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Dead Cold, by Francesca Baker

28/8/2017

A flurry of trumpets and clatter of drums sparked up in the corner, playful sounds of a fiesta whirling the kaleidoscopic blur of colours on the walls in a sensory celebration. Ever surface was covered in little trinkets and oddities from the days before she was here, when it was only the men. Outrageous chandeliers hung in random locations on the ceiling. The walls burned with bright orange and gold paper, and the stone floor glimmered. At the back of one shelf was a tiny duck rocking on a cracked lily pad, lost amongst china vases. Above the bar was a map annotated with faded pencil notes and tacked into peeling plaster. Imperceptible to many was the silver filigree butterfly brooch pinned to a worn cushion, delicately flecked with stiches forming the image of a woman dancing.

The colour of the dancer’s swirling skirt matched the eyes of the woman who rested her back against it whilst drinking her martini. Her brown hair was neatly combed back off her face into a bun leaving her bright eyes visible and searing in black kohl. Her tanned skin glowed with health and a thin veil of perspiration in the hot evening. Red lips stung with passion. Slender legs stretched out from her chair, ankles teasingly caressing one another as she looked out through the window and onto the street.

Despite the thick waves of cigar smoke in the air she was visible to all, her beauty cutting through the haze and her striking sensuality warming like the whisky in the men’s glasses. Everyone saw her and her beauty, but no one saw the man in his neatly buttoned blazer and sinister black moustache slip a little blue into her glass whilst he flattered her with dishonest charms, compliments rolling forth from his lips whilst dark thoughts whirred in his mind. The men watched him with mingling feelings of male camaraderie, avuncular protection and primal competition. All of them secretly smiled when they heard the heels of his black shoes walking away from her table and out the door.

They thought she had fallen asleep. They all said how calm she looked, how happy. Her fiery glow becoming a warm luminescence. Once they had wanted to kiss her, now they wanted to lay next to her, wrap her up in a content blanket of dreams.

Hours later, whisky drunk, games played and cigars smoked, they saw that the woman was still there. Still asleep. Elbows jostled, and eyes winked at one another. Finally, the youngest walked over to her. He rested his hand on her, to gently wake the beautiful woman. He imagined himself like her prince, waking her from a slumber.

She was cold. Dead cold.

Antiques After The Word, by Ernest Gordon Taulbee

24/8/2017

The rain docked his pay, as he stood waiting for the word. He could manage a little time shutting down the bays and putting away the buckets, but within an hour or so from the first few drops, his boss expected him to be off the clock. That happened too often this month, and rent was going to be hard to make.
He tried explaining this to his boss.
“What do you want me to say, kid? You can’t wash cars in the rain.”
He punched his time card and hit the alleys. He’d found enough cans and scrap metal to get lunch before, and that was his best hope for a midday meal.
He walked the alleys confused and wet. The uneven cobble stones were lined with abandoned houses. The asbestos siding lying on the ground let him know it was vacant.
He thought about it, waiting for a word.
This alley had been picked clean of cans, no doubt by him. He saw something that may be the glimmer of a beer can in the mud behind one of the houses. The gate was broken, so he entered the yard. There were a number of items littering the back yard. Many of these items appeared to be made of metal, some of them may even be copper and the price for copper could be more than a few offerings from the dollar menu.
He could also see the rear door of the house was hanging loose from a single hinge. He approached it without fear, doubting any intruder was hanging around. When he reached the door, he could see a plethora of items inside. Many of them were made of metal – thick and cast. Some of the items could even be antiques worth a far more valuable sum in their present state, rather than crushed and melted down.
He waited for a word, and it came.
“The owner is dead,” the door said. “Come inside. Take what you need.”
“Isn’t that stealing?”
“What is it they say about possession and the law?” the door answered. “These things aren’t owned. The owner is dead. No heir has come forward. Why shouldn’t you inherit them?”
“That makes sense.”
“And think about this,” the door said. “If you were to live here, you wouldn’t have to worry about rent. No more cleaning cars and looking for cans.”
“That would be nice,” he said and heard a little flurry of applause from the knickknacks and other porcelain things without a name.
The items danced on their tables and shelves, eager to be owned again and to have someone fawn over them. The rain picked up again. He steadied the broken door, having received the word. As the drops pelted his scalp, he forgot about his pay and entered into the treasures. Despite seeing the clocks all over the walls, he knew he was off of all of them.

