Blog Archives

Five Minutes, by NT Franklin

31/7/2020

The ping-ping sound of a ricocheting large caliber slug is unmistakable. Earl started to move backward.

“Don’t move around, or it’ll hit you in the ass,” Billy Rae said.

“Billy Rae, I’m scared. This was supposed to be an easy mark. Knock off the pusher at the lab, take his stash and his roll. How’d it get this bad?”

“Stop talking, Earl. It’s 4:15.20. In four minutes and 40 seconds the cavalry will come and extricate us from our position. I own a cop and I gave him the info on this big drug deal. I set the time. He gets the takedown; we get the money.”

Earl peeked over the steel drums and fired off a couple more rounds in the direction of the warehouse entrance. Another dozen rounds peppering the front of the drum answered his shots.

“God dammit, Earl, now they know exactly where we are.” Additional volleys over the top of the drums made them hunch down out of sight. “We are seriously out gunned at this point.”

“We’re gonna die, Billy Rae.”

“Shut up Earl. No one’s dying today.” Billy Rae looked at his watch. “We need to hang on for four more minutes. They’re reloading, I’ll pop off a couple rounds at them.”

He lifted his head over the drums, but a wall of automatic weapon fire drove him back. “Shit, they’re approaching under suppressive fire cover. We may not have four minutes.”

“I’m gonna die.”

“Not today, little brother, not today.”

The weapons were quiet for thirty seconds.

The suppressive fire resumed, and the gunmen marched forward. When they put new magazines in again, they had covered half the distance across the warehouse floor.

“Stay down, Earl. Less than one minute. I think I hear sirens coming. Right on schedule.”

As flashing blue lights bounced around the warehouse, the wall of gunmen went to a knee and trained their weapons forward.”

The voice from the bullhorn was clear. “This is Sergeant McDowell of the Police. You have thirty seconds to throw out your weapons and come out with your hands raised.”

The color drained from Billy Rae’s face.

“We’re okay now, right Billy Rae? The cop you own is here, right? He’ll fix this, right? What do we do now?”

“Earl, I don’t know who this McDowell cop is.”

No More Statues, by Don Tassone

31/7/2020

It began in the South. Statues erected long ago to honor men once considered valiant were surrounded, lassoed and pulled down because it was now obvious these men had fought for unjust causes and to honor them was to sanction injustice.

One by one, statues were toppled by mobs or removed by the authorities. There was some resistance. But the actions and beliefs of these statued men were now so abhorrent that anyone standing in the way was vilified and shouted down.

Soon the statues of men who were now seen on the wrong side of history were all gone. But then other statues began to be defaced or destroyed. Statues of men who were once considered inspiring but whose faults were now better understood. These men were sinners, and to allow their statues to stand was now seen as immoral.

Even the statues of men once considered heroes were taken away because they had held opinions or committed acts which were at odds with contemporary thinking and sentiment. No one so flawed belongs on a pedestal.

Eventually, of course, every statue in the land was brought down because all men are imperfect and no one could pass the test, not even the saints.

All the while, injustice continued because only the landscape had changed.

The Weeping Willow Tree, by Deborah Shrimplin

31/7/2020

Deep in thought, carrying her artist's pad and charcoal pencils, she slowly wandered the pathways of the local park. Visions of her personal history filled with accolades and honors for her artistic gifts replayed in her mind. Her art had given her life meaning.

When she came around a bend in the path, she noticed her view of the weeping willow tree had faded with time. She sat down on the familiar old, wooden bench overlooking the meadow sprinkled with a variety of wildflowers. She quinted, rubbed her tired eyes and drew the details of the tree from memory.

When the sunlight cast an orange hue, she knew it was time to leave. Calm and at peace with her decision, she walked to the bus stop, stood on the curb and waited for the noisy, red shape to appear. When it came close to her, she deliberately stepped in front it.

Don’t Try It At Home Folks, by Sankar Chatterjee

31/7/2020

Author’s note: This is a work of fiction. Bleach is poisonous to human beings. No attempt should ever be made to consume it internally.

American John Hudson was traveling through South-East Asia on a business trip when a novel highly contagious virus began to spread throughout the subcontinent. Soon, the countries in the region began to shut down their borders in an attempt to stop the spread of the virus. Without taking any chance, John decided to leave the region and was lucky enough to catch one of the last departing flights from Bangkok to New York, with a change over in London. While waiting for the connecting flight in Heathrow, he caught a glimpse of a live press conference on CNN International, delivered in Washington by his country’s strongman. Due to modern day explosion in global travel, the novel virus already arrived in the shores of both Europe and America, causing havoc in both continents. Though European countries were trying to handle the situation, now turned into a pandemic, in a scientific fashion, the leader of the US had wished its “miraculous disappearance”. But, the virus proved him wrong, spreading like forest fires throughout the country. Now desperate for a “magic cure”, he, during the press conference, turned towards one of his scientific experts suggesting a medical experiment. He wondered whether “the virus inside an infected person could be killed by injecting a bleach solution.” Waiting passengers who were also watching the live feed gasped in disbelief.

