brushing her hair. The sounds of the river.

Total silence folded on the station. She dropped the box, closed her eyes as the ashes fell. Jumped.

Xmas 1984, by Giovanni Alfonso Valentin

3/7/2017

Got me a Walkman! WM-22! Has FM/AM, a utility strap, full cassette playback and two headphone ports!

Far out!

Hey Ma, wanna give a listen? Got a second pair of headphones upstairs.

Oh, you gotta work? On Christmas? Alright, yeah, that bites, I’m sorry. Maybe one song before you leave? I’ve got Bowie’s Scary Monsters up in my room!

You’re in a hurry? No, no, I understand, I’m sorry. Catch you later.

How bout you Da? You like Bowie, right?
What? No, I ain’t a fag. Just like the fella’s music is all. So what if he dresses all weird, don’t mean nothing. Yeah, Da, I like chicks, quit asking. Okay, give it a rest already.

Look, we can listen to something else, alright? Just wanna spend some time, you dig?

You’re going out with the boys? On Christmas? Ain’t we all supposed to be together? Running late? Can’t you groove to one song, beforehand?

No, I ain’t talking back!

Yeah, yeah, okay. Alright. Yes sir. I said, yes sir.

Ma and Da walk to the door. Guess I’ll still give the present a listen. Tear off the rest of the wrapping, open the box. Damn, no batteries.

Hey, could y’all get me some double AA’s while you’re-

Door slams. Lock shuts.

Merry Christmas.

Too Soon, by Bobby Warner

2/7/2017

The smoke from an enemy air strike earlier that morning on a nearby town stung our eyes as we made our way up the narrow path leading to the top of the hill. She had requested my presence; and of course it was such a vital political matter that the top brass agreed, and I had been hastily taken from my camp duties and flown here as an urgent attendee. The Press of course had jumped me immediately, but it had all taken me by surprise. I had not idea! I could give them nothing. They already knew more than I.

We halted for a moment. She looked so tired, so worn, so give out. But she managed to smile, and said, "I'm so glad you could be here, my son. Otherwise I would have felt so alone. You're good, you know. You always came when I needed you. You are so much like your father, rest his soul."

All I had been told was that she was a traitor, had given the enemy much valuable information about our local forces, had done devastating damage to our cause. I still could not believe it. A part of me did not want to believe it.

The captain of the guard detail called us to a halt. He saluted me and said, "This is as far as you go, major," then he allowed her to approach me, and we hugged. God, it was all happening so fast!

They led her away, directed me to return to my duties; so I started back down the pathway to my waiting car, which would return me to camp.

Just as I came to the guard post building, a volley of shots from up the hill rang out, but I did not hesitate; did not look back. I kept walking, returned the guard's salute, and stepped into the back seat of my car. As the car drove away, I could do nothing but stare out the windows, seeing only shadows and thinking about how empty everything felt.

It was much too soon for me to mourn, or know grief, or to feel anything at all.

That, I knew, would come later. And it did.

Love At First Sight, by Paritosh Chandra Dugar

1/7/2017

He could not believe it. There, a few feet away, stood a young beautiful girl for whom he had been the sole object of attention for the last twenty minutes. It was in fact during his wait for the bus that he discovered he was being stared at by a girl. Instantly, the discovery brought about a series of noticeable changes in him. He became self-conscious. He began to caress his hair, check his attire, inspect his shoes. His heart began to beat fast. He blushed. He missed his bus—the only bus that would reach him his office on time. The girl was gossiping with her companions, but her eyes were fixed on him. A few minutes passed. The girl said goodbye to her friends and began to walk towards the boy. The boy’s heart leaped up! He thought she was going to tell him, “Hello, handsome. How are you? I am. . . . Your name? Doing some job? Are you free in the evening?” So ran his thoughts. And there the girl was before him saying, “Hello. What a lovely thing! It seems hand-knit. Who did it? Your mother? Could I snap it? She clicked her mobile, thanked, and walked away.

Déjà Vu, by Sankar Chatterjee

Tiny Specks Of Her, by Zane Castillo

The Blue Balloon Goes Free, by Maria DePaul

Moral Compass, by Sankar Chatterjee

A Burning Bush, by Bobby Warner

It, by Shawn Frendo

Limitation of Modern-day Inventions, by Sankar Chatterjee

True Love, by Sophie Fleetwood

A Fateful Day, by Sankar Chatterjee

Eyes, by Bianca Radulescu-Banu

A Night With Rats, by Paritosh Chandra Dugar

A Proverb, The Life Savior, by Sankar Chatterjee

A City Of Two Tales, by Sankar Chatterjee

Intensive Curve Unit, by Mike Davidson

A Timely Reminder from the Mount Rushmore, by Sankar Chatterjee

A Human Alien, by Paritosh Chandra Dugar

Latte Interruptus, by Maria DePaul

Sp / ring, by John Gerard Fagan

Xmas 1984, by Giovanni Alfonso Valentin

Too Soon, by Bobby Warner

Love At First Sight, by Paritosh Chandra Dugar

Longer
Stories

Longer Friday Flash Fiction Stories

Archives

LongerStories

Longer Friday Flash Fiction Stories

Archives

Longer
Stories