A Long Lost Memorial, by Sankar Chatterjee

21/8/2017

Lt. Wesley Jones, one of a few surviving US Navy veteran from World War II, received a Facebook message from a fellow veteran, Lt. Michael Harris. The message included a link to tweet from Mr. Paul Allen, one of the co-founders, along with Mr. Bill Gates, of computer-behemoth Microsoft. Mr. Allen, long retired from the organization, has been busy in supporting various philanthropic as well as expeditionary causes with all the riches he accumulated from the success of the company. One of his long-term projects was to find the remnants of the US Navy Cruiser U.S.S. Indianapolis in the Pacific Ocean, sunk by the torpedoes from Japanese submarines near the end of the conflict. Mr. Allen’s tweet, accompanied by an underwater shot, announced that his team finally located the doomed vessel; the underwater shot displayed the vessel’s number “35” from its hull.

Lt. Jones memory immediately transported him to that fateful night of late July in 1945. Both Lt. Harris and Lt. Jones were onboard that night. They had completed a super-secret mission of delivering the parts for the nuclear bomb that would later be dropped on Hiroshima, for Japan’s continuing refusal to surrender to bring an end to the conflict. Now, they were on their way to Philippines, to be on alert for the final strike. In the dark of the night, Japanese submarines would spot them, firing a barrage of torpedoes. Two of them struck the vessel deep, knocking out the communication system completely, while the ship started to sink within minutes. Hundreds of sailors jumped into the water without knowing whether any distress signal went out. They immediately got covered and soon gulping leaking engine oil, eventually making them sick. At the end of a long night, the sun rose in the morning, but there was no sign of any rescue mission indicating no distress signal went out due to the knocking out of the communication system. Thus, began the days of survival on sea, baked by the sun during the day, while trying to remain awake in the dark of the night. But, then came a new enemy.

Lt. Jones closed his eyes. He could still see those steely eyes of the encircling sharks. The animals would attack the weak ones only in the calmness of the dusk. The scream of the unfortunate victims would pierce the surrounding tranquility. This was also the time when Lt. Jones remembered actor Robert Shaw’s fictional character Quint describing the experience to the crew members in the movie “Jaws”. Quint would finish uttering “But, we delivered the bomb.”

In reality, four days would pass by, before a low-flying bomber pilot, on a mission, would notice the oil sleek. He would alert the authority, thus initiating the rescue mission for the remaining lucky survivors including Lt. Jones and Lt. Harris.

Though finally located, the U.S.S. Indianapolis would remain at its resting place as a war memorial, as a testament to the sacrifice of the men and women in uniform.

Rainbow, by Chloe Ford

20/8/2017

"...And she will move mountains" they said. But not my baby, not my girl. Legs that won't bear weight, eyes that won't see the love swimming in mine. Lips that won't form the word i'm so desperate to hear, "mum".
"An angel" , they'll say now , "born too early , not meant for this earth". A piece of me goes with her, as a piece went with her brother before her. How many pieces can I lose before, I too, cease to be?

A hush surrounds me in a busy room. No one wants to ask. Loneliness compounds; hope fades and rises and falls again.
A sisters joy causes my heart to break anew. My window is passing with no sign of our longed for miracle. How long can I continue?
In the deepest darkness of this, our last season, something shifts, a fragile spark. A little heart begins to beat , each precious month to be treasured.

