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No Beethoven, by Daniel Hybner

28/7/2023

“Why do you always hit the keys so hard, grandma? You don’t have to do that.”

She shook her head and muttered, “Old habits.”

“From what?”

She smiled softly and motioned for me to follow her.

She led me to her back room and reached under a desk stacked high with papers, most older than I was. She pulled at a large brown, metallic briefcase.

“Help me with this.”

As I slid it out, I dusted off the top near the handle. The words Smith Corona shown through.

“Who are Smith and Corona?” I naively asked.

She laughed at me. “Not who. What.”

She pinched the buttons on the case and opened the lid. Ivory keys glistened inside the prettiest shades of blue I’d ever seen mixed together. She clicked another button near the handle and asked me to help pull the blue beauty from the case. We set it down gently together.

“There. That’s why I hit the keys so hard on that computer.”

She grabbed a scrap paper from the desk and rolled it carefully into the machine. She sat down and wriggled her fingers in a way that looked like second nature to her. Quickly, she began pounding.

She was no Beethoven. But the way her fingers banged the keys as the words she typed spilled out on the paper, well, I imagine that’s pretty close to what he looked like as he worked out his fifth symphony. I was watching an artist completely at ease with her medium. She kept perfect rhythm as she went, punctuated by the poetic ding that ended every line. I was mesmerized as she filled the page quickly and effortlessly before she let her fingers come to rest on the desktop in front of her.

She sat back in the chair and looked caringly at her work. I could tell that, in that moment, she was somewhere else, back in time, a time before modernity had fully set in.

“A relic,” she chuckled. “Both of us, really. Old habits. This one, this one’s my favorite habit.”

She got up from her chair and went back to her computer. She resumed slamming the keys there as she typed out an email.

At least I now knew why she hit the keys as hard as she did.

Just Driving Through, by John M. Carlson

28/7/2023

“This city has turned into a hellhole!” Jen, my sister, said, as she stared out the car window. “I can’t believe it!”

“I’d been thinking that, too, although I wasn’t sure.”

“Gary, it’s pretty obvious this city is terrible! It’s run down. Dirty. And I’m pretty sure the women I saw standing on the street near the high school weren’t there waiting to meet a friend for coffee!”

“True. I just wasn’t sure if it’s all happened in the last thirty years. Remember—we were young teenagers when we moved. Our memories might not be totally accurate.”

“Oh. You have a point. I’m sure our memories are better than the reality ever was. But I still think it’s gotten worse. A lot worse. Dad certainly thought so. When he moved to Arizona, he commented how smart I was to leave in the 1990s.”

“Not that you made the decision. Mom made it. Although it wasn’t so much made as forced on her, thanks to the divorce.”

“True enough. She certainly wasn’t happy moving. I don’t know if I ever told you this, but I remember that last night we spent in our house. I could hear Mom crying in her room.”

“I’m not surprised.” Indeed, I knew she was sad about leaving here the rest of her life. She’d fallen in love with this city when my parents moved to it, and that love never dimmed until the day she died.

“I wonder what she’d think seeing this place now.” Jen sighed. “Part of me thinks it might have been good if she’d seen it before she died. Maybe she’d have finished moving on from the past.”

We reached our destination, The Owl Motel. We remembered this motel from when we were young. We’d regularly pass by the sign, which had a huge owl painted on it. That painted owl always somehow looked welcoming. Now, thirty years later, it looked faded and tired. As did the rest of the motel. Oh, well. I’d checked online. A review said: “The Owl is out of date, but decent for the price.” It wasn’t like one motel in town that had a ton of news stories talking about drug busts and the occasional homicide.

“I suppose we should check in,” I said. “Then go out and get dinner. Maybe drive by our old house.”

“Might as well. Although be ready for a shock. I saw a photo online from when the house was last sold. Those flower bushes that Mom loved are gone. The tree with our tree house is also gone. But there is now a fence that would be at home surrounding a maximum security prison. I gather crime has gotten a lot worse since the 1990s.”

“Lovely,” I sighed.

Oh, well. That house was no longer home. This city was no longer our home town. We were just driving through.