On return to the US soil, John became homebound due to mandatory lockdown in order to stop the spread of the virus. He missed going to his dentist for next several months. His expensive dental implants lacking their proper care began to protest, throwing those painful spin-balls especially in the middle of nights. Finally, John reached out to his dentist who himself remained under lockdown. However, he had heard his president’s speech on the bleach therapy and as a die-hard supporter believed his words. Subsequently, he applied the procedure on his own dental problem. Following was his instructions to John:

1. Take your water-pick gadget (an electrical device, with a built-in water chamber attached via an electric cord to a narrow glass shooter that, when turned-on, sprays high-speed water-jet to do a high-tech mouth cleaning job), fill up the chamber with water, add two spoonful of bleach solution and one spoonful of Listerine solution, and mix them well.

2. Direct the glass-jet towards your infected gum, turn the speed knob to fullest, and shoot the solution at those growing nasty microbes; once per day for next one week, then once every two day for a week, and call me back in two weeks.”

John just finished his first week of treatment. He is not sure whether the plan has been working as intended. However, he has been quite positive that during treatment some bleach found its way to travel inside the body, thus hopefully destroying those viruses if he’d been asymptomatically harvesting them from his recent travel.

Bucking, by Heather Robinson

31/7/2020

I was at the window paying my quarterly sewage taxes when there was a huge commotion and in comes this jumpy pair. Some yahoo with a confederate flag. On horseback, no less. The palomino was bucking like she was the evening’s entertainment at a Texas line dance bar. Urban Cowboy was hollering about taxes being unconstitutional and isn’t that why we fought the British anyway? I figured I had no chance to calm him down so I focused on the horse. I happened to have an apple in my pocket and as I sidled up to her flank, she started nuzzling my jacket. I reached in and polished the McIntosh, then took a big bite, spitting it into my hand for her. She snarfed it up like she hadn’t been fed before the big invasion, which any commander knows is a no-no. Meanwhile, the poor ladies at the tax desk were trying to reason with Saddle Boy, to no avail. I heard sirens in the distance. The police station is a mile away so they’d be here soon. I sure didn’t want anyone to think I’m a party to this madness so I gave the tawny mare the rest of my snack, winked at the ladies, said, “Good luck,” as I strode off.

The Shrimp Dinner, by Bruce Levine

31/7/2020

“Are you alright?” she asked.

“Of course,” he answered. “I just had a wonderful dinner and now I’m watching a movie about wonderful food. How could I not be happy? – there’s good food involved!”

She smiled and patted his stomach before returning to what she’d been doing.

They’d been grocery shopping earlier and, as they entered the store, they were greeted by a sumptuous array of shrimp, scallops and lobster in a special display.

The shrimp, succulent and gorgeous and cooked to perfection – large and beautiful – the type you find as a shrimp cocktail in a good restaurant.

“Just keep filling the bag and I’ll tell you when to stop,” he’d told the clerk.

Weighed it was two-and-a-half pounds.

“Perfect!” he announced.

They were both hungry, having not eaten lunch, and devoured about a pound with cocktail sauce as soon as they got home.

Three hours later Nashiki rice topped with sautéed assorted bell peppers and onions and the shrimp thrown in at the last minute all in a butter and herb dressing.

A glass of Merlot and all seemed right with the world.

Dead Man Walking, by Doug Bartlett

31/7/2020

Harry Brown was lost. He didn’t know it. In fact, he thought everything was fine. His life wasn’t perfect, but whose was?
Physically, emotionally, mentally and financially he was doing okay.
So what was the problem? It was spiritual.
“There must be more to life than this,” he thought.
He knew there had to be a power greater than him. He believed he had to have been created by design and not just chance. Not only him but everything around him like animals, the earth, other planets and stars. Also, the systems and forces like gravity, the planets’ orbital patterns and the water cycle here on Earth. If it was by design then there must be a designer.
Yes, in his mind everything was just too precise and intricate to have come about by happenstance.
But the other side of the coin was faith. That’s where he had the problem. You see, he was an engineer by trade and dealt with facts and in logic. He knew his Christian friends,some of whom seemed they had checked their brains at the door when they became Christians, could not prove to him the existence of God but, just as well, he could not prove to them that God did not exist. It appeared to be a stalemate.
Such a small word is faith, but what an enormous impact the lack of it was having on his life.
He thought that this must have been how Diogenes, The Greek guy who walked around during the day holding a lantern looking for an honest man, must have felt.
Harry felt like he had been wandering around aimlessly through life looking for the answer to his dilemma without any success.
One day a thought emerged in his mind, “ What if it isn’t either--or. What if faith and science overlapped? What if they could actually co-exist?”
Harry had never considered that possibility. Although he was a long way from where he needed to be, it opened up a brand new pathway for him to explore.
Perhaps Diogenes would find that honest man after all.

House Sitter, by Phyllis Souza

31/7/2020

I'm old enough. Tina could water plants and walk dogs. How hard was that?

She pleaded. "I'm fifteen. It will be fun. I want to."

Tired of listening to her relentless pestering, Tina's father gave in.

#

Dogs were barking. The side entrance creaked.

What was that? Tina sat up in bed.

The room was pitch black, except for the digital clock readout—one a.m.

Probably a cat. Tina laid back down and pulled the duvet to her chin, with her hands gripping the edge of the comforter, she stared wide-eyed at the ceiling.

The security light flipped on. Tina sprang up. She slid out of bed.

Someone's out there.

Heart-pounding, body shaking, she dropped to the floor and crawled down the hallway toward the living room. Bracing herself against the arm of the sofa, Tina stood, leaned in, slowly lifted a slat, and looked through the blinds. A muscular man wearing a white t-shirt was fiddling with the latch on the gate. It released. Her heart jumped. Clutching the neck of her nightgown, she turned away from the window. I'm going to die.

