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The Other Side, by Doug Bartlett

16/8/2019

The first time I noticed Joyce was in fourth grade. My class was playing her class in kickball. Before the game, I walked across the field and told her I would like to walk her home after the game.
I said, “I’ll be waiting for you on the other side.”
In high school she enjoyed going to dances. Me, not so much. One evening I walked over to her side of the gym floor where she was sitting with a herd of girls, and I told her I don’t dance but would really like to drive her home afterwards.
I said, “ I’ll be waiting for you on the other side.”
After we got married she liked to shop. Me, not so much. I would let her off on one side of the shopping mall.
I then said, “I’ll be waiting for you on the other side.”
Now, after a great life, I find myself in a hospital bed with all kinds of tubes attached to me. It will turn out to be the last day of my life.
I gently place her hand in mine. I inhale my last breath. I begin to exhale when I say my last words, “I’ll be waiting for you on the other side.”

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Casting Runes, by NT Franklin

16/8/2019

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The old woman cast the runes and frowned. “She mustn’t go on the voyage.”

My grandfather nodded and helped her up from the floor. “Thank you for the advice, Sigrid. We will heed it.”

Grandfather saw her to the door. Sigrid paused and looked Grandfather in the eyes. “Don’t let that child go on that voyage.”

He nodded and handed her money.

Grandfather was the patriarch of our family and I never knew him not to be in charge. My father always stood down. It was the way of the old country.

“Dad, we’re in England. I was born here. I’m not a child. I’m 23 years old. And do we really have to use ancient Norse magic?”

Grandfather sat at the table and looked at me. “Hush, child. Runes are very powerful. Sigrid is the most widely respected rune caster in all of England. We are fortunate to have her live close.”

“But the ship sails in under one month,” I pleaded.

Father stood up. “The answer is no, Ingrid. You will not be on that ship. There will be no more discussion on the matter.”

I stared in disbelief. This was the first time father weighed in on a matter where Grandfather had made a decision. The case was closed.

On April 10th, 1912, the Titanic set sail from Southampton, England, without Ingrid on board.

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Dear John, by Paula Nicolson

16/8/2019

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You said to meet under the clock at 12; just like in the Hollywood films.

I can see you, but you can’t see me; gripping a large box of cheap chocolates you’ve bought last minute from the petrol station.

I wonder if you’ll sneak a bite from its large selection while you wait? Perhaps the coconut ones will remind you of me as a fairground shy? Or will the hard fudge get your juices flowing, just like the many times you shoved my face against a wall?

Those photos I saw of you and her; the ones you accidentally streamed to the TV while you were working upstairs. You were undressed, together, and in our bed.

You think I’m going to forgive you, again. Say that it was my fault that I made you angry. That you couldn’t help getting drunk with all the trouble I put you through; especially with me falling down the stairs and losing our baby.

But I won’t, not this time. So instead, it’s time for me to leave, split, flit, whatever you want to call it, and for good.

I know you’ll always be looking for me.

And I’ll be looking for you; over my shoulder, making sure I miss every single pavement crack.

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A Good Day, by Bruce Levine

16/8/2019

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The rain had finally stopped. At seven a.m. the sun was already shining and trying to eradicate the water left by the night’s storm.

It had been extraordinary. They didn’t remember cracks of thunder like that in a very long time; it shook their apartment. Even their dog, normally oblivious to thunder and the like, jumped at each bang. At one point it seemed as if the lightening had actually hit their apartment building – unlikely even under the circumstances, but it felt like it.

They laughed as she told their dog not to worry about the thunder – it’s just God moving around some furniture, she’d said. He’d never heard that one before, but it seemed so appropriate at the time.

But today the sun was shining; the temperature pleasant and their dog was stretched out, basking in the sun. It already felt like it was going to be a good day.

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Same Evilness: Different Times, Different Places, by Sankar Chatterjee

12/8/2019

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[Photo courtesy: National Park Service].

Ms. Valentina Moscova, a Russian citizen was exploring the history of the Civil Rights Movements in Southern US. Her quest would bring her to Birmingham (Alabama), a notorious city of practicing ruthless segregation in the Jim Crow era. After visiting several museums on the subject, she arrived at the Kelly Ingram Park, centered in the middle of the city. Here, in early May of 1963, an organized nonviolent protest-march by young African-American students was violently crushed by local law-enforcement authority. Ms. Moscova was walking past various open-air sculptures depicting scenes from that fateful day. Soon she came face to face with a metal sculpture depicting a police officer, about to unleash a barking German shepherd on a protesting student. The sculpted dog’s mouth was wide open and the sharpened teeth were all visible. She felt an urge to touch the tip of a metal tooth. Immediately a long lost memory appeared inside her brain and she froze with a shiver.