The day I fear most brings wind and rain and a pain unlike any other. A scream is torn from me and tears fall freely, I know this will be the last time. My strength is waning, but always, for you, I give a little more. As I bring you forth, the world falls silent. No wind, no rain , the eye of a perfect storm. A pause that lasts forever before the sweetest sound, pitches straight to my soul. You cry.

The world starts again, but not as it was before.

Charlottesville, Virginia, by Sankar Chatterjee

16/8/2017

It was the first weekend of June in 1944. The President would decide to get away from the hustle and bustle of the capital to spend a quiet weekend in nearby Charlottesville, Virginia in the estate of one of his trusted aides. However, he also wanted to hear from his top military chief about the initiation of a top-secret military mission in the quietness of Charlottesville, a charming university town, the university being established by one of the original founders of the nation. The long-planned operation, code-named “Operation Neptune” was a part of the extended “Operation Overland” that was coordinated with allied countries. It was intended for a complete annihilation of the evil Nazi-machinery of the Third Reich of Germany. This particular mission was set to start in the very early morning of coming Monday by invading the beaches of Normandy in France. But, the weather in the area that day would not cooperate. Though dejected, he remained calm deciding to go back to the capital to carry on his other presidential duties. However, his military strategists, fearing any more loss of opportunity, decided to strike on very next day on June 6, now known as D-day. At the end, multitudes of patriots from various countries would sacrifice their lives to get rid of the Nazi-evilness from the face of this earth. But, the seeds of hateful Nazi-ideology along with its visual emblems remained rooted deep in many countries around the world to sprout out at different times and locations.

More than seventy years later of that summer in 1944, it was another gorgeous summer weekend in 2017 in Charlottesville. Words spread through the social media that protesters would converge on this small town to protest the recent removal of statues of past confederate leaders from civil war era from various parts of the country. To the dismay and horror of local residents, on first night, hundreds of white youths and their leaders, belonging to various underground right wing extremist groups of neo-Nazi, with names like White Supremacy and KKK marched through the downtown carrying lighted torch as a show of intimidation, reminiscent of Nazi brown shirts. Next day, they appeared in bright daylight wearing swastika-emblazoned red armbands, while waving Nazi flags and chanting racist and xenophobic slogans. They carried arms that they used mercilessly on counter protesters preaching peace and harmony. While, the rest of the country shook in horror and revulsion, the thugs had a friend in a high place. Current strongman preached them bigotry well during his election campaign. Even now, he could not denounce their presence and violence unequivocally, always vacillating between his past and present statements.

While surviving veterans from the D-day invasion wonder “For which ideal we fought for?” the rest of the country takes a deep look into the mirror and it doesn’t like what it sees. While preaching others, this country lost its own moral compass.

The Promises, by Diana Radovan

16/8/2017

The promises were all here for the same thing. They had gathered here from all over the country.

They had been well fed on the night of their arrival and then sent to bed. Pleasantries had been exchanged. There was some mumble about the weather and about how difficult it had become to drive in the big cities of their country. The term overpopulation had been used.

The next day, some creatures that the promises had never before met would test how well they'd fit inside a box. The same box, multiplied by the number of promises. The promises were doing this voluntarily. Money were involved. Prestige had also been promised to the promises.

The testing started in the early morning. The promises were tested in parallel on how well they could fit certain predefined aptitudes. Some promises were lucky and were able to show that they could really fit, over and over again, in the same kind of pre-sized box. Fitting repeatedly rather than only once was good.

The promises were given a break after a predefined number of hours, each of them receiving something to eat in its own box. The promises could not look at one another, nor did they have any desire to do so. Each of the promises ate alone in its box.

Inside the glass boxes it was rather hot, but the view was good. The view looked like the promise of freedom. In the distance, there was a river, flowing still among tall buildings.

The promises spent another hour inside their boxes, waiting for someone to come and tell them whether they’d be allowed to manifest their potential inside the same building on that day and for numerous days to come.