Teeth chattering, she made her way to the kitchen. She grabbed a knife then dialed 911.

It seemed like an hour but was only a matter of minutes until blue lights flashed through the night, and cops pulled to the front curb.

"Are you home alone?" An officer asked.

"Yes, I'm the house sitter. The owners are on vacation."

"Maybe you should call your parents."

"I will in the morning."

With flashlights, two officers combed the yard and found no trace of a prowler. 'Make sure all windows and doors are secured,' they told Tina and left. She chain-locked the door behind them.

Even though Tina knew no one would be there, she looked under the bed. She paced through rooms. Checked and rechecked locks. She combed her hair. Brushed her teeth—bit her fingernails. Tina wanted to go home.

At the break of dawn, she was safely back with her parents. Her father called the homeowners. They agreed that Tina was too young and found another sitter. Tina felt she was too young, as well.

Later that day, there's was a knock. Her father opened the door and slipped a man wearing a white t-shirt, a twenty-dollar bill.

Harbinger of War by Janice Siderius

24/7/2020

They all think I am insane. No matter how many times I correctly predict the future, no one listens to me. I have been cursed.

When I was young, I became a priestess of Apollo. That religious vow included a life of celibacy and Apollo gave me the gift of prophecy. But when I spurned his sexual intentions, he added the condition that no one would believe my predictions. Now that Paris has brought Helen home, I have told anyone who would listen that she would be the ruin of Troy.

My brother Hector can do no wrong. Everyone loves him because he is smart, confident, and very brave. He has a wonderful, loving wife and a baby boy. Father trusts him with any assignment, public or private. If the fates had allowed, he would have made a mighty king.

Hector admonished Paris before they left for Sparta, “Behave yourself.” But he ignored the warning. Youngest siblings get away with misbehaving much more often than other children. He had always been mother’s favorite and a bit of a loose cannon. He spent much of his time roaming the hills instead of helping with the family operation. Who knows what he does out there?
Their trip to Sparta was a disaster. Not only did Paris violate the rules of diplomacy, his actions have threatened Troy. Helen might be the most beautiful woman in the world, but she is married. Did Paris expect that Menelaus would just let her leave?

When my brothers returned home from Sparta, Hector did his best to include Helen in our family activities. But he was wise enough to anticipate the storm that was coming. He prepared the city and the men for the arrival of the Greeks. The weapons stand ready, but heroic Hector will die.

They will all learn that I, Cassandra, was right.

Trapped, by Phyllis Souza

24/7/2020

It was seven o'clock on a Friday night.

"Don't forget to set the alarm." George, a co-worker, said. He slipped on his jacket.

Audrey glanced up from the computer and replied, "I won't. First, I need to complete this contract."

After finishing her work, Audrey walked back to the restroom and flipped on the light. Storage boxes lined one side of a wall, and a three-foot soldier boy stood in a corner waiting for Christmas.

When she was ready to leave, she turned the doorknob. It broke off, leaving the metal end sharp and serrated. In a squatting position, Audrey narrowed an eye and twisted the broken spindle into the hole; It didn't connect. Scanning the room, she told herself, "I've got to find something to trip the lock." — The Nutcracker.

The sword was too big. But the rods connecting the arms might work. Audrey jabbed a steel pin into the hole and poked. No luck.

She heard the phone ringing in the office. Wouldn't stop, made her more nervous than she already was.

Audrey pounded her fists and kicked on the door. The restroom became her jail.

Then taking one cardboard box after another, she flung them. Files and papers soared in the air. The wooden soldier boy flew, too.

Audrey took a deep breath and attempted again; after probing here and probing there, the stem connected, and she was able to turn the nob—a miracle.

Not wasting one second, she grabbed her purse and raced out of the office.

Just as she was getting into her car, George pulled into the parking lot.

"I tried calling. Nobody picked up."

"I was trapped in the restroom."

"Oh, you're such a joker."

"Yeah, I'm hilarious." Audrey got in her Honda and left.

The Dilemma, by Doug Bartlett

24/7/2020

George found himself in a real bind.The Coronavirus pandemic left him unemployed and had exhausted his emergency fund. His car was in the shop for a major repair, his youngest child needed to have surgery and he had just become the proud father of twins giving him a total of eight children. How was he going to handle this? It was clear he would not, he could not.
Then the phone rang. It was the Acme Trucking company responding to a job application he had submitted. They wanted him to come in for a job interview tomorrow.
George shot up a quick prayer, “Thank you Lord.”
George was being interviewed for a Supervisor’s position on the graveyard shift. He thought everything was going well until the final question.
“Sir,” The interviewer asked, “ You will be receiving some shipments where we would need you not to list all the items you received on the inventory sheet. Would you be able to do that?”
“They’re asking me to lie. I can’t do that,” George thought,” but I really need the job.”
“I don’t know if I can do that.”
“Well,” said the interviewer,” Why don’t you think about it and come back tomorrow with your answer.
That night was George’s longest night of his life. He couldn’t sleep and just tossed and turned, trying to justify what was being asked of him.
He went back in the next day and now sat in front of the same interviewer. He knew his answer would cost him the job.
“ Sir, I will not be able to do what you requested.” His heart sank as this job was the sole answer to all his problems.
“George, our company has suffered significant losses due to internal theft. You are the first candidate to turn me down. This shows me you are an honest man. Congratulations. The job is yours. Can you start tomorrow?”