Ms. Moscova, now an octogenarian, was only a seven years old child when invading German troop had arrived in her village during the mayhem of the Great Patriotic War (the Russian term for World War II). Now, she began reliving those early childhood days. On arrival, the German soldiers began looting houses, subsequently setting them on fire. They began to arrest able-bodied men, line them up on the periphery of a mass-grave newly dug by soon-to-be victims themselves, and then shoot them. Afterwards, the surviving women would gather all their children and flee into the dark forest on the edge of the village. Ms. Moscova had two younger siblings. After two days in the forest with no food or drinks, her mother instructed her to look for some wild berries grown in the region. As darkness was falling, she found a berry-field and began collecting the fruits in quiet. Suddenly she sensed the presence of an animal behind her. She turned around. That’s when her right index finger barely touched a gnawing tooth of a vicious German shepherd held on a leash by a German soldier looking for escaped activists. He ordered her to keep quiet allowing her to collect the fruits, and led the dog deeper inside the forest. This memory now opened a floodgate of subsequent wartime memories.

She sat on a nearby bench and took another look at the same sculpture. A thought ran through her mind “Indeed, the universal evilness remained unchanged throughout human history, whether it was practiced in the context of mass-killing in a brutal war or in dehumanizing segregation based on skin-color.”

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Alarming, by Doug Bartlett

9/8/2019

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My next target would be the Crown Jewel of Dubai. It was on exhibit and valued at 3.7 million dollars.
The challenge of obtaining it was just as important to me as the money itself. I had intensely studied the layout for several weeks.
I decided to strike at one o’clock tomorrow morning. I adroitly scaled the outside of the building. I would have twenty-six minutes to accomplish my task. Once upon the roof, I entered the building through a roof maintenance vent. I scurried down to the seventh floor where the vault was located. I carefully circumvented the special security systems by methods I cannot disclose here.
There were a few close calls of being discovered, but that just made for a greater thrill.
I disarmed the final alarm system and swung the vault door wide open. I momentarily gazed at this amazing treasure. I then stepped inside the vault to grasp my amazing prize. Immediately an alarm went off.
How could that be? I had studied every square inch of this building. It’s not possible. What should I do?
I decided there was only one thing I could do. I slowly and carefully rolled over, fully extending my right arm and… hit the snooze button.

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Number 7, by Rod Drake

4/8/2019

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Mickey Mantle hid his limp as he walked from the on-deck circle to home plate. Richardson and Berra were on first and third. Two outs; time for a hero.

Yankee Stadium roared its approval as Mantle stepped into the batter’s box, flexing his bat. It was low and just barely caught the corner—strike one.

The wind was light, coming in from right field. The sun was bright, the day warm, buoyant. Mantle adjusted his stance, favoring his left leg which still hurt badly, even after the surgery.

He squinted at the pitcher, sixty feet away. Mantle hoped, prayed, for a decent pitch that he could hit over the right field wall since he knew he couldn’t run bases with any speed today.

Then another strike, high and inside. On the third pitch, Mantle grimaced in sharp pain as he swung mightily, slamming the baseball high and deep, deep, and finally over the wall, into the upper bleachers.

Mantle caught his breath from the pain, then jogged awkwardly around the bases amid thunderous applause, smiling at the crowd despite the throbbing agony in his leg and the slowly reddening stain on his uniform.

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Out of the Mouths of Babes, by Jim Bartlett

3/8/2019

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Running Wolf raises his head over the top of the rock, peering down into the ravine, where two men are setting up camp along the Creek of the Bluebird. One, the tallest, is trying to start a fire, while the other cleans their kill, and most likely their supper, a small deer.

Little Owl edges up next to his father. “Grandfather says the white men are cunning, and will use their rifles to take our valley. Their kind will soon fill the land all the way to where the sun sets.”

Running Wolf smiles and tussles his son’s hair. “Though he is my father, and I would not say such before him, I fear Gray Hawk may have stayed in the smoke a moon too many. His mind and eyes have become like the morning fog that lays silent across our great valley.” He juts his chin down toward the men. “Just look at them. They show no respect to the deer’s spirit, throwing aside the bones and hide. They make no thanks to the spirit for providing their meal, keeping them alive for another rise of the sun. They use their rifles rather than fashion the deer’s string for bows.” He shakes his head. “When they come in tribes, rather than teepees made from the hide, they cut down the very trees that hold back the wind and provide for their prey, to build their shelters, leaving the hills barren. A dark ghost of a forest that once was.” He points to a spot just behind the men at the edge of the trees. “See there? They make trails everywhere they go, making it easy for the hungry bears or wolves to find them.”