By 2 pm, their brains and killed potential were unpeeling in frothed layers. If only a human had passed by to witness it.

But regular humans had no access to the building, and the promises' brains were already fried.

A Shaman's Journey, by Jennifer Adele

16/8/2017

At long last, he stood before her predatory gaze. Istaqa had walked through time and the dreams of men, straight to the end of her curse. It was the full length of her punishment completed, after the passage of centuries. It was a sentence that he’d doled out for her crimes and had come to finalize – an end to the cycle of suffering.

Yes, Istaqa stood before her. A powerful shaman in all his glory.

Catori watched him from the deepest, darkest shadows of her hovel. He moved nearer without fear, as she gnawed on a stripped femur bone.

Skinwalker.

That had been her curse, and it was now a silent whisper between them. That was what she’d been forced to become in body, and finally soul, over the painfully endured years.

But, Istaqa had come now to undo all of that, and to take her back to the time and place that had been… before…

But, the femur bone was picked absolutely clean, so Catori ate him, too.

The Hospital Volunteers, by Kathleen Trocmet

13/8/2017

Ms. Molly is a very gentle, caring, old soul going about her volunteer service for the last 32 years in the largest hospital in New York City. My assignment as an intern is to learn about her volunteer work and to help her in her elderly years to get around the hospital.

At one o’clock in the afternoon we arrived at the door of Randolph Geisner’s room, whose name I recognized immediately as the king of the murderous drug-lords in the American hemisphere. The two FBI agents at his door did not take notice of us as we walked into his room. Randolph Geisner was sitting up, his left wrist handcuffed to the bed railing, his right arm in a cast and sling. He turned his head and scowled at us. Ms. Molly raised her hand with her palm towards him.

Randolph Geisner opened his mouth to speak, but no sound came out. He looked very perplexed and tried again -- nothing. Ms. Molly said, “Randolph Geisner, let me get right to the point. You have done many unforgivable, evil things in your life. We are here to tell you that your soul will die at 1:14 p.m. today.” Randolph Geisner’s eyes widened in surprise and then fear, he struggled mightily against the handcuffs in desperation of getting away from the two of us. His mouth was moving as if he were yelling at us, or for help.

Ms. Molly walked up beside his handcuffed wrist and lightly laid her feeble, arthritic left hand upon the hand that gripped the rail. He became very still. She looked him directly in the eye, and in a gentle, soft voice said, “You see, Randolph Geisner, there is only one punishment for an evil person like yourself, and that is the utter destruction of your soul; for a person is not truly dead until his soul no longer exists.” She paused for a moment, and then announced, “Randolph Geisner, I have come for YOU. I AM THE SOUL EATER! I BRING YOU THE FINAL DEATH.”

At 1:18 p.m. the FBI agent found Randolph Geisner dead in his bed, his face frozen in a tortured grimace, staring, with his mouth open as if he were screaming.

For the rest of the day Ms. Molly and I continued to greet, console, pray with, and encourage our patients.

Family Fun on Friday Night Around the Campfire, by Maria DePaul

11/8/2017

Money was tight one summer. A vacation was out of the question, so the parents tried to make every Friday night an event. Each week, they tried to do something new. One week, they drove two hours to one of the few Drive-In Theaters left. They got home at 3 a.m. that night. Another week, they had a picnic in the park. They tried outdoor movies, free concerts, zoo nights... One week, they built a fire pit in the back yard and told ghost stories while roasting marshmallows. That hit the spot. Each Friday for the rest of the summer, the kids invited friends over to compete for the scariest campfire story. The tradition continued nearly every week until after Halloween, when temperatures turned colder and video games beckoned. By that time, money tightness had passed … just in time for Christmas spending.