A New Beginning, by Sivan Pillai

24/7/2020

I had two options after the great market crash, making me virtually penniless: restart from scratch, or end it all.
I needed to be away from the hubbub of the city to brood over the situation. The first place that came to my mind was the usually deserted bank of the river that flowed at the edge of the forest. In case I decide to call it a day, what better place for a man who was too busy to learn swimming!
The river was in spate after the week-long rains. Muddy waters were hurtling towards the sea a few miles away, carrying logs, branches of plants, and even some dead animals. Though the rains had stopped, tall trees were bending in the strong wind that pierced the stillness. The sun had hidden behind fast-drifting dark clouds, leaving the bank in semi-darkness.
Only a week ago, I had sat there during a full-moon night, watching the reflection of the moon and the white clouds in the river. When I looked up, the same river had appeared to be flowing through the clouds! In the eerie silence, I had half-expected to find angels frolicking in the waters.
Even as I thought of the future, I remembered the day I came to the megacity, with nothing other than the clothes I wore and a determination to prove my mettle. Hard work and uncanny knowledge of the share market had made me a prominent figure in the city.
The faint sound of ringing temple bells floated from somewhere across the river, reminding me of my mother saying her prayers in front of the blue statue of Lord Krishna at home. She used to read some portion of the Bhagavad Gita every day and sometimes told us, the children, how it contained some sage advice from the Lord, on how to remain unwavering in the face of adversity.
“You came to this world empty-handed,” she would quote, “and will leave it empty-handed. Whatever you got, you got from here. What is yours today, was someone else’s yesterday; tomorrow it’ll be someone else’s. You believe all that you own is yours. That’s the cause of your grief. Whatever happened, happened for the good. Whatever is happening, is happening for the good. Whatever will happen, will also happen for the good only. Don’t be repentant for the past; don’t be anxious about the future. Concentrate on the present and do your duty without caring about the outcome.”
I had a feeling that my mother’s words were directed at me, infusing enthusiasm and courage in me. I didn’t want any more time to make a decision. I could start from scratch all over again, leaving aside my inflated ego. I am not going to offer a free lunch to the crocodiles that infested the river, I decided while retracing my steps towards the car.

Wild Woman, by Eric Persaud

24/7/2020

I squint my eyes, and she nudges her elbow into my rib cage me, thinking I am falling asleep. I reassure her it is only a squint, as the sunlight stings into my eyes from my passenger window.

We are driving down the road, straight and narrow, boarding walls of corn stalks. Each turn of the road is as gentle as my girlfriend’s shoulder nudges, as she yammers on and on. I turn up the radio music, wondering if she will take the hint, but instead her voice grows and towers over the song playing. One and on she goes, as the sun dips below the horizon and my squint turns more into a side eye.

She yelps out a yawn, and my pounding head heavy with fatigue at first takes it as a sign of victory in the war of her voice. I shut my squinting eyes to rest. She nudges me yet again, this time to take over the wheel and drive.

We pull over onto the side of the road. Stalks of corn border us on our side by an arm’s length. We get out the car to switch sides. The other side of the road is a pitch-black open field, where my eyes cannot make out any forms or contours of the landscape other than the night itself.

I twist my neck up right before I go into the driver’s side, fingers wrapping the door handle. In the backdrop of the black, bright white stars twinkle, filling the view. It is the kind of awe and sight that can simply stop a man in place. Each light drifting my weary eyes to almost a dream trance.

My girlfriend is silent. I wonder if the view is dropping her jaw too, rather than jabbering it. I turn my head to take her in, and she stares at me frozen, slightly trembling.

Tears roll down her eyes, first as drops, then as a steady stream. She says get into the car, quivering in her voice. She ducks her head to get in, shuts the door gently, and reaches over from her side to pull my arm, bringing me into the car.

I slam the door shut, face turning red from the starlight sight being lost. She senses my flush of fury, and with her thumb tilts my head back towards my window to see the stars.

Now, from the car, the stars seem to take shape as my eyes adjust. The glimmering includes silver fur and grinning sets of teeth.

Coyotes.

Dozens and dozens of coyotes limbering towards the car from the darkness. She turns my head again, towards the front of the wheel and says go.

We drive off, heading down the road with our headlights as a guide in complete silence. I have one hand on the wheel, and the other holding her hand the rest of the journey.

A Minor Earthquake, by Deborah Shrimplin

24/7/2020

Yesterday, Ron had received the letter from Uncle Sam that his application for the GI Bill had been accepted. After surviving the war in the Pacific, he believed he had duly earned it. But, he needed to supplement his income. His girlfriend was insisting they get married and live in one of those new developments where all the houses looked the same. To finance their American dream, he had taken a job as a traveling encyclopedia salesman.

Last night, one of those minor earthquakes that rock the California coast from time to time woke him up. He guessed it was about a 4.0. Quakes that small were common and very rarely caused any kind of damage. So, he had rolled over and went back to sleep.

This morning, he prepared for another day of going door-to-door pitching the latest edition of the encyclopedia. He ate his bacon, hash browns, toast and fried eggs. After pouring his second cup of coffee, he opened his briefcase to retrieve his map and replenish his sales brochures.

