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Regrets by Pamela Kennedy

25/9/2020

 
"Regrets remain with you forever.  Remember that, son."
Will Garret sadly recalled the words his father said the night before he married Janet.  Today should have been their 25th wedding  anniversary, a time for celebration. But today is just another day in his lonely life.

Several years ago he had it all...a loving family, a beautiful home, and an lucrative career.  Gone was his family and home replaced by alimony and child support.  His career had blossomed into a routine job. 

At first it was just flirting but that soon evolved into more romantic thoughts.  A dalliance with a flippant little thing who had long ago moved on to another besotted man was always to have remained buried within his soul.  Was it that long lunch which lead to a late night liason that aroused Janet's suspicion? Or was it his tiredness after that? Perhaps it was the guilt that he wore on his face after that encounter. She knew something was amiss and in a furious fashion she cross examined him.  And when the truth was told, it hit her like a bucket of ice water. Her stunned silence slowly stirred up into a roaring rage and the intensity of her anger grew as time passed on. That night his morals wouldn't have filled a thimble.  He had become a cheat, an adulterer, but he didn't want to become a liar on top of that.  Janet was at least due the truth. An indiscretion, a bad decision, an eruption of emotions and an acknowledgement that the past could not be changed had redesigned their lives.

Will had assumed that the truth would have set him free and understanding and forgiveness from Janet would eventually be forthcoming.  Instead it enchained her in misery for what seemed an eternity. It was a wound that would never heal thereby not allowing him to rid himself of the remorse he constantly felt. Janet had permanently shut him out of her life.  Will was left with only memories of a once happy marriage.

"Regrets remain with you forever."  It was too late when he realized the true value of those words.  ​

A Very Big Heart, by Teddy Kimathi

25/9/2020

 
Neighbors and friends always told Simon that he was really friendly. He was the kind of man who every person would look up to for help, like Superman. If a girl needed someone to help her pull the cat out from a tree, he was there. If a blind man couldn’t clearly see the road, he was his eyes. If a housewife was unable to carry her groceries, he gave a hand…

He was so compassionate and loving that people started seeing him like a god. All the weights of their problems were all transferred to him. Some even started walking upright, and recovering confidence to check their weight. Everyone around him was happy – very happy. The happiness was too much and abnormal that it was covered as a special story in the media.

His calling became too demanding that he quit his job as a firefighter, forcing his girlfriend to work both in the day and night shifts as a waitress in a restaurant downtown. She had a big heart too, but not as big as that of his. Without any one to attend it, their house grew cobwebs, dust and silence.

As days passed, Simon’s heart grew bigger and bigger. One day, it became the size of a house – bigger than his previous house. The heart was big enough to accommodate furniture, book shelves, a TV and of course, people.

His girlfriend had become too busy, that she didn’t notice how big his heart had become. People in the restaurant she worked talked about Simon’s heart every day, but her fatigue couldn’t let her hear about the miracle. She needed Simon more than ever, to talk, hug and play poker. She needed a hand to renovate their house, and refill it with love and life.

Simon had become too compassionate and loving, that people started living in his heart. There was almost no room for his girlfriend in there.

You Have 24-Hours to Live, by Susan Reid

25/9/2020

 
The barroom was dark, except for dim overhead lights. An off-duty medic, firefighter, and nurse sat on red leather bar stools at the end of the polished wooden bar. They were watching the morning news on television and reading the morning newspaper.
.
Sarah sat next to an already drunken man, who was smoking cigarettes, drinking beer, and talking to himself. He looked about 40. His brown bangs were pressed down on his forehead by a well-worn cap. His striking blue eyes could be seen, despite his eyelids drooping from intoxication.

Sarah heard him say something about the gulf. Since a lot of former military people spend time in this neighborhood dive bar, she took a guess.

"Did you serve in the Persion Gulf War," she asked?

"Yes," he said. "I was a Lance Corporal in the Marines until the court-martial."

"What happened," Sarah asked?

"Someone said, 'You have 24 hours to live'," he answered.

"Who," Sarah asked?

"I don't know," he replied, "but I broke into a sweat and started shaking," he said, butting his Marlboro in a cheap black plastic ashtray and ordering another Budweiser.

Believing his life was about to end soon, he jumped into a formidable MIA1 Abrams tank and drove it at its maximum speed of 45 mph to a liquor store in Iraq. After buying four cases of beer, he strapped them to the sand-colored, armored battle tank, and rushed back to camp.

His journey didn't go unnoticed.
"Someone snitched on me," he said, in a matter-of-fact tone. The court martial resulted in his losing the rank of Lance Corporal, but he faced no other disciplinary measures, at least none that he told Sarah about.