Vast Expanse, by J. Iner Souster

21/7/2023

The night began to drift with an eerie glimmer in the sky. It was a glowing, frightening luminescence. I remember a flicker of a full moon, shimmering red, above the horizon, and my eyes were open to a dream. I looked down towards the darkness, and all the light above disappeared. My teeth were biting into the air, and my eyes were searching for the moon's glory. I fell on the sand, and it was an unbelievable and inexplicable feeling. Then my head was beginning to spin across the shore, and I was trying to climb, just reaching for it, until my face found the water.

Love was the word you searched for—not a metaphor, a look, an action, or an emotion. Love was the air you breathed and the smile you flashed so often. Love was the colour you knew, the beat of your heart, and the life of your breathing. The rise and fall of your chest, beating and sinking, losing and finding. You never thought you would find it, but you knew its absence would leave a hole in you that no one could fill. And in a moment when the sun shone so brightly that you felt its glow spread over you, the only thing you knew for sure was that you would have to go on living.

I knew that one day this love would find me and bring us together again. The wind says there is always time to tell a tale and more than one way to weave it. You'll recognize the wounded by their smile. They are the ones who keep you going, who keep you sane, and who will keep you secure.

I needed the tears of my love to speak, touching her lips to tell me all the quiet secrets. Maybe if we learn to listen again, we'll find the words that lead us back home to the heart of our own story and find the meaning in our scars from what was once said but never heard.

I listened to the wind and the waves for the voice that was my lover's, forever calling me from the bottom of the sea. It's been an eternity, but you still hear the calls, and they come looking for you. Maybe they haven't found you yet, and they never will. But they still remember.

One message is a story, another is a declaration, and yet another is forever waiting for discovery. Was it an erratic note or a shattered heart I saw floating in the vast expanse that separates us as I washed back out to sea?

The Fog of Enlightenment, by M. A. Hassan

21/7/2023

The market buzzed with rumors as the city warmed up in the shadow of Mount Elba.

Divination rose from the grave to Emmanuel’s child.

Our mighty gods disapproved of an apostate woman who had given her soul to the demons.

Enoch, wearing his wise mantle, walked among the citizens.

He was looking for a woman running through the city, screaming, and crying. “I’m not a sinner! I’m not a sinner. My child is a son of light!” while holding Jehovah in her arms. The jeering crowd threw their hatred at her like Minotaur stones.

Enoch found her. He raised an arm from under his mantle and spoke in God’s voice, “SILENCE.” The only sound left was the whimpering of the child. Enoch’s songs embrace love, loss, and everything in between. His words dispel the shadows in the darkness. His Andvaranaut’s finger touched the child’s forehead.

Child silence. The mystical mist rose and obscured the sacred ground. Jehovah’s face discolored, the whimpering became more violent, and crows flew up. He floated from his mother’s hand.
Enoch returns to the void, leaving the mantle behind. Jehovah turns into light, rising to heaven, and lets the scene end; It overjoyed Astrid to see this. She was a wise and just woman who thanked the gods and forsvalaði, her enemy.

This leaves the holy city in awe of the knowledge of the truth, in an endless search for enlightenment. You may find yourself paved in the dark.

A Nuisance, by Libby Belle

21/7/2023

Her mother had thought it was cute. The twisted fourth toe was the only flaw on a perfectly born beautiful baby girl. It wasn’t until she became a teenager and joined the swim team that she realized it was an ugly deformity, brought to her attention by a group of girls showing off their painted toenails. From then on, she was the first and the last to get in and out of the pool.

As the years passed, the appendage began to hide under the protection of the third toe and soon it began to ache. The owner became increasingly aware of its retreat. But when the middle toe’s bone was crushed, the crooked toe found a purpose and pillowed the poor, shattered digit while it tried to heal.

Sneakers were her favorite shoes and were justified as she took on more athletics; hiking and baseball, the attempts at tennis and cycling with her young husband who was so completely enamored with exploring the rest of her body, he never even noticed the malformation.

With age, the weight of carrying children in and on her belly made the toe flatten and useless. She often thought of amputating it and remembered what that looked like on the neighbor who had lost two toes from a tractor accident. Horrifying! She concluded that a crooked toe was probably better than no toe at all.