At first, he couldn't believe his eyes. He wiped his eyes, squinted, shook his head and frowned. The paper that was his map was blank. The sales brochure with colorful pictures of a family sitting around a dining table reading the encyclopedia was pure white. His receipt book had no lines or embellishments. The lettering on his pencils had disappeared. All traces of ink were gone.

He shook his head and rubbed his temple. "This is a nightmare," he thought. "I'm still asleep." But, he knew that wasn't true. He turned on the television and watched the newscaster sitting in front of a blank, white backdrop make the following announcement:

"We are receiving similar reports from all around the world. Every nation around the globe is reporting the disappearance of ink. The ink that man has used to write and print has disappeared from all surfaces. All sources of ink have vanished. Ink has evaporated off all paper surfaces, ink has evaporated, gone....."

Ron rushed to his encyclopedia and opened the first volume. The pages were blank.

The Tasting, by Bruce Levine

24/7/2020

Farley Winthrop held his breath. He wasn’t sure if he’d like the cheese his wife offered him and, from experience, he was unsure about the aroma of new cheeses – often the aroma belied the flavor. There were cheeses that he thought smelled horrific yet tasted wonderful. On the other hand the reverse sometimes happened.

This time he wasn’t taking any chances.

She seemed so enthusiastic when they were in the store and now came the moment of truth – she held out a piece, came toward him as he opened his mouth for her to place it on his tongue.

“Well?” she asked.

Farley carefully chewed, allowing the smoky taste to linger. Did he like it, he thought?

“With a glass of red wine and some green grapes,” she commented.

“I can see that,” he answered, but still hadn’t responded about whether he liked the cheese or not, partially because he hadn’t decided and partially because he wasn’t sure if his wife would be upset if he didn’t like it. “Yes, with a glass of red wine and some green grapes…”

She offered him another piece.

“It will make a wonderful snack on those petite toasts,” he said evasively.

“We always have good snacks,” she answered.

She’d withdrawn the second piece of cheese and had eaten it herself without further comment, but Farley suspected she was disappointed and he felt bad about that since he never liked to disappoint his wife.

“I’ll have another piece please,” he added. This time he didn’t hold his breath nor did he roll it on his tongue, but simply chewed and swallowed.

“That’s very good” he said. “Let’s have a glass of wine with it.”

She smiled and went to get the wine and two glasses.

Abused, by Phyllis Souza

17/7/2020

It was six o'clock at night.

Irene stressed. Slightly disheveled. Dropped ice cubes. Poured whiskey into a glass and rapidly started stirring. Donald would be coming into the house. She'd heard the garage door open and close.

"Where's my drink?" Donald asked, putting down his briefcase. "You know I want it when I get home.”

"On top of the kitchen counter, where I always put it." Irene started to walk out of the room.

"Where the hell do you think you're going? Bring me my drink." He walked over to a kitchen chair and sat. "Now. Bring me my drink."

"What?"

"Bring me my drink."

"And if I don't?

"Ha!" He sniggered. "You'll bring it."

Only married me so you could have a servant, Irene thought. But it's over.

With the drink in her hand, she walked over to Donald.

#

Half an hour later, Irene set the dining room table. In the center, a roast with vegetables on a platter and a tossed green salad in a wooden bowl.

"Dinner's ready," Irene called, feeling nothing but hatred. She hated his voice. She hated his laugh. She hated his walk. She even hated his digestion.

"Don't start," Donald yelled out from the bedroom, and then he stretched out on top of the bed. Dinner could wait.

Irene sat at the table, fearful anxiety fell over her. She got up, looked out the window, and stared into the darkness. Why does he do this? Living this way is impossible.

Seven strikes went off on the grandfather clock in the living room.

Donald came into the room. "You didn't cheat and start eating. Did you?" He sat and reached for the meat. He looked at Irene. "Are you hungry?"

"I've been sitting here for the past thirty minutes. What the hell were you doing?" She felt a pounding in her chest. "I... I want a divorce."

"Oh, and where do you think you're going? "He picked up a carving knife and fork. He smirked. "You haven't got a job. How far do you think you'd get without money? Come on, trusty wife, tell me."

"I've got a mother. She'll help me."

"That old hag help you?" he laughed as he cut into the roast. "This stuff is cold. Heat it."

She reached for the platter. With the food in her hands, she walked to the kitchen.

#

Eleven o'clock. Winds blowing, thunder rumbling, the moon had gone out, and so had the lights.

While stepping noiselessly in her bare feet, Irene moved blindly across the carpeted floor. She struck a match, lit a votive candle on top of the bedroom dresser, and took a handgun out of a drawer. I'm not dead. I wish I were. I don't care about anything.

With the gun in her hand, she walked to the king-sized bed.

The Turning Point, by Bruce Levine

17/7/2020

After the third round he was certain. She’d suggested a fourth, but he saw no point. She was clearly the winner and another round would only reinforce that certainty. Besides it had become simply a competition and seemed that the goal had changed – now it was obvious that she was determined to prove her point.

What had started out as a silly bet had turned into an international war of the roses and she was obviously red, at least it seemed that she was out for blood – his.

They’d always gotten along so well. Their friendship began five years ago when they were both in seventh grade. The friendship had never gone beyond just that, friendship, and there had never been any competitiveness between them, even as they proceeded through the science curriculum and they both headed toward college in a quest to discover the cure for some disease that would change the world.

