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Home Sweet Home, Doug Bartlett

27/9/2019

Sammy opened his eyes to discover he was encapsulated in some sort of cage or tomb. He could not tolerate being in such a small area. He also noticed a very strong sense coming from deep within himself to return home. Home! What was home like and where was it located? He had no idea. He could not recall any memory of home. In fact, he had no recollection of anything outside of this structure he found himself in. He didn’t even know how he got here.
He looked for a way out but saw no doorway or opening. He began hitting the sides of this enclosure, partly out of frustration but mainly as an attempt to escape. It was exhausting work. At times he wanted to give up but that internal urge to return home, wherever that was, would not let him.
When he started this arduous task, the structure would just rock back and forth. Suddenly, he noticed a small crack developing, and then another and another. The cracks began to increase in size, as did his hope for escape.
The larger the cracks became, the harder he would strike them. Finally, a large section broke off and fell away.
Sammy immediately protruded his head out and his lungs were engulfed with an overwhelming rush of fresh air.
This gave him a surge of energy, allowing him to wiggle his entire body through the opening.
He was finally free! But where was he? He found himself on cool, damp sand. He knew this wasn’t home as his internal urging was pulling him in the direction of the only sound he could hear, that of the pounding surf of the ocean.
He was totally exhausted but knew he had to continue moving forward. His escape drained so much energy from him that he was reduced to a crawl.
He expended his last ounce of energy as he laid down where the salty water of the ocean lapped up on the pristine sand of the beach.
Just when he thought it was all over, the tide came in surrounding him, and gently lifted him up and carried him to deeper water.
Home at last! Home sweet home. Sammy frolicked about as he was now the happiest sea turtle in the entire Pacific Ocean.

A Long Lost Romance, by Sankar Chatterjee

27/9/2019

Mr. Hayat Thomas, a handsome young gentleman with Armenian Christian ancestry was pursuing a bachelor degree in anthropology in the university in Istanbul (Turkey). His great-grandparents had survived the Ottoman Empire’s genocidal pogrom on their ethnicity during the World War I. Yet they had stayed back and subsequent generations flourished under the secular democracy initiated by Late Mustafa Kamal Atatürk, modern Turkey’s founding father. In university, Hayat fell in love with Ms. Karina Begum, a gorgeous young lady with Islamic background. Karina was pursuing a similar degree in archaeology. During a joint field projects involving both academic departments, they would become more intimate and their love would blossom.

Unfortunately, a calamity would soon strike Karina. Her both parents would perish in a car accident. Being the only child to her now-deceased parents, she would be adopted by her religiously conservative uncle living in Saudi Arabia. Subsequently, the uncle would make Karina to move to that country. Soon, it became clear to both Hayat and Karina that their long distance romance had hit a roadblock and nothing could be done to rescue their relationship, while one was living in a secular country and the other in a religiously conservative nation.

On graduation, Hayat would become a professional tourist guide in the city. Istanbul (Constantinople in previous incarnation) had experienced its share of the rise and fall of various human civilizations involving the Greeks and the Romans. The city had witnessed also the tension between modern religions of Christianity and Islam. Recently, Hayat was leading a group of tourists, comprised of citizens from various Middle Eastern nations. After a visit to the city’s iconic Blue Mosque, Hayat was guiding the group towards the Topkapi Palace, the residence of the past Sultanates. He noticed a young gentleman carrying a heavy-set backpack rushed past him. Then he heard a click noise, followed by an eye-blinding flash of silver light and a deafening sound blast. Bodies flew around with accompanied screaming from the throngs of tourists. Hayat, himself wounded, realized modern terrorism that had been plaguing the Mid-East finally struck his secular country.

Fortunately, most of his guests were following him in a slow pace keeping a certain distance, thus sparing them from being severely wounded. However, one female member of the group, covered with a traditional black dress remained motionless on the ground. Hayat approached her. After a little hesitation, he lifted and carried her to a safer distance.

As Hayat was placing the lady under a palm tree within the perimeter of a grassy knoll, he heard the long forgotten voice of Karina, whispering “Dear Hayat, this time you did come back to rescue me from the wrath of a radical fundamentalist.”