Throughout the years the toe continued to be a nuisance, keeping her from running barefoot on the beaches, disrobing in the daylight for a hungry bout of sex, or freely kicking off her shoes anytime she felt the desire. She felt better when she wore socks and took delight in searching for the brightly colored, cotton ones and the softest possible.

When she found herself single again with the prospect of romance, she scheduled to have her toe corrected through surgery. The doctor laughed at her and told her to tape a stick to it and leave it alone. She imagined the horror on the coroner’s face once her body decided to kill itself, the crooked toe notwithstanding. To her, the blasted thing had already died!

Now a sexagenarian, ripened by age, the very wise woman ponders deeply those unfortunate souls without limbs, blind, or disfigured and while bathing, scrubbing her tired feet, she silently apologizes to the toe that kept her vanity at bay and her humility whole.

Sacred Work, by Don Tassone

21/7/2023

As a boy, Josh loved working with wood. He learned from his father, whose hobby was carpentry.

He taught young Josh about various types of wood. He taught him how to measure, cut, sand and finish wood. He taught him how to hammer a nail through wood without splitting it.

But before he taught Josh any of these things, his father taught him wood was once a living thing, created by God, and that fashioning something useful from a tree that had sacrificed its life was sacred work.

Josh learned fast. Soon he was building planters and bookshelves and making repairs around his house. His mother told her friends about her son’s impressive woodworking skills. When he was still in grade school, some of them hired Josh for small jobs around their houses.

During summers in high school, Josh worked in a carpentry shop. He thought about signing on full-time after graduation, but his father insisted he go to college. He himself hadn’t gone to college, and his work life had consisted of a series of mundane, low-paying jobs.

“Make something of yourself,” his father told him.

Josh left for college that fall. He majored in business. Right after graduating, he joined a solid, mid-sized company, where he excelled. By 40, he was the CEO.

Josh liked his work, but his love of carpentry never left him. Wherever he went — offices, hotels, homes — his eyes were drawn to the woodwork. Sometimes he wondered if he’d missed his calling. “Sacred work,” he could hear his father say.

In 10 years as CEO, Josh doubled his company’s sales and tripled its profits, but his success came at a price. He was burned out. He decided to retire early.

Josh could have joined boards, taken another big job or just kicked back. Instead, he decided to teach carpentry at a local vocational school.

He asked his father to come with him to his first class. He was now 80 and in poor health, but he said yes.

“This is my father,” Josh told his students. “His name is Joe. He taught me everything I know about working with wood.”

Then, turning to his father, Josh said, “Dad, would you please get us started?”

Oppressively Empty, by John M. Carlson

21/7/2023

This is it, Betty thought, as she watched her daughter drive away. The last of her summer guests was now leaving.

After the car was out of sight, she went back into the house. The house had felt so alive and full the last week. Now it felt dead and empty. She felt sad. She’d have visitors at Christmas, but that was five months away.

She headed to the kitchen. The table was a sheer disaster zone! She stood, remembering how irritated she was when her kids would leave the table a mess before going to school. Was it THAT hard to take an empty bowl and put it into the dishwasher? It was still a bit irritating when her grandkids didn’t clean up, but it was also sad to think that this was the last time she’d see this table so messy for many, many months. A sign that she was alone.

She started cleaning the kitchen. After this, she’d go and start cleaning the bedrooms. Tomorrow, she’d go back to her part time job as church secretary, and her life would return to normal.

The telephone rang. It was Pastor Jim.

“I’m sorry to bother you,” he said. “I know you said you’d be back in the office tomorrow. Could you come today? At least for a few minutes? We have a minor crisis.”

She looked around the empty kitchen. It was just about clean. The sheets didn’t have to be washed until December. And the house felt oppressively empty.

“I can be there in an hour!” she said.

Clever as a Cat, by Rod Drake

21/7/2023

I should tell you at the outside that I’m a talking cat—otherwise an ordinary house cat, acting like and doing all the things any normal cat does, except for the speech ability (in English,
and a smattering of Spanish and Japanese that I picked up from the help). I only talk to my “owners” daughter, four-year-old Emma, since if she reveals my secret, who would believe her?