Research science was always such a companionable goal. Sharing a work table in the lab and studying together was so easy, so perfect.

He certainly had no foreboding that, after five years of friendship, if only a scholastic relationship, a simple suggestion of what he thought would be fun, and a chance to use his newly acquired driver’s license, would turn into an historic event.

Now he was certain of a new twist in their relationship – he knew things would never be the same again.

Was this really what his friend of five years was all about, but had hidden so well?

They finished round three. And since he didn’t want a fourth, clearly triumphant, she suggested they go home.

He agreed.

He’d never suspected that tonight would be such a turning point in his life – he thought they were simply going to play miniature golf.

Exit Strategy, by Christina Holbrook

17/7/2020

Given the precarious state of the economy, her husband is anticipating an easy conversation about exit strategy. A quick solution favoring an agreeable winding down of responsibilities and commitment. All in all, he is ready to be done with it. But the telephone conversation takes an unexpected turn. She sees surprise and disappointment in his face. The company wants him to stay.

“Now what?” he is thinking. Bureaucratic complications take over. A debate over hours. He fears resentment from colleagues who would have chosen to remain but were forced to leave. And then the question of health insurance, the great American ball-and-chain. “Do you want to take a walk?” she asks him, when the call is done. But he flips on the TV, hunkering down. He had imagined his release, his freedom; instead he sees a maze with no exit.

Outside there are so many birds singing, more birds than she can remember. And the air is soft and humid from an afternoon of rare, drenching, spring rain. She notices that the downpour, and the melting snow, have formed a temporary pond. Swimming busily across the water are two ducks.

Tomorrow, the little pond will be gone. Or, it may not be. The ducks will live their duck lives either way. This afternoon, they dive for bugs and weeds, and ruffle their tail feathers contentedly. A foolproof strategy whether staying put or exiting.

At This Moment, by Ed N. White

17/7/2020

At this moment, she should have cut and run. But the screen door closed behind her, and she was trapped in a world of psychotic danger. He was standing in the kitchen with a gun. Two other men sitting at opposite sides of the metal kitchen table. He was smiling in that crooked way that was more frightening than the gun. The silence was broken only by breathing and a dripping faucet.

He motioned her forward. The short distance across the front room seemed like something seen when looking through the wrong end of a telescope. It stretched in front of her and narrowed as she approached.

He pointed the gun at her face, “Sit!”

She pulled out a chair, sat, and asked, “Why are you doing this, Richard?”

His laughter seemed out of focus like it was coming from somewhere else. “I want you here to tell them I’m not crazy.”
She hesitated, looking for the right words, and he screamed, “Tell them!”

“Richard, no one ever said you were crazy, we’ve talked about that many times. Now you tell me why we’re here sitting at this table, and you’re standing there with a gun threatening us. What kind of behavior would you call that?”

Richard looked at her for a minute, reached behind himself, picked up a butter knife from the counter, and spread peanut butter on a Ritz cracker holding the knife in the same hand with the gun. He slid the cracker down the length of the table to her as though he was bowling. She said, “Thank you, Richard. Who are your other guests?”

The man on the left answered the question and said, “I’m Chief Reynolds, and that’s Detective Tom Gaccione.” Gaccione nodded but didn’t say anything.

Suddenly Richard screamed, “Shit!” and threw the empty jar which shattered against the stove.

“Richard, stop that!” She spoke sternly, needing to get control. “Stop that right now!” He thought she sounded like his mother and began to calm.

“I’m sorry,” he said and lowered the gun. “I have another jar in the pantry.” He turned and moved a few steps into the pantry.
The Chief looked at her and silently mouthed, Get…ready…to …run.

Richard returned from the pantry with the jar, the knife, and the gun. Suddenly the room exploded as the Chief dove for the gun hand, the detective drove his body into Richard’s gut, and she ran for the door. She didn’t stop running until she was across the road and hiding behind a police car.

The female cop put an arm around her shaking shoulders, hugged her, told her how brave she was, and gave her tissues for her tears.

Over the next few months, she spent many hours counseling Richard and seemed to be getting results. He told her his fears. He told her his dreams. She typed copious notes into her tablet as she listened intently.

It was not enough. Richard found another gun.

The Vaccine, by Jim Bartlett

17/7/2020

Still not quite used to the swing shift, after a long stent of graveyards, he steals a quick glance at the clock to check on the time, then buttons up his still untucked shirt and settles at the PC to have a peek at the news. With the afternoon sun’s rays streaming through a slit in the curtains, or, really, more so carried along by the joyful noise coming from the backyard, he lets his hopes rise that maybe, just maybe, today there will be a turn in the foul tide that continues to plague the headlines.

But when the page fills, he feels his breath taken, his shoulders slump. Domestic violence on the rise. Another shooting, this time at a crowded church. A child missing has been found dead, the parent the likely culprit. Warships drift menacingly in the South China Sea. Around the country, new cases of the virus are hitting record highs, forcing states to return to their previous restrictions. Fights over the need to be wearing masks, with cashiers and clerks feeling the brunt of the frustrations, have become commonplace. And in many areas, despite the warnings, people gather, setting the stage for a price that will be paid down the road.

With a heavy sigh, he looks to the side, letting the sun warm his face, the sounds from the backyard warm his heart, before turning back.