About a year later, she saw him at a neighborhood party. His short dark brown pompadour was neatly styled. He had grown a gray and brown beard. His blue eyes were clear. He stood erect, his chin firm. Had he been in uniform, he would have made a great model for a United States Marine Corps recruiting poster.

Standing by the band playing rock classics, he sang along and tapped his feet. He had an open pint of Southern Comfort in a brown paper bag and a pack of Marlboros in the pocket of his khaki slacks.

Walking up to him, Sarah said, "Remember me from David's Bar?" "Yeah," he said. People were shooting pictures all over the park during the event. There were speeches, food trucks, free pumpkins, face paintings, and raffles.

"I want my picture taken with a handsome man," Sarah said with determination. "What handsome man," he asked? "You," she said, smiling. He seemed genuinely surprised that anyone considered him handsome.

After the photos were taken, Sarah asked about his military career. "My twenty years are up in January," he said, looking up through the golden leaves of a tree to a blue sky with cotton puff clouds floating by. "I can't wait to get out. I've watched the world blow up."
​

My Alarm's Ringing, by Neha Varadharajan

25/9/2020

 
My alarm’s ringing, and it’s dark outside.

I couldn’t be this drunk, could I? I pull my blankets in close proximity and bang on my alarm. Damn, it’s fragmented now. My head sinks into the pillow. There goes another forty dollars into the perpetual drain.

Bruno’s running around the house. I shout at him to keep quiet, and he’s still running. A dog does not listen to you.

“Hmmm”, I stir. “Bruno, shut up.”

He’s barking substantially. Almost like coughing. There goes another forty dollars for the vet. That’s eighty in total.

“Bruno, are you sick?”

“Bow wow. Cough cough”.

“Okay, you are.”

I’m calling in sick today. I don’t really care if Megan takes my case. I hate my job anyway, and me getting fired may give me time to consider better jobs than sitting crunching numbers on sugar packets.

“Bruno..hmm..eat your breakfast, boy”.

He’s quiet. Breakfast numbs his throat, especially when it’s his favorite food.

I’m still in bed. I’m feeling too good to let the feeling of ultimate enlightenment of deep sleep pass.

Oh man. Bruno’s licking me all over. I can’t open my eyes, I’m too somnolent to perform that kind of feat.

Bruno’s licking me over and over. My face is wet with puppy saliva.

As I finally jolt to life from languid death but am yet to open my eyes, it strikes me.

I don’t like to sleep in late.
I don’t have an alarm clock.
I didn’t get drunk yesterday.
I don’t crunch numbers on sugar packets for a job.
And I don’t have a dog.

My eyes open with a jolt. My face is still wet, and I can hear the barking, and coughing, and a little, cold whisper.
My alarm’s ringing, and it’s dark outside.

Searching for Grapefrit Gardens, by Ed N. White

25/9/2020

 
Damn! I was lost somewhere in rural Florida along Rt. 17. I forgot to charge my phone this morning at the motel, and now I have no GPS. The last thing I saw was a billboard advertising the Arcadia Rodeo. Like what, roping iguanas and riding gators?

I was searching for Grapefruit Gardens, a retirement community on the Southwest coast. A place that the brochure described as, “Heaven for seniors, before you get to the other one.” I just wanted to get away from the New England cold and snow.

The pictures were enticing. People smiling with perfect white teeth. Golden tans. Slim bodies in tennis whites and lots of wavy hair. Sunsets and cocktails. The ideal place to live. All I had to do was find it.

Ahead of me at the side of the dusty highway was a hand-lettered plywood sign advertising “Cracker Bob’s oranjes and boiled peenuts.” Behind this bad spelling was an old mildew-stained single-wide and a truck jacked up in the dirt driveway, needing another rear wheel. I knew what he was selling. I didn’t know if he could help me.

I pulled off the road and beeped the horn. An ancient man slid from under the truck. He said, “Howdy, young fella.” Precisely what I thought he’d say. He looked like Yosemite Sam.

“Howdy, yourself. I’m looking for Grapefruit Gardens.”

He spits some juice in the dust. “Ain’t near here. It’s prob’ly that way towards where all them other people live that don’t give a hen’s ass ‘bout Florida. The polluters and environmental rapists. The Snapchat weasels.” He pointed west toward the Gulf and spits in that direction.

“Sounds like you don’t think much of those places.”

“Nope, they done nuthin’ but ruin the state. Greedy developers that swindled the land and then destroyed it to make a quick buck. It’s where them sunset sycophants live.”