I have no desire to end up in a tiny aluminum cage in some government lab undergoing tests for the rest of my nine lives (which by the way is nothing but an old wives’ tale, and I don’t have your tongue either). Anyway, talking to Emma is fun, as she brings me gossip from her pre-school (that Ethan is sweet on her, I believe, and Ashley doesn’t like that fact at all!), and since she has opposable thumbs, can do my bidding, which is getting me Delicious Delicacies from the package whenever I want them (take that, Mr. and Mrs. Riley!) and turn on the television for reruns of America’s Funniest Home Videos (humans are idiots).

So it’s a good life, lying in the sun in some cozy spot, snoozing most of the day away, watching the stupid dog next door try to remember where he buried his bone yesterday and chasing his own tail (I mean really—whoever thought dogs were more intelligent than cats was obviously human! Cats rule and dogs drool. Literally). Ah, I hear Emma arriving home from a tough day at pre-school, so time to dish with the kid and see what mischief I can get her into and escape any blame as I sit silently and look innocent.

Panhandle Blues, by Rod Drake

14/7/2023

Janis sat on the top step of a makeshift staircase idly blowing bubbles from a plastic wand and a little bottle of liquid soap.

The rough wood set of steps was attached to the temporary stage erected at one end of the Panhandle Park in the Haight; a small army of long-haired kids worked on taping down cables and electrical wires, attaching them to amplifiers, microphones and control boxes that snaked across the amateur stage. In four hours, the Panhandle section of Golden Gate Park would be the crowded scene of a weekly free concert featuring various local bands, a regular and much anticipated event.

It was early spring 1967 and Haight-Ashbury was alive with the sights and sounds of young people, an enclave of tie-dye, wild, streaming hair, sandals and free joints.

Janis listened to a couple members of Quicksilver Messenger Service trying out the amplifier and microphone connections, mostly getting shrill feedback and loud electrical clicks.

“Hey, Janis, try out this mic,” one of the skinny sound techs called over to her.

She smiled her crooked smile, got up and walked to the center of the stage, grabbed the mic stand and launched into an old Big Momma Thornton song acapella. Janis wailed, she cooed, she screamed out the lyrics as she rocked back and forth like someone possessed, clutching the microphone stand like a lifeline, stamping her feet and shaking her long, wavy, thick hair, caught up in the powerful feeling of the blues tune.

Everyone on the stage and groups of hippies already camped out in the park stopped whatever they were doing and listened, transfixed by the intense performance. This local girl really had
it; she was going somewhere for sure.

She finished the song, laughed her cackle of a laugh, said “That’s how it’s done,” and walked off stage probably to find a bottle of her ever-present Jack Daniels somewhere.

Pecuniae Omnia Parent, by John O’Keefe

14/7/2023

During 63-62 BC a populist uprising took place in Rome, instigated by Lucius Sergius Catilina, better known as Catiline. The famous orator and statesman Cicero happened to be one of the two consuls in that period. The crisis threatened to destabilize the entire Empire; still the Senate was hesitant how to handle the insurrection. That came to an end with the public execution of five prominent co-conspirators on the Forum; Cicero had been instrumental in reaching that decision. Next year Catiline was killed in a battle and order was restored. Cicero however had to be put on trial since Roman Law specifically forbade extrajudicial capital punishment.

Cicero played it safe and stayed outside of the city in one of his villas near the Adriatic Sea. He only returned after a messenger delivered the good news: the judge had ruled in his favor.

Following the verdict, rumors were circulating among Rome’s proletariat and their patrician sympathizers that the rich Cicero had bribed the poor judge. Cicero shrugged it off, “That judge is not poor at all. Now after the trial he is exactly as rich as I was before the trial.”

Foxglove Frenzy, by Jocelyn-Anne Harvey

14/7/2023

Tony had bought them at a garage sale. Some enthusiastic gardeners selling off plants they’d potted. No knowledge of what colour stems would appear a year later. Now amidst the border they stretched towards sunlight, giving bees the chance to buzz between them.