As I Hold His Hand, by Arlene Antoinette

27/9/2019

I kneel down to tie the laces on his shoes. Again, he’s in those brown loafers, the ones which he insists on wearing daily, no matter their shabby condition. Hesitantly, he gets up from the chair. He stands almost erect as his back seems a little stiff today. The small red tote bag on the counter is filled with his necessities: an eight-ounce bottle of water, an egg salad sandwich with extra mayo and sweet pickles, wet wipes safely stored in a zip-lock bag, and a diaper. I check it twice to make sure we have everything he needs for the day. Placing the tote over my shoulder, I take hold of his hand as we head out the door. He tries to pull away once or twice, but my grip is firm, and I don’t let go. He’s humming a familiar tune. I can’t make out what it is, but I join in to bring fullness to the melody. He gets into the car, and fidgets as I adjust and fasten his seatbelt. He looks up at me and demands to know where we’re going. He hates medical appointments, so I lie and say we’re going for a drive into town. I shouldn’t deceive him, but there would be a lot of screaming if he knew the truth. As I walk around to the driver’s side, he struggles to unhook the clasp on the belt. With a little haste, I make it to my seat before he's able to unfasten the buckle. With the roar of the engine I turn and say, dad, we are on our way.

Divine Justice, by Pamela Kennedy

21/9/2019

"This is my dominion," uttered the sot as he parked his carcass in front of the TV. Another night of the same old routine: news, sports, and snoring during his nap before going to bed.

Sara had grown weary of Andrew's ways. As time went on, her Beloved became her Not-So-Beloved. Her own odd logic justified her marriage: Drew earned a decent living, he just wasn't prosperous; he wasn't vulgar, just uncouth; and he certainly wasn't evil, only extremely inconsiderate.

Neither was Andrew a stranger to the banality of their marriage. Sara-So-Predictable, Sara Surprise-less, Sara Slow-to-Come, and on and on. It was easier to ignore the marital staleness than to upset the apple cart.

Almost daily, thoughts of freedom frolicked through Sara's mind as she questioned whether she had the skill and the will to recapture her life for herself. And, then, out of nowhere the magic formula manifested itself.

Extra Strength Boiler Makers, served throughout the sixth game of the Series, would be the easiest way. Everyone knew "Drew
loved two too many". Slyly smiling, Sara felt confident that by this time next week she'll be known as the Weeping Widow.

As the sixth game progressed, the drinks became stronger. The preparation of yet another drink was interrupted....

"Sara, these drinks are way too strong. Are you trying to ki....".
The look on Sara's face was a dead give away. As the shocking realization set in, Andrew barely had enough strength to support himself.

***

A small table displayed the ashes blanketed by rose petals. The sparsely attended memorial service prompted the Preacher to shorten his eulogy.

"The Lord works in mysterious ways. Sadly, Andrew's stumble resulting in Sara's tumble, caused them both to suffer lethal head injuries. Only God knows why He chose these bizarre events to hasten this couple to His bosom where they can share their companionship and love for each other in eternity. Let us pray..."

Voices In My Head, Doug Bartlett

21/9/2019

John was departing from his grandmother’s house. As he went across the dilapidated front porch and down the rickety steps, he was inundated with pleasant memories of being raised by this precious lady.
John had recently attended church and had an encounter with Jesus Christ. It was a life-changing experience for him. He had decided to share his newfound faith with his grandmother. This would allow her the same opportunity to have an encounter with Jesus and experience an abundant and eternal life.
However, he was disappointed in himself, as he could not find the courage to do this.
He was halfway to his car when he distinctly heard a voice telling him to return to her and share his faith. As he hesitated, he heard a second, different voice telling him not to worry and he could always share his faith at a later time.
Yes, he thought, he could always do it later. It would be embarrassing to go back right now.
As he wrestled with these two voices, he recalled as a child that the pastor in his church would try to scare people into going to the altar. He would say this might be their last opportunity to come forward to accept Jesus and secure eternal life. They may die in a traffic accident on the way home and be lost forever.
Well, that obviously never happened to him. He never even heard of that happening to anyone.
He felt confident that he had made the right decision by ignoring the first voice. He felt very comfortable by obeying the second voice.
After all, he reasoned, he would have several opportunities to share his faith with his beloved grandmother. He was young, quite healthy and would be around for a very long time. Unfortunately,… Grandma would not!

Father Knows Best, by Doug Bartlett

13/9/2019

“Dad, I don’t get this prayer thing,” my young son exclaimed.
“What about it?” I asked.
“Well, many of my prayers don’t get answered the way I have asked,” he responded.
“They don’t,” I chuckled, “There is a good reason for that. It’s like when you come to me with a request and I don’t allow it. You think it’s a good idea but I have a better plan for you.”
“I still don’t get it, Dad,” my son replied with frustration.
“Let me put it this way,” I stated, “Years ago I prayed long and hard for who I would someday marry. One day I finally met this wonderful lady named Martha and I began praying even harder that she would marry me.”
“But,” my son interrupted, “Mom’s name is Jennifer.”
“Exactly,” I said, “Had I married Martha you would not exist.”
“Wow,” my son exclaimed, “I’m beginning to understand. Thanks, Dad."