I didn’t want to rile up old Bob, but I was curious. I asked, “What’s a cracker?”

“That’s a Florida cowboy. I was one.”

“Really? Like roping and riding and stuff like that? Where are all the cattle?”

He pointed down the road in both directions. “See them fence lines? That was all cattle pasture. Florida was second only to Texas at one time. Then the developers took over. Hell, them Vanderbilt brothers had a twenty-six thousand-acre spread not far from here they sold in the ‘70s. Like they needed the money. That’s five thousand houses in Rotunda now. Put a lot of good wranglers out of work.

Now I saw Bob in a new light. Sixty-years-ago, he probably looked like Rowdy Yates. Now he was a bent and leathered old man living on dreams. Then I saw the large buckle and pointed to it.

“Yup, second-place all-around cowboy, 1972. You outta’ go to the Arcadia rodeo next month.”

I thanked Bob, turned my car around, and headed 1350 miles back to the cold and snow. Some things are still worth preserving if you believe.

The Canvas, by Angela Carlton

25/9/2020

 
Jacob calls me in the afternoons, around three to make sure I am out of bed. On this day, I am groggy, but I still answer. “Let’s go have a margarita at that Mexican place by the gallery tonight,” he says.

“Not yet...OK?”

“Oh, come now...Josie! They have great fajitas, killer salsa. Besides, margaritas are your Fav!”

“I’m not up for it. Not today,”

“Have you been able to paint?”

“No.”

“Josie?”

“My brain’s not working. There’s no color, really”

“Your last piece in the gallery, the one with the woman alone in the field of wildflowers, it was so damn good.”

“Thanks, Jake.”

“Do you need me to bring you anything?”

“No.”

“Honey, how, I mean, what is going to take to pull you out of this?”

“I don’t know…”

“Tell me.”

“Well, I...guess I could be a rock groupie and travel around with Don Henley.”

“Jo...I am serious.”

“Me too.” He breathes a long sigh, and I think of him standing in the kitchen with his shirt off, rubbing those jungle-green eyes like a tired little boy.

“You know, it’s not everyday,” I say, swallowing hard, “they put your mother away.”

“I know,” he says, his voice is deep.” You sure I can’t bring you something today.”

“Not yet.”

“You do know...I’ll go with you to the state hospital to visit her,” he says. “I can go with you, when you’re ready.”

I watch my orange tabby creep across the room then drop and roll on his side with such zest. Something about his carefree manner hits me, and I tear up. “Yes,” I say, sucking in air. “But it will be awhile before she’s clear on her new medication. I may need to go alone.”

“Okay...I’ll just call you tomorrow.”

“I know,” I say, smiling a little. When I tell him goodbye, I get this image of him, those lovely muscles in his broad back standing near the bay window, a bit of sunlight on his face with that sad worried expression. Turning over on my pillow, I can almost see the fine streaks of gold in his curly hair, and I think about tomorrow. Maybe I will sit in front of the canvas again.

“Tomorrow,” I whisper.

In Two Parts, by Jim Woessner

25/9/2020

 
I was dumbfounded when I heard the words, “You don’t see me as a sex object.” Even worse, she said she liked me because of it. What was that supposed to mean? The woman was beyond delusional. Of course I saw her as a sex object! All I thought about was jumping her bones. She’s insanely attractive, and I’m a guy with a pulse! Sure, I looked at her tits. They were attached! Besides, there wasn’t time to get to know her. But at that point, I didn’t know what to say, so like an idiot I said, “thank you.”

It felt like high school déjà vu, telling him that I just wanted to be “friends.” What else could I do? I mean, he was groping me with his eyes. “Hello! See anything but my tits?” We had coffee and a brief conversation. That was it. I know he likes me, and that’s flattering. But what was I supposed to say at that point? I lied and probably made it worse. I said he was one of the few men I’d ever met who didn’t see me as a sex object. I wanted to cry when he said “thank you.”

In Sal's Saloon, by Gordon Lawrie

25/9/2020

 
​In the corner of Sal's Saloon bar, Dead-Eye Dora and Fast Fran were the last pair still playing poker at the "regular's table".
 
While Dora studied her hand, Fran waved across the only man present, Justin the barman.
 
"Hey Justin," she said, grabbing his groin and squeezing it, "got my room booked for tonight?"
 
"Sure, Fran," Justin said. "You know Sal's motto: Serve you now, service you later."
 
"Attaboy," Fran said, slapping his rear to send him away.
 
Fran and Dora drew two cards each. Dora adjusted her eye-patch and pushed a pile of notes into the pot. "I'll see you."
 