Fair Skin, by Sankar Chatterjee

8/8/2017

Paul Kamraj is a young Indian American. His both parents, belonging to Christian faith, hail from Kerala, a southern state in India. Kerala distinguishes itself for highest rate of literacy covering both genders, religious tolerance and progressive liberalism. His parents, after migrating to US, had earned degrees in different medical fields and landed positions in one of the renowned hospitals in the country. Here the couple first met, fell in love, and then got married. While growing up in west, Paul was equally exposed to eastern cultures and values. Every Friday, Paul’s parents would receive in mail a weekly newspaper, published in New York. It used to carry news items from various states in India, along with opinion pieces as well as stories on lifestyles and scandals involving movie stars of Bollywood.

However, to Paul, the most fascinating section was the matrimonial one, where Indian parents would place advertisements for their sons or daughters for prospective brides or grooms. As he was growing up, he started to notice that the languages in those advertisements were changing, especially in the requirements in the characteristics of a prospective bride. Different castes, different languages spoken at home, and either to be a vegetarian or a non-vegetarian were no longer barriers for a prospective match. But, one criteria still remained same: the match must be a young lady with “fair skin”.

After his graduation from college, Paul enrolled in a prestigious medical school for his MD degree. In his third year, he fell in love with one of his classmates Ms. Christiana McKinnon with Irish background, but same Christian religious faith. After their graduation in following year, the couple got married. For their honeymoon, Paul and Christiana then headed to India to visit famous Taj Mahal as well as taking part in a tiger safari in a national park. But, their first stop was the town in Kerala where his mother was born and grew up.

To Paul’s surprise, none of his many local relatives came to visit and greet the couple in first couple of days, except a young cousin Tony, close to Paul. From him, Paul heard that many of the relatives were still upset for his marrying to a non-Indian, even though the bride belonged to same religious faith and as educated as Paul. Paul introduced Tony to Christiana and all of them then went out to an eatery to check out a few local delicacies.

Overnight, the situation changed dramatically. Groups of relatives started to arrive to meet and greet the couple. They all heard from Tony that with her fair complexion, Christiana appeared like a white angel! Paul remembered the line from a past matrimonial: the match must be a young lady with “fair skin”.

Then came his epiphany: India became a nuclear nation, sent an unmanned mission to Mars, produced current CEO-s of both Microsoft and Google, but still remained stuck at “fair skin” of a prospective bride in a patriarchal society!

The Contract, by Bruce Levine

8/8/2017

Leon was convinced that the only way he could save his company was to win the contract. For the past two years things had gone from bad to worse. He’d enlisted a variety of consultants and paid them when he could. Others he bartered with for product. The barter system itself was a form of research and development – if the consultant was willing to accept the product in exchange for their services, then he knew he had a success – if they refused, well…

Lately his R & D had sent him in only one direction, and the contract for that one item was his only hope.

And time was of the essence. If he missed it this year, who knew if there’d be another chance. Consumers were fickle. What was the latest item today could be forgotten tomorrow. Leon had proof of that; three years ago he’d been on the top of the world. Then a competitor came up with a simple variation, just different enough to avoid any legal recourse, but that simple variation proved to be enough.

Now he felt that he had the perfect item that could change everything. The prototype had passed all of the tests. The focus groups had all reacted exactly as he’d hoped.

It all depended on a single meeting and a single person who alone could give their stamp of approval. That approval would mean all sorts of wheels would be set in motion. And the meeting was now only two hours away.

Two hours for Leon to worry – to go over every detail.

Leon stared so hard that he could have bored a hole in anyone who happened by. He paced the floor. He looked out the window, watching and waiting. But none of it was going to make the one-hundred-twenty minutes go by any faster.

He finally sat down and promptly fell asleep – probably, he later thought, from the exhaustion of his own anxiety.

When he awoke the next morning his prototype was gone. The meeting was supposed to be at eight o’clock the night before, and it was now eight o’clock in the morning.

Leon looked everywhere for the prototype and finally found a single sheet of paper that had obviously fallen off the table and slid under the chair where he had slept.