Dark Clouds, by Rod Drake

8/9/2019

JFK stood alone in the Oval Office, looking out a window at the pelting rain outside. October 1962. The Cuban Blockade. Would Russian back down? No one, none of his advisors, or he himself, really knew. An enormous gamble. The whole world
was at stake. The rain slackened for a few minutes, then picked up again. A cold, dismal rain blanketed D.C. today.
“Sir?” His secretary leaned in at the door. “The Attorney General is here.”
JFK turned around. “Send him in, please.”
RFK hurried in, looking tired.
“Any word?” the President asked him.
“I think,” the Attorney General replied,” that we may have a deal. But we have to agree to remove our 15 Jupiter missiles from Turkey aimed at the Soviet Union.”
Bobby sat down on a couch. “Not much to give up really. They’re already outmoded, not very effective defensive weapons anymore. I think it’s just a face-saving gesture for Khrushchev.”
JFK looked back out the window; the rain had stopped and a thin ray of sunshine cut through the dark clouds. “Agree to it,” he said.
RFK rushed out of the room, and the President wondered if the rain had really stopped now.

A Talk With Mother Nature, by Bruce Levine

7/9/2019

“It’s still cold out,” she said as soon as she returned from walking their dog. “Time to have a talk with Mother Nature.”

The calendar was nearing April, he agreed, and while the temperature was considered seasonable by the television and radio weather reporters, the meteorologists, it didn’t feel seasonable, at least not to Bree or her husband, Franklin.

Actually Franklin had always wondered how many of them were actually meteorologists at all, but rather aspiring television or radio personalities who hadn’t graduated to the reporter level and were relegated to the weather segment of the news. Perhaps, he thought, there was a hierarchy of the stages – weather person, in the street reporter, in the studio commentator and so on until one reached the eminence of anchor.

As to the weather person it seemed that it was a job in which being right had very little to do with job security. In point of fact Franklin had often suggested that, after a report of a sun-filled afternoon which was, in reality, actually filled with a continuous down-pour of rain, that the newsroom do better if it installed a window so the weather person could look out and get the forecast right.

Today though, Franklin could only respond by simply saying – “I agree. I’ll put it on my To Do list.”

The Investment, by Jim Bartlett

6/9/2019

“Yes, Mr. Jenkins, your IRA is doing quite well. As I told you before, I take your money personally. I only invest in the sorts of things I, myself, am involved in.” Pete Smithers shifts his phone from one ear to the other as he hands the boarding agent his ticket.

“Enjoy the Caymans,” the agent says with a smile, already looking to the next in line.

“No, Mr. Jenkins,” Pete continues, as he walks down the jet way. “It’s common for the SEC and other regulatory agencies to audit financial firms, even mine. It’s what keeps us honest. I wouldn’t waste any time worrying about that story on CNN.” Pete nods to the stewardess as he steps onto the plane, then turns down the aisle. With his focus on the first class seat numbers, he catches his wheelie carry-on against the divider. “Shoot!”

“No, no, that wasn’t directed at you, Mr. Jenkins. I’m about to step into a real important meeting - another great opportunity for your money – so I have to go. I promise I’ll call you later to—“

Pete stops, as two men in dark suits stand in his way. The closest, a tall young man, a serious look upon his face, holds a cell phone to his ear with one hand, and a badge emblazoned with the FBI logo and the agent’s name in the other.

“You promise you’ll call me later, Mr. Smithers?” Special Agent Jenkins says into the phone.

The Transparency, by Sankar Chatterjee

6/9/2019

Ms. Ludmila Vertov, a brilliant Russian exchange-student was attending a summer semester in the university in Berlin. Of all the courses she signed up, one was on the topic of “Factors Leading to the World War II”. Growing up, Ludmila learned the same event as the “Great Patriotic War”, since her country was attacked by the enemy. Among all her classmates, Mr. Tomas Bauer, a fellow blue-eyed German student stood out. Tomas was 6-feet tall, well-built and took part in two different sports, football and rugby.

Soon two became friends. Tomas confided to Ludmila that his now-deceased grandfather was an air-force pilot under Nazi regime. He learned that his grandfather was shot down over Minsk, while taking part in an aerial bombing mission. Though severely wounded, he miraculously survived after being infused with huge amount of blood in a Nazi-run hospital on the ground. Ludmila remembered how her now-deceased grandmother used to tell all the grandchildren about her wartime experience in an orphanage in Minsk, both parents being on the frontline fighting the enemy.