Fran matched her, and nodded.
 
Dora spread her hand on the table.
 
"Full house – three fourteens and two nineteens."
 
"Too bad," Fran said. "Four seventeens." She reached out for the pot.
 
Dora stood up. "Not so fast. A deck of cards doesn't contain seventeens."
 
Slowly, Fran stood up, too. Menace.
 
"Are – you – calling – me – a – cheat?"
 
Suddenly, the lights went out, followed by flashes and gunfire. When someone found the light switch again, Dora lay dead under the table. Fran casually blew smoke from the barrel of her Colt 45 and returned it to its holster.
 
Justin called across, "Another drink, anyone? Last orders!"
 
It was the cue for Dora to leap up from the floor. "Two glasses of white wine, Justin. Fran – this one's on me. Pinot grigio?"
 
"Sure, Dora. One day you need to learn to take your poker more seriously, though."

Optical Illusions, by Jim Bartlett

25/9/2020

 
Using a routine he’s refined over the course of three years and better than twenty-five hundred patients, Dr. Jim Jones, wearing his white standard-faire lab jacket and broad celebrity smile, shakes the hands of Johnny Arnold’s parents, then escorts the young man to the chair at the front of his desk. The seating, of course, is positioned such that the parents and patient will face the wall of framed diplomas, certificates, and accolades, cementing his reputation as the finest Ocular Perceptual Modification Specialist on the East Coast.

“Well, you must be excited,” says the doctor, sitting at his desk.

“I guess.”

“Guess? It’s your big day, young man! After all, it’s not every day one turns sixteen! And today we begin the journey that helps you ‘see’ the world in the proper manner.” Spinning around, he grabs a small display case from the credenza behind and places it on the desk. After waving his hand across two rows of frames mounted within, a sort of “nothin’-up-my-sleeve” move he’s made a thousand of times before, he pulls out a stylish black frame located dead center. “I handpicked a few frames based on the preferences you and your parents selected at the orientation, but this one is extremely popular with the boys at your school.” Leaning over the desk, he offers it to Johnny with a wink. “You might call it a sort of ‘cool’ aid to help you see things right.”

The young man looks at the frame, but remains still, hands tucked to his side.

“Remember, it’s only for one year,” encourages the doctor. “It takes about that long for the sensory optics to train your brain, thus providing the perceptual adjustment you need to see things the way they are intended to be seen.”

Johnny’s eyes widen and he catches Dr. Jones’ gaze. “Intended? Intended by who?”

“Whom,” corrects his mother.

Dr. Jones smiles. “Well by our leaders, of course. They and those before who have worked so hard to enrich our lives and country. You have to be careful...there is just so much misinformation on the Infoweb. Without the proper, uh, filtering, we might be inclined to see things the wrong way.”

“Filtering? Geesh, isn’t that exactly how we help THEM stay ‘enriched’?”

“JOHNNY!” His mother jumps from her chair. “You take that frame NOW. That attitude of yours needs to be adjusted, young man.”

“But that’s what this is, right? We’re simply being ‘adjusted’.” Standing, Johnny turns for the exit. “No thanks. I’d rather be my own person. We shouldn’t have to be told what to think, what we’re seeing.”

With the slam of the door, the doctor, shaking his head, looks across to Mr. and Mrs. Arnold. “I’ll be sending you the glasses when they’re complete. I’m sure you know what you have to do.”

“Yes...yes we do.”

As he watches them leave, their shoulders slumped, Jones pulls up Johnny’s report. He scrolls to the “Conclusions” section and, with a heavy sigh, checks the “HERETIC” box.

The Cause, by Candace Arthuria Williams

18/9/2020

 
Some had green shirts. Others wore yellow. A pretty, petite young woman attacked a man with her umbrella. When he tried to take it from her, he fell back onto the gravel into the path of an oncoming car. The Muellers saw their neighbors, abandoned their SUV in the middle of the road, and raced to join the mob. Anna was already growling, in emulation of her dad. And not to be outdone by a girl, Ansel spat in the face of a perfect stranger. His parents seemed pleased. He had never seen them so enraged.

“Kill the bastards!” his fifth grade teacher was yelling. “We don’t want them here!”

'Which color!' Ansel shouted to Brian and Raheem.

“Yellow!” Raheem shouted back before being conked in the head by the woman with the umbrella. Both question and answer were fraught with ambiguity. But never mind. This was too important to stand on ceremony.