Leon read the paper three times to be sure that he’d read it correctly. Then he read it out loud: “Well done, Leon. It will surely be a big hit. I’ll put it into production immediately at our usual rate. I expect world-wide distribution.”

Leon took a deep breath, realizing that he had succeeded and he’d won the contract that would save not only his company, but his faith in himself. But then the one person who could do so much for him always had faith in him. And as he read the signature on the bottom of the single sheet of paper he knew that his own faith had been rewarded by Santa Claus.

A Boy At the Airport, by Paritosh Chandra Dugar

7/8/2017

I see him carrying a bottle of packed flavored milk, a newly bought paperback Pebbles of Wisdom, a smart phone with plugged in earphones, and an air of snobbish complacency. He sits on the chair just opposite ours at the airport. Still thirty minutes for boarding to begin. Enough time for me to enjoy watching that young man. The first thing he did was open the book. But I hated the way he did that. He twisted the cover page cruelly as if he were to throw away the Wisdom after use. The use and throw kind of thing, I mean. His cruelty hurt me. He turned over a few pages of the book casually and looked around with an air of superiority. Maybe he felt himself wiser than others. Then he put on the earphones and began to jerk his head rhythmically. Then he picked up the bottle that, I guess, would have cost him twenty times more than the city market and a threat to his health. He opened it by removing the plastic seal. He looked around, this time, to see if he was being noticed. And quickly he threw away the plastic seal on the right side of his chair. What an education!

The Tiny Little Book Of Oblivion, by Mileva Anastasiadou

3/8/2017

Chapter one: Ignorance

Tim walked around. Both in space and time. He walked around happily, not thinking of me. That hurt. That hurt a lot. Tim lived happily ever after in Happiland. The land I created for him to enjoy. Tim walked around in his story. He walked around happily, even after the story ended. He didn’t miss me at all.

Chapter two: Revelation

“I’ll tell you a secret.”
“I’m all ears.”
“You don’t really exist.”
“Is it something you ate?”
“I’m telling the truth.”
“Really now?”
“You are nothing but a figment of my imagination.”
“Right.”
“Right, there’s no Happiland.”
“Where are we now, then?”
“In Happiland, don’t be silly.”
“Which doesn’t exist.”
“It doesn’t. It only exists in my mind.”
“Do you realize you’re talking nonsense?”
“Do you realize you don’t exist?”
“How am I talking to you, if I don’t exist?”
“I’m making up the dialogue.”
“So, what I choose to say, you have thought it first.”
“Exactly.
“You ego is out of control.”
“I’d rather you existed, but you don’t.”
“So, you can make me disappear anytime you want?”
“I guess so, although imagination can sometimes get uncontrollable.”
“I see.”
“You should know you disappear when I go to work.”
“You disappear too when I go to sleep.”
“It’s not the same.”
“Why?”
“Because I still exist when you go to sleep.”
“I also still exist when you go to work.”

Chapter three: Oblivion

I didn’t delete the whole story at once, although I could. I erased the words one by one, enjoying the agony in his eyes.
“Who am I?” Tim asked.
“You’ll soon be nobody,” I said. I missed him for a while. Until a new story started.
Who’s Tim anyway?

Dead Cold, by Francesca Baker

Antiques After The Word, by Ernest Gordon Taulbee

A Long Lost Memorial, by Sankar Chatterjee

Rainbow, by Chloe Ford

Charlottesville, Virginia, by Sankar Chatterjee

The Promises, by Diana Radovan

A Shaman's Journey, by Jennifer Adele

The Hospital Volunteers, by Kathleen Trocmet

Family Fun on Friday Night Around the Campfire, by Maria DePaul

Fair Skin, by Sankar Chatterjee

The Contract, by Bruce Levine

A Boy At the Airport, by Paritosh Chandra Dugar

The Tiny Little Book Of Oblivion, by Mileva Anastasiadou

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