In another city, in another state, a police officer has taken the life of a young unarmed black male, sparking more demonstrations and adding fuel to the fire of those demanding defunding of policing agencies. Rubbing tired eyes, he leans back. While most answer the call to protect and serve, there are those who have let hate or bias blind them, leaving heartbreakingly spilt blood to stain each and every officer’s uniform. Including those who have died living up to that sacred oath. With another sigh, he stands and shuts down the computer.

His wife, hair still wet from her shower, steps in, setting a hand on his shoulder. “Not exactly Emerald City out there, eh?”

Shaking his head, he turns and gives her a kiss on the cheek.

“Have you looked out back?” she asks.

“Not yet. But I’ve been hearing it.” He slides around the counter and pulls the curtains aside. He can’t help but smile as he watches Brandy, their golden retriever, chase Mandy and Rebecca, their two girls, round and round and round the oak tree, the dog’s bark and the girls’ giggles providing the googled definition of happy.

Of the way things should be.

If only there was a way to bottle up those giggles, that happy bark. That’s the vaccine the world really needs.

With another glance at the clock he tucks in his shirt, slips on his Kevlar vest, and pins on his badge. Giving his wife a kiss, much longer this time, he slips out the door for a hug from the girls – and dog – before heading off to work.

The Laugh Quotient, by Bruce Levine

10/7/2020

When they married they devised a contract. Nothing formal and nothing even close to relating to anything like a pre-nuptial agreement. Theirs was a private, personal contract filled with only those things that were important to them.

Nothing written down and the entire document consisted only of fine print.

It included such items in its various clauses as the sufficient number of times he was to tell her that he loved her. Also, similarly, the number of times she was to be told that she was beautiful.

These were easy tasks to fulfill.

Of course, there was also the number of kisses which must be exchanged and when they were to be exchanged, such as when passing each other as they proceeded from place to place in their apartment. And, absolutely, when either of them left the apartment to do such momentous tasks as walk their dog – both on the departure and return.

There was one, final, clause, also in fine print, which was always easy to fulfill – the laugh quotient. It simply stated that as much laughter as possible would be consistent with the essence of the contract whether written or implied and therefore any breach of the laugh quotient would require supplemental kisses and a renewed effort to fulfill not only the laugh quotient for the particular day in which the breach occurred, but extending beyond that day and overlapping into subsequent days.

Both parties happily sealed their bargain with as many kisses, hugs and laughs as they could accomplish.

Having agreed and sealed their bargain appropriately the couple lived happily ever after.

The ‘R’ Word, by Krystyna Fedosejevs

10/7/2020

“You know about Suzana?” piped Annie.

When coworkers at her lunchroom table didn’t react she continued. “Came down with red spots. Something starting with ‘R’.”

Sylvie bit into her sandwich. “Must be Rubella. That explains why I haven’t seen her lately.”

“But I saw her yesterday,” added Josefina. “No red dots. Maybe she had Malaria. Been to the tropics last month.”

Annie frowned. “Can’t be Malaria. She would’ve had to take precautions before going.”

As the women devoured their meals, Suzana appeared.

“Room for me?” she asked, noticing an item on an otherwise empty chair.

Sylvie answered. “How are you feeling? Have you recovered from Rubella?”

Suzana was stunned. “Rubella?”

Annie plunged into the conversation. “Someone heard you talking about red spots. Sounded like you said Rubella.”

Suzana laughed. “Not I. One of my plants, on its leaves. Our rainy July is bringing out all kinds of fungi. My rhubarb has Ramularia.”

With this revelation, Annie removed her sweater from the chair beside her.

“Suzana,” she squeaked. “Do join us for lunch.”

The Witness, by Sankar Chatterjee

10/7/2020

In a late afternoon, Mr. Huan Sen, an elderly Cambodian gentleman in Phnom Penh was catching up on day’s global news on CNN International. The feed from America displayed a disturbing video of a white policeman brutally murdering a helpless African-American gentleman on a crowded street in broad daylight. The cop pinned the victim down by placing his right knee on his neck and thrusting it for an extended period of time. A few onlookers recorded the incident on their camera-phones, later sharing the videos on social media. According to law authority, the gentleman was sought after for a misdemeanor crime. But there was no attempt by him, resisting arrest or engaging in any kind of confrontation.

Mr. Sen turned off the TV and went to the outdoor balcony, taking a view of the orange glow of the setting sun. That’s when a floodgate of his memory’s damn broke wide open. Now in his mid-seventies, he was born to a poor farming family in Battenbang, hundred kilometers away from this capital city. Growing up, he would help in family’s farming activities, while self-teaching how to paint human portraits. Later, his expertise in the area would allow him to land a job in the advertising sector, especially in creating colorful billboards for electronics and entertainment industries.

Soon Mr. Sen began to remember those four years when the country was taken over by the regime of Khmer Rouge, led by its French-educated ruthless dictator Pol Pot. In order to impart his vision of dystopian socialism, the dictator ordered to imprison society’s intellectuals including political opponents, authors, and artists. Once arrested, they were brutally tortured in secret chambers in coercing false confessions. Later they were murdered in various killing fields spread throughout the countryside.