The flowers reminded him about trips west. The change from concrete to countryside. Where tractors squeezed you into hedgerows and grass tickled you through open windows. They hadn’t been for years.

‘Is it still there, Diane?’ A question answered with a search. Yes, it was, with the promise of warm Welsh cakes dripping with butter. He clicked book.

***

This time he used the sat nav. Diane sat with the map on her lap. That was familiar, as was the flask in the door and the foil wrapped sandwiches. Except this time the map pages didn’t turn as they whizzed past signs. And she didn’t sing about green grass when they crossed the white bridge. Or try to pronounce the wiggly words that made sense when you pronounced them English style.

Tony stopped at the services. Locking the car, just to be on the safe side. Everyone was either moving or eating. A flurry of motion. He liked to have sat with his tea and cheese sandwich but perhaps those lanes would help him.

Soon they’d get narrower once the junctions passed. There the foxgloves would tower above the overgrowth. Threading their scarlet blooms, hastening him on. Surely then she might remember?

They’d been so many times, and he’d booked the same room with the view of the pastures where the cattle lowed. And the sea winds blew over the cliffs with the vinegary tang of chips, and of laughing and watching families pass with ice creams, and waking up knowing you still had days left; that you could repeat it all over again.

Perhaps one moment, she’d pause and look at him. Properly look at him. His Diane. And she’d say something, something relevant, something even small like, ‘digitalis’.

Shades of Wildflowers, by J. Iner Souster

14/7/2023

Corvin marvelled at the beauty of the orange and blue flowers in his hands. Their vibrant colours and delicate petals brought a sense of joy. As he continued his journey through the forest, he couldn't help but feel a deep connection to the natural world surrounding him.

The path led him to a meadow filled with all shades and hues of wildflowers. The sweet fragrance of blossoms filled the air, and the gentle breeze played with his hair. He knelt down and gently placed the flowers among the vibrant blooms, letting them find their place in the tapestry of nature.

As Corvin wandered further, he encountered a sparkling stream that meandered through the woods. The water shimmered in shades of cyan, reflecting the azure sky above. Drawn to its mesmerizing beauty, he cupped his hands and sipped the cool, refreshing water. It quenched his thirst and invigorated his spirit, revitalizing him for the journey ahead.

With each step, he felt a deep sense of peace and harmony. The forest embraced him with open arms, and he reciprocated by respecting its delicate balance. He trod lightly, mindful of the life around him, from the tiniest insects to the majestic trees towering above.

As he ventured deeper into the woods, Corvin noticed that the trees took on an unnatural quality. Their bark appeared almost white, emanating a soft glow as if nature would speak its secrets to those who listened with open hearts.

Corvin couldn't help but feel a sense of wonder. The forest seemed alive with magic and mystery, with every crevice holding a new surprise. The animals he encountered along the way, from playful squirrels to graceful deer, regarded him with curious eyes, acknowledging the harmony between them.

Through the forest, he found himself exploring the external beauty and embarking on an inner journey of self-discovery. The tranquil surroundings invited introspection, allowing him to connect with his true essence and find solace.

As he walked, he became attuned to the subtle whispers of the wind and the forest's melodies. Nature's symphony enveloped him as if the trees and birds were singing songs of unity. He understood that he was an integral part of this grand tapestry of life, and his purpose was to honour and protect it.

Guided by this newfound understanding, he vowed to become a steward of the forest, embracing his role as a guardian of nature. He would share the wisdom he had gained, inspiring others to rekindle their connection with the natural world and work together to preserve its beauty for generations to come.

And so Corvin's journey through the forest continued, filled with growth and a deep appreciation for the interconnectedness of all living beings. As he walked hand in hand with nature, he carried the lessons of harmony, love, and respect, spreading their transformative power wherever he went. The forest, in turn, embraced him as one of its own, forever grateful for the gentle soul who found solace and purpose within its timeless embrace.

No One Knew, by Diane Chattaway

7/7/2023

No one knew about the old-beat-up Chevy, forgotten in the pines. I found it the day I fled home, seeking refuge from my stepfathers' touch. Its metal carcass beckoned me over, promising shelter from the heat. I spent my summer days there, cradled in its skeleton, safe from the duties made mine in my mother's absence.