The entire community was there, including the Murphys, the Yangs, and the Johnsons. Excitement replaced any fears that Ansel might have had in the beginning. The produce manager and basketball coach stood on opposite sides of the platform. One wore yellow, the other green. Ansel had known and liked them both for most of his thirteen years.

Nevertheless, he joined the hateful chant. 'Kill the bastards! We don’t want you here!' And then in a moment of reflection, he appealed to his mother for guidance.

'What are they fighting for, Mommy?'

“I don’t know, Ansel. They believe in something we don’t. Just be ready with your bat if they come over here. Be a brave boy and fight for the cause.”

‘Which side are we on?’

“Ask your father.”

But that was not possible. Mr. Mueller was in an ambulance with the bruised, battered, and beaten from both sides—his white T-shirt stained with red blood.

A few blocks down, there was an elderly man with a cart selling rainbow cotton candy. He charged fifty cents extra for yellow and green.​

Mump Slump, by Heather Robinson

18/9/2020

 
Her mother had wreathed her face with an icy cold towel to reduce the pain and swelling that came with the mumps. Then she fetched a glass of orange juice and a paper straw, begging her poor daughter to drink. 

“Please don’t make me, mama,” June winced out. “It’s bite cramps my swollen glands!”

“But you need the vitamins to get well,” countered her mother, sitting down on the side of the bed.

“Why can’t I just die?” spilled June, slumping against the pillows. “It can’t be worse than this!”

Her mother, who knew well how much worse death could be, had the wisdom to bite her own tongue in that moment and not punish June with stories of relatives and loved ones whose names June would not recognize. She gave June a hug. “You will not die from this, my lovey,” she promised. “You will live on to tell the tale to your own children someday, about how you survived a week looking like an orangutan.”

At this image, June let rise a small smile and whispered, “Don’t make me laugh, mama, it hurts when I do.”​​

Wallgnarps, by Laura Lane

18/9/2020

 
Perhaps, or maybe I should say most likely, you haven’t heard of Wallgnarps. Grandad came from London, England 60 years ago. He’s been telling his children and grandchildren all about Wallgnarps ever since. Well actually he’s been telling anyone who will listen, be it his children, grandchildren, or the unsuspecting young woman sitting next to him on the plane.

Wallgnarps, Grandad will tell you, are little creatures that hang upside down on the little stonewall lane-ways throughout England. They are similar to bats in that they hang upside down, fuzzy or I should say furry like a mouse and without the wings. They hang by their tails like American opossums. Some can be the size of a fist, but they can grow larger, to roughly the size of a small melon.

It can be rather unnerving to come across one, especially if you have never seen one before. Imagine yourself walking casually down an old country lane in Devon, it’s a beautiful sunny day. Who am I kidding, it’s more likely gray and cloudy and threatening to rain – a lovely day as I was saying. Imagine, you are strolling down the lane, hugging close to the wall as you go around the curve, you hear the roar of the engine of an oncoming motorist. You don’t want to be hit, the locals have a reputation for speeding down the lanes, so you pause to wait for the old Land Rover to pass.

In that short space of time, before the old jalopy skirts around you, you get a creepy feeling that something is inches from your right shoulder. You don’t want to lose site of the vehicle, but what... is... that... thing?

You want to jump away, but if you do, you’ll land right in the path of the car barrelling down on you. Really your back should be pressed up against the wall, so Mister Andretti doesn’t run over your feet as he careens down the road.

But that thing...? It has huge eyes – dark and piercing, staring you down, and it starts squeaking a high-pitched warning – you’ve come too close. Its fur is a light brown to match the stone wall. Its little clawed feet grasp the wall and its tail is wrapped around the vines of the ivy that climbs and intertwines itself with the blackberry brambles that hang over the wall from the farmer’s fields.

What you don’t know is what it will do? Will it bite? Jump on you? Climb in your hair and scratch your face? Or even worse maybe it has rabies! I really can’t tell you. I’ve never come across one myself. They are so rare. My father, Grandad, is the only one who really knows.

He’s been telling people about them ever since he was roped into being Dungeon Master in a game of D&D back in 1985. And yes, he did tell some poor college student on the plane to lookout for them on her next trip to England!

Who's the Genius, by Doug Bartlett

18/9/2020

 
What a life. I drive a limousine for a living and I love it. Six months ago I was given the assignment to drive the great Albert Einstein to all these fundraising dinners for Princeton University. Albert called them “rubber chicken dinners.” I would sit in the back and just listen to his talk on the theory of relativity. I don’t know how many times I’ve heard it and I still don’t understand it.

When Albert got in the car tonight I could tell something was wrong.

“You okay?”

“Not really, I’m sick and tired of all these dinners and giving the same talk all the time.”