“But Father, when Grandfather took me for the sweating, he said the Souls of the Spirits warned him of yellow-haired men with iron sticks of fire. And what of the village by the River Tatanka? They—“

Running Wolf puts a finger to Little Owl’s mouth, stopping him from saying any more. He had gone with the Elders to the village, and his son’s words send both a cold chill...and the sharp edge of doubt into his gut. “Grandfather must have been listening to the trickster spirit, Iktomi. There’s no need to fear these men, Little Owl. They will be gone with the first snow. And like my father, his father before him, and his father before him, we will have this land to ourselves once again. The Spirits will prevail. Let not Gray Hawk put needless worry into that head of yours.” He taps Little Owl on the nose and they crawl back from the rock, moving away from the ledge. “Let’s find our supper,” he says, as they head into the thicket.

Though Running Wolf’s eyes are down, searching for the trail of the rabbit that led them here, his son’s words continue to torment, and a single thought fills his head.

While we still can, Little Owl. While we still can.

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The Paint Box, by Bruce Levine

2/8/2019

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A paint-box full of colors and yet she couldn’t decide which one to choose. Andi was exasperated both with herself and with the picture in front of her. She’d chosen such a simple subject and yet it consistently eluded her; would she ever get it right? This was the third time she’d set out to try and it would probably be the third time she’d tear up the paper.

When she’d begun painting she thought that water-colors would suit her best rather than oil or acrylics, but now she truly wondered.

Her goal was to achieve the variables of color in nature, a lofty goal in and of itself, she knew that before she began, but she was determined to face the challenge.

Today it was the trees behind her apartment; a small forest which, she hoped, she’d capture, but the more she worked the more frustrated she became. There were so many variants: silver-green, blue-green, gray-green; on and on it went. And the more she mixed the colors on her palette the further away she seemed to be from what she saw.

Maybe tomorrow, she thought, as she swished her brushes in the water, turning it into a perfect blending which she wished would, magically, appear on the paper.

“Okay, Barnaby,” she said to the basset hound who had suddenly awakened and decided that he wanted to go out. “Just a minute.”

As she turned to take him out she accidentally knocked over the water glass, spilling it on what should have been her painting, flooding the page with colored water.

Andi mopped up as quickly as possible with paper towels before turning to Barnaby and heading toward the door.

When they got back from Barnaby’s walk she got a phone call and then got further side-tracked so, eventually, the soaking wet paper remained on her painting desk, forgotten, as she went to bed.

That night Andi dreamt that she had finally achieved conquering Mother Nature’s palette and put it on paper.

At exactly seven-fifty a.m. Barnaby howled his daily alarm clock wake-up call. How he managed to be precise to the minute Andi never figured out, but he managed it daily and Andi got up, threw on some clothes and raced to take Barnaby out for his morning walk.

Twenty minutes later, having given Barnaby his breakfast, Andi returned to her painting table, expecting to clean up the mess she’d left the night before.

She’d hoped for magic and dreamt a magical transformation, but never expected to actually see a Jackson Pollock version of her forest, perfect in every manifestation of color. She’d worked so hard and never achieved her goal. Now all she had to do was to frame her "masterpiece", smile, and take all the credit.

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Don't Sweat the Small Stuff, by Doug Bartlett

2/8/2019

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It was a wonderful time at the beach, but it always is.
Unfortunately, it was time to head back to the July heat of home. We were halfway there when the water pump on our car went out. We rode the rest of the way in a tow truck.
Upon arriving at our home we discovered the air conditioning was not working. The repairman told us it couldn’t be fixed and it would have to be replaced. If that sounds expensive, it is!
The next day our double oven goes out. We call the appliance repairman. He checks it out and tells us we need an electrician. The electrician says we need the appliance guys (again). This is getting frustrating!
The say things happen in three’s. We should be done, but apparently we are on our second set of three’s. Before I could finish writing this story, my wife now tells me we have no hot water in the house.
Later that day, I am reminded that this is all just small stuff as I walk through the doorway of Room #339 of the intensive care unit of our local hospital to visit my dear friend who recently experienced a massive stroke.

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