I stiffened the moment my bedroom door crept open. His shadow shifting against the wall meant one thing, "Mom was working late."
Not again.
As if they heard my muted cry, the cicadas screamed, their calls carried in the wind, bustling through my window, urging me to visit and infecting my thoughts.
I knew what to do.

"Not here," I whispered, my twelve-year-old voice failing seduction. I slipped from the covers, knowing he'd follow.

Feeding him a whorish delusion that this time, there'd be no fight. I slid into the backseat, seizing a sliver of the broken glass window, and waited.

Summer passes, and I still taste the damp soil masking the decay in that car. An odd comfort.

Cops come with questions. Where is he? Where did he go?

I stay silent, just like he taught me.
I smile because, like the things he's done and the car's existence, "Those answers," No one knew.

The Aperture, by J. Iner Souster

7/7/2023

Behold the boundless sky, an expanse with limitless possibilities. Let its beauty inspire greatness and fuel your dreams. The ingenuity that launched a craft into orbit demonstrates human potential. The same visionary spirit that birthed the moon two centuries ago has now birthed a celestial subway system to the stars, providing a thriving colony for tens of thousands of diligent individuals.

The aperture symbolizes resilience and offers a glimpse of the infinite universe. Embrace the yearning for exploration and envision a future among the stars. The void within us is a gateway to endless possibilities.

The moon thrives as a hub of activity, offering affordable adventures and cherished memories. A Texan artist's vision connects with others' aspirations to leave a mark on the cosmos.

Humanity's spirit of exploration persists, pushing boundaries and defying limitations. The unknown becomes a sanctuary for reflection and a reminder of our potential.

Witness the bustling station and trains filled with eager passengers embarking on journeys to the colony's farthest corners. It showcases humanity's unwavering thirst for adventure.

Embrace the awe-inspiring beauty around us. From a humble beginning, our journey leads us to growth and discovery. The hole beckons us to explore our true potential and unleash our inner strength.

Amidst an ever-changing world, the aperture remains a potent symbol of this place's resilience and unwavering determination. Behold the wonder of the rift in our world's ceiling, offering us a fleeting glimpse into the celestial marvels crafted eons ago, far beyond the confines of our earthly abode.

Venture into the vast expanse of the universe and seize the future with unwavering conviction, for the potential for greatness knows no bounds. Envision the limitless horizons that beckon us beyond the stars. Our courage to explore the unknown leads us to a future of wonder and discovery.

Satan's Birthday, by Rod Drake

7/7/2023

Every year on his birthday, Satan comes up to Earth and has an ice cream cone. (You see, it’s too hot in Hell for ice cream.) He disguises himself as different people each time, from a Wall Street ad exec to a crippled Afgan veteran. The deception usually works.

But this year, enjoying his birthday treat at a crowded ice cream shop, a child of 4 wasn’t fooled by him. She saw him as he really was—a red-skinned, horned, cloven-hooved, trident-tailed devil. He realized it too. “Hey, kid,” he whispered to her, “even Lucifer has to have ice cream sometimes. So let’s keep it quiet, okay?”

She regarded him for a moment with her head cocked to one side, then pointed at him with her tiny index finger, and his ice cream cone melted suddenly down his arm. He stomped his cloven-hoof mightily and then vanished in an angry flash.

The little girl smiled, then changed back into the cherub she really was, and flew blissfully back up to Heaven, one more good deed done.

No Beethoven, by Daniel Hybner

Just Driving Through, by John M. Carlson

Vast Expanse, by J. Iner Souster

The Fog of Enlightenment, by M. A. Hassan

A Nuisance, by Libby Belle

Sacred Work, by Don Tassone

Oppressively Empty, by John M. Carlson

Clever as a Cat, by Rod Drake

Panhandle Blues, by Rod Drake

Pecuniae Omnia Parent, by John O’Keefe

Foxglove Frenzy, by Jocelyn-Anne Harvey

Shades of Wildflowers, by J. Iner Souster

No One Knew, by Diane Chattaway

The Aperture, by J. Iner Souster

Satan's Birthday, by Rod Drake

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