“Hey, why don’t we trade places tonight. You're somewhat of a recluse. You avoid publicity and they probably don’t know what you look like.”

“But how can you give a talk on such a complicated topic?”

“Are you kidding. I may noy understand it but I’ve heard that talk so many times I could say it in my sleep.”

I gave my driver’s cap and name tag to Albert. We went into the crowded hall and Albert sat in the back while I was escorted to the front. After dinner the emcee introduced Albert and I went up. Up the stairs and to the center of the stage. I looked out across the crowd and it seemed it had tripled in size.

I began the talk and repeated verbatim from memory. I was so pleased with myself. I closed the speech and started to depart the stage when the emcee appeared and threw me a curve.

He said,”Before Mr. Einstein departs, we will open it up for questions and answers. Does anyone have a question for Mr. Einstein?”

“Hey, this never happened before,” I thought.


“Yes, I do.” said a professor from the local university.

I couldn’t even understand the question, let alone know how I should answer it.

I gathered up all my courage, stood as tall as I could and using the most authoritative voice I could muster, I responded, “With all due respect professor, The answer to that question is so elementary, I am going to let my chauffeur, who is sitting in the back, answer it.

I Can't Swim, by Phyllis Souza

18/9/2020

 
Grateful to be alone, Zora relaxed on a lounge chair beside the pool at her apartment complex, reads a newspaper. The headline warned women to be alert, a serial killer on the loose. Thinking that couldn't possibly happen to her, she threw down the paper and began to drift off.

"Do you want to go for a swim?" a male voice asked.

Her eyes snapped open. "Who are you?"

"Richard."

Shielding the sun from her eyes, she looked up. "No, thanks. I can't swim."

He started at the soles of her feet before scanning her body.

"I think you better leave." Zora reached down, grabbed her beach towel off the deck, and draped it over her shoulders. She stood. "I have to go."

"Hey, don't be in such a hurry. I'm not going to hurt you." He moved closer, ran his finger across her cheek—"Pretty. Very pretty," he said, in a girlish tone.

"Get away from me." Trembling, she turned.

He caught her arm and spun her around.

"Let go, or I'll scream."

He dragged her to the edge of the pool. "I can't swim," he mocked.

"Please, don't."

He threw her into the water. Laughed while watching her struggle.

Panic set in. She sank, rose, sank, and rose again.

Thrashing wildly, she yelled for help. No one came. Frantic thoughts speeding into her mind, Zora tried to catch her breath.

Silence

Hot Date, by Ed N. White

18/9/2020

 
It was time to downsize and move to a senior community. Some people were uncomfortable saying that, so instead, they said, “A fifty-five plus.” The snooty ones added, “gated.”

So, I settled on Grapefruit Gardens, a pleasant well-cared-for medium-sized park of tidy manufactured homes on the southwest coast of Florida. A place with more amenities than I could ever hope to use. At the first HOA meeting, I attended, I sat next to a man named Larry. He said, “If you’re looking for a ‘hot date,’ there’s a lot of single women here.” He wiggled his fingers like rabbit ears making air quotes.

I looked around the room and came up empty. I asked him what he meant by “hot,” sending a finger semaphore back at him. It had been a while since my last romantic relationship.

He looked surprised at my uncertainty and said, “That’s a woman who can still drive a car after dark.”

South of the Border, by Gerald Kamens

18/9/2020

 
Maybe the girl can excite him. Almost pretty. Good figure. Dark eyes, black hair down past her shoulders. Nose a little aquiline. In the dim light, he can't tell whether she's 20 or 30.

His divorce lawyer’d insisted this nocturnal adventure would be a new beginning for him.

Fiddling with the white bows above her breasts, the girl waits, with seeming great patience, to know his pleasure. Almost motionless in the overstuffed armchair, Joseph nurses his second San Miguel. She reaches over, puts her hand on his right arm. He wonders if he’s made a mistake coming to this dingy room above the bar.

His now-former wife would often fret that, unlike normal men, he couldn't succumb to base passions.

An old Beatles song, "Yesterday," comes on the radio. She pulls away, dancing around the small room, swaying back and forth, occasionally snapping her fingers, looking at him with a mocking smile. "You think I’m not attractive?," she whispers, glancing to see if his eyes are following her body

"It’s just I have to get into it." Embarrassed by his absent tumescence, he can’t bring himself to accept her offer to remedy his numbness. "Your hour’s almost over," she says. "But you can stay a while longer. No extra charge.

If you want, come back tomorrow," she says finally, jumping up from the bed. “Maybe take a little blue pill first. You can get them down the street. No prescription.”

"Half price," she whispers in his ear as he stands up, her body heat warming his back. "Maybe no price. Just ask for me."

Wordlessly, he stumbles out of the room, past the bar, realizing he doesn't know her name. In the taxi back to San Diego, he wonders how long he must wait for his new life to begin.

The Light That Was You, by Angela Carlton

18/9/2020

 
You weren’t always a ghost, sometimes a bit distant or “emotionally reserved” as they say, this easy, strong, quiet presence. Six feet tall and suave, you with the crazy wave in your hair, fierce dimples, a hint of gold around your pupils, all of it. You wrapped me. I was a junkie for years, before the doctor gave us the diagnosis, that dim one. And so in time, you began to diminish: mouth slack, the sunken eyes, all those empty spaces I couldn’t fill with the muscle mass fading-fading inside a flat grey room, the place that was icy, far too cold, for one person to stand.

Until the last evening, that night, I finally found the strength to search for any part of you that was left. No sleep. I was all wired up, and on a hunt, prowling around for anything, digging for a small piece, that teeny-tiny spark, something I could hold, the light that was you. Poof, before it burned OUT.

Now I carry it.
I carry it with me.

Perspectives by Pamela Kennedy

18/9/2020

 
The summer days were fading and the town bade its final adieu to that carefree season by hosting their annual festival at the school's grounds. Though an informal event, its setting afforded artists, craftsmen, and performers to come together to display their talents to their neighbors. 

Something caught Scott's eye.  It was a canvas covered with a bunch of blobs and splotches, yet, the soft muted earth tone colors presented a sense of tranquility.  Perhaps that was what appealed to Scott about this painting.  He wondered if a state of calmness could exist in chaos. 

"Do you like this painting"?  the petite brunette asked.  "What do you think was on the artist's mind as it was being painted"? 

Giving her the once over and liking what he saw, Scott did his best to remain somewhat neutral, "It is quite interesting in form and color.  Perhaps the artist was conveying harmony ... how different elements can be at peace with each other." 

"Actually, I was thinking of nothing...just using up excess paint,"  the petite brunette replied.

Scott's eyes widened.  "You're Jill Jackson, the artist"?

Jill put on her perky smile and nodded affirmitively.

"But I thought...ummmm...that..." 

"I let my hands converse with the paint and give someone else the opportunity to interpret their conversation.  I never inform the public of my private thoughts.  The canvas is the keeper of my secrets." 

That afternoon, Scott was given an eyeful and an earful of a new world to be explored.  He was intrigued by this artist and her humbleness in granting the public discretion in the interpretation of her work.  He felt an urgency to discover everything about her.

Jill's artistic eye immediately saw the depth of character and good will in Scott.  She saw a treasure trove of inspiration to be splashed on a variety of blank surfaces.

And as their perspective of each other intersected, sparks flashed in each other's eyes.

Summer may have been coming to an end, but a season of love was just beginning to bloom.  It didn't have to be portrayed on canvas...their glowing expressions said it all. 
​

Murder in the Graveyard, by Monika Brewster

11/9/2020

 
Only 500 words. One of the rules of the Extremely Short Story competition! Not a word more. How could she write about anything – murder in particular - in 500 words?

She shakes her head and tears at her hair.

To introduce the plot - if they would only allow a larger word count – she could pay homage to the church, presbytery, and, before all, the vicar. Agatha gulps for air. But 500 words is not giving her much scope. Perhaps just stick to the bare facts.

She hits the keys of her ancient typewriter: “Murder in the Graveyard by Agatha Chrystal”.

By the way, Agatha Chrystal is not her real name. She is plain Jane Smith. Early on, in her nonexistent writing career, she knew that only a change of name might gain her fame.

“I am sitting at my window, overlooking the cemetery of Little Mellow. The grey tower of the church is just visible through the branches of a yew tree. Off on the left is the presbytery where he lives, the vicar... ”. She lifts her fingers. A vivid picture of Richard Chamberlain in the Thorn Bird appears in her mind’s eye.

Agatha’s heart is beating fast and synchronises with the clattering of the typewriter’s keys. Her eyes occasionally search out the bust of Shakespeare on the shelf.

“There she is, Dotty Sykes, slinking across the graveyard through the lichen gate, up the path to the presbytery, sliding in through the back door. A tiger stalking its prey.”

Agatha wipes her forehead. Oh, if only...

“At noon Dotty leaves humming, swinging her handbag.” She might as well be happy, the hussy.

Agatha’s throat is dry, her hands tremble. Any minute now and Dotty would be sashaying under her window, swaying her hips, adjusting the straps of her summer dress. Every day the same. She jumps from her chair.

Agatha deletes, crosses out, inserts new paper, retypes. “The body is unwieldy as it is pulled into a freshly dug grave, prepared for this afternoon’s funeral. A thin layer of earth would hide the corpse.”

The afternoon passes in a hurry. Dark creeps into the room.

“Page 2 – The End”.

She doesn’t quite need 500 words.

A loud knocking shatters the silence. Agatha limps to the door rubbing her arthritic hip.

PC Miller shakes Agatha’s wrinkled hand. ‘Have you seen anything untoward?’ he asks. ‘I see you sitting by the window from early morning until late at night. A body has been found in one of the freshly dug graves this afternoon. The vicar’s housekeeper! Her head beaten in with a bust found nearby.’

Agatha nods and passes the sheaf of paper to the PC. ‘You can have this copy.’

She stretches out her hands in surrender. ‘I won’t need it.’

The Shower, by Janice Siderius

11/9/2020

 
Chest, arms, armpits, stomach back and legs. She soaped herself down in the shower. All the parts were still there even if some of them sagged or had additional decorative spots. Inside, things were not functioning as well as before, but, except for the gall bladder, passably well.

Her mind Chest, arms, armpits, stomach, back and legs. She soaped herself down in the shower. All the was a different story. She told her friends she was “losing my nouns.” Or that, “my brain is on dial-up.” This was particularly annoying: people’s names and place names came to her slowly. She found herself using the word “thing” when she couldn’t remember the name of an item. As in, “Will you hand me that red thing over there?” Or if she couldn’t remember a name, she would say, “Oh, you know, the guy who invented the printing press….what was his name?” This was upsetting for someone who used to stand up in front of a class and lecture!

She did wonder occasionally if these were signs of the much-dreaded Alzheimer’s Disease. Everyone assured her that it wasn’t. But what about walking into the kitchen, only to forget what the heck she had come for? Or opening the refrigerator when she meant to open the pantry? Surely that is indicative of something?

And lists. She had a list for everything. There was the Costco list, the Walmart list, and the “to do” daily list. There was something gratifying about crossing out the items on the daily “to do” list: pay the bills, fertilize the roses. At least she wasn’t so nutty that she forgot to feed the dog!

Lately her thoughts had turned to the future. It seemed to her that she was becoming more of an observer of life and less of a participant. She had lived an ordinary life. She had married and had children; she had endured the rewards and disappointments that life had offered. Every morning she woke up, grateful for another day, yet wondering how many more days she would have. She wanted to strangle the person who came up with the expression “Golden Years.” Obviously, he or she hadn’t arrived at the “Golden years” yet. What a bunch of hooey.

She sighed and shut off the water. Yes, getting older was hard but the alternative was worse.

Mayhem Visits a Happy Valley, by Sankar Chatterjee

11/9/2020

 
The soft January sun was slowly slipping behind the glacier-covered distant mountain-range. The range surrounded Sukh Marg (Happy Valley) in Northern India. On the other side, the region with same namesake belonged to neighboring Pakistan. For millennium, a peaceful civilization inhabited the region. Then a mighty colonial power appeared in horizon. Ruling the place for centuries, they would decide to disappear in a midnight, leaving the land divided on a map. The larger parcel retained the identity India, a secular country with majority practicing Hinduism. The rest became Pakistan, a religious country, majority practicing Islam. Overnight, Sukh Marg also got divided on that map. However, each nation had wanted the entire valley for its strategic location, turning it into a flash point between neighbors. And nothing changed in past seven decades.

In that afternoon, Mr. Gulam Ali, an Islamic teenager was returning home from his high school. Gulam, a brilliant student, dreamed of attending a prestigious university in New Delhi, nation’s capital. While enjoying the chirping of colorful magpies returning to their nests, he heard an approaching siren. He moved to the side. A police-van screeched to a halt next to him. Six heavily-armed police officers jumped out, surrounded him, and screamed “Where’s Asraf Khan hiding?” Getting no response, they began beating him mercilessly with batons. While collapsing to the ground, he understood that the policemen were looking for the leader of a banned religious political group that espoused the joining of this part of Sukh Marg with the other side. Indeed, Gulam had no idea of Mr. Khan’s whereabouts. One of the officers grabbed him by hair, raised him up, and forced him to lick clean the dirt-covered boots of all the officers. Then, they dumped him again and sped away. Later his friends would find him, bloodied and wounded.

Three years later, on a recent winter evening, the sun was about to set