On a bright Sunday afternoon, Tomas invited Ludmila to show her the modern Reichstag (German Parliament) building, an architectural marvel. On the way, they passed the ruins of the old one. The spray-painted graffiti by the Russian soldiers could still be seen. They were the first Allied soldiers to enter Berlin, bringing demise to the Nazi-s. In the new structure, an enclosed glass elevator, protected by the security guards, took them to the roof of the building where the dome rested. With other visitors, they circled around the dome to experience aerial view of Berlin from different directions. Coming down, they were instructed not to avail the elevator, instead led to a walkway spiraling down and around the main chamber of the Reichstag. From each point of this journey, the entire hall was visible. Thus, when the parliament would be in session, the politicians would be aware that their actions being watched by the world citizenry. Tomas chimed in “Given the dark history of our nation’s past, this was the only way to make the political process transparent.”

Ludmila began to shiver. Suddenly, she remembered the black and blue permanent marks on both arms of her grandmother. Only when Ludmila became a teenager, her grandmother confided to her a dark secret: in her childhood orphanage, the German doctors would regularly separate out a group of healthy children to draw out blood to infuse into their wounded soldiers in the macabre belief that such infusion would make their recovery faster, while gaining strength. Ludmila looked at Tomas and wondered whether his grandfather was such a beneficiary in Minsk.

Ludmila then pondered whether the country’s history textbooks remain transparent to all the committed atrocities from past, not to repeat them.

The Face in the Mirror, by Linda Cornelissen

6/9/2019

Sometimes, the face I see in the mirror is my mother’s. When I notice or re-notice similarities in face structure, features, or posture. Even though I often struggle to visualise her clearly – looking myself in the eye can sometimes take my thoughts to her.

How do people who’ve lost all of their photos, manage to recall the faces of those long gone? What did people do before the days of photographs, if they weren’t fortunate enough to have a portrait artist handy? Is there some skill those people had honed much sharper than we do? Is it one more skill that we are losing, because we have easy external substitutes to save us the effort?

As I’m walking out to my car, to go to an appointment, my thoughts race to all of the wonderful things our cars can do for us now. All of those must haves, saving us all the effort and stress of having to think for ourselves. Reminder buzzers about shutting our doors and putting on our seatbelts. Things to save us the toil of winding our windows up and down, changing gear, remembering how to park, safely change lanes, see what’s behind us. We can even have someone (not actually a someone, but a proximity of, sort of) who can tell us where to go, arrange our entertainment, ring someone for us so we don’t get lonely, tell us what the weather is, tell us the time, regularly remind us of how far we have to go in our journey, and the list goes on.

Who else can’t wait till our house can do all of these things for us as well?

I look in my passenger side door mirror to check for anyone in the lane I wish to merge into, and merge across safely. I had looked up the names of the two streets before the one I needed, and notice the first of those two, which gives me the heads up that I am close. While waiting at the traffic lights, I (manually) wind up the window of my car, knowing instinctively that I’m close to my destination. When I see the building ahead, I look for a parking spot nearby, indicate my intentions, and when safe reverse my car, using my rear vision mirror, into an empty spot.

Another quick glance in the mirror elicits a smile that surprises even me. I’ve just caught a hint of an expression my mother used to have, and the smile is when I think about telling Mum my thoughts. MUM. I’m going to write you a letter later, and let you know all of the wonderful advances in our lives – just to see if you think that all your wishes for my sister and I to have so much more than you did have been realised. I’m sure it will give you a laugh. Miss you. And I blew her a kiss in the mirror.

How About Murder? Doug Bartlett

6/9/2019

I had just explained to my new friend how much God loved him and that God wanted to have a personal relationship with him.
“But I’ve done some bad things in my life. Surely, God wouldn’t want a relationship with me. I’m not worthy,” he stated.
“No one is worthy,” I replied, “Those bad things that have been done are called sin. God is willing to forgive us of those sins if we are truly serious about wanting them to be forgiven, and we desire to not do them again.”
“No, you don’t understand. I’ve done some really terrible things,” he responded.
“Have you ever committed murder?” I asked.
“Well, no I haven’t,” he stated.
“Do you realize that over half the Bible is written by former murderers?” I asked.
“You have got to be kidding! Really?” he asked.
“Really!” I continued, “God can use anybody who is willing to be used by Him."

Home Sweet Home, Doug Bartlett

A Long Lost Romance, by Sankar Chatterjee

As I Hold His Hand, by Arlene Antoinette

Divine Justice, by Pamela Kennedy

Voices In My Head, Doug Bartlett

Father Knows Best, by Doug Bartlett

Dark Clouds, by Rod Drake

A Talk With Mother Nature, by Bruce Levine

The Investment, by Jim Bartlett

The Transparency, by Sankar Chatterjee

The Face in the Mirror, by Linda Cornelissen

How About Murder? Doug Bartlett

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