Mr. Sen, then an ordinary commercial artist, ended up in the notorious Tuol Sleng prison, hidden inside a populated neighborhood. Initially tortured mercilessly, his captors soon learned about his painting skills. They kept him alive to create the propaganda pictures of the dictator, his henchmen, and party’s ideological slogans. While engaged in painting, he also witnessed various inhumane tortures on both men and women, daily taking place inside rooms after rooms accompanied with victims’ animalistic screams. At the end, the country was liberated by the neighboring Vietnamese army. Mr. Sen was among a handful of fortunate survivors of this torture site. Later he painted various torture scenes based on his memory, while alerting the international community. These paintings would serve as the material evidences in the “crime against humanity” trials of surviving leaders of the regime before the international court.

In recent years, the American interrogators in the Guantanamo Bay prison sites applied the torturous waterboarding technique on the captured suspected detainees pertinent to the 9/11- event, as if right out of one of his paintings. But Mr. Sen couldn’t remember whether he ever witnessed a prisoner was murdered by his torturer, while holding a knee on the neck for a full ten minutes.

The Investigator, by Marjan Sierhuis

10/7/2020

Savannah is shivering. Her coat with a down-filled lining offers little in the way of protection from the bone-chilling winds of December while the cold temperature wreaks havoc with her mood. She should have taken her car instead of the subway. At least it will have offered her shelter from the inclement weather.
Her eyes water as she attempts to focus on the apartment complex across the street with her binoculars. She thinks of calling it quits for the umpteenth time that day, but five thousand dollars is incentive enough to stay the course and see it through. Her subject is still in there. Of that, she is certain. After all, she has seen no one that matches his description exit through the front door.

Several hours later under the diminishing light of day, the investigator is ready to leave when a lone figure emerges from the entryway of the building. She immediately withdraws a camera from her pocket, removes her gloves, activates the night mode and takes a series of pictures.

After the man starts to walk along the sidewalk, Savannah pockets the camera, dons her gloves, quickly squeezes between two parked cars and darts across the street. Exhausted, mission accomplished, she walks in the direction of the nearest subway. Her former target appears to have the same plan, so she maintains enough of a distance to stay unnoticed. When the subway sign, suddenly appears, he descends a flight of stairs that leads to the underground. Savannah reaches the top of the stairs.

Once again, she feels the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end. She hesitates and considers her next move. But an unexpected push from behind catches her unawares, and she tumbles down the flight of stairs, and into a sea of darkness.

As she opens her eyes, she frowns. She tries to support herself on one elbow, but her head throbs, and she falls back onto the cement floor.

“Don’t try to sit up,” says a stern voice out of her line of sight. “You must have hit your head when you fell.” “You attracted some spectators, but I said I will take care of the situation.”

“What happened?”Savannah asks.

She shivers as a man peers down at her with empathy. His face looks vaguely familiar. “I found you unconscious at the bottom of the stairs.”

“How long have I been lying here?”

“I have no idea.” “I just arrived myself.”

“I have to go,” Savannah whispers before she closes her eyes and loses consciousness.

“You’re not going anywhere except the hospital,” he says softly, as he removes a camera from her coat pocket. He dislikes his sister-in-law, is frustrated with his brother’s infidelity, but this is the last time he intervenes and seizes the evidence.

The wail of a siren is heard in the distance.

Frogs In Hot Water, by Rema Teller

10/7/2020

The sound of ice the size of small countries was breaking apart, disappearing into the ocean. Maybe if they could hear it, it would make them shudder. But they didn’t listen. The water was too cold yet, too icy, far away. Even though, from far away, it began to touch them, some of them—not enough. They were warned that places would soon be forever underwater. Homes would gradually be swept away. Houses, entire cities, fragmented into sand. Nothing but a memory. But, it was not enough. Too distant, too cool. They paddled in the water, the coolness tickling their knees.

Waiting.

The water was rising but in places that didn’t matter enough. No palaces, no parliaments. It’s okay we have floods now and again. We come together as a community, it’s a beautiful thing to see. Let’s not make this political—it’s a time for togetherness. The water may have been dirty and destructive. But cool to the skin, accidental. No need to shout, the water wasn’t tepid. They just needed better defences for the next time. The frogs would be happy for the deluge.

Waiting.

Think of our future, a girl said, why should we pay for your mistakes? She tried to put them all in hot water. No charts, tables, graphs or evidence could be as emotive as a girl's voice, or, as the march of children in the street. Children matter, of course. Emotive, yes. But, business mattered more. Denial. The companies who thrived on destruction, pretended it wasn’t there or pretended to care. Hey, look, we plant trees. They certainly needed trees. The world was on fire—but not enough of it. They could look over in pity. A cruel natural disaster. The frogs were hot in the forests, their skin boiling, but the water was still too cool.

Waiting.

They were in hot water, heading close to a tipping point they couldn’t see. All the shouting and striking and fighting had done nothing. No reduction. The world wasn’t hot enough yet—the issue was too opaque for them, too distant. Was it at a boiling point yet? It didn’t feel so hot. Too many carbon comforts. Too many powers comfortable in complacency. Change had a cost. Short-term gains, long-term costs. They were never very good at picking the sensible option. They celebrated greed and materialism while the debris of their countries plagued elsewhere. Stinking mountains of greed. Out of sight, out of mind. They were moving too close to the sun now but could not feel the burn. Yet.

They were still waiting.

Waiting for what? What if the deniers were right? That it was all wrong and they accidentally made a better and cleaner world? Would that be so bad?

What if it was right and like frogs in hot water they boiled?

Would they jump to action before they burned?

Or, would they end up waiting--
waiting for the end?

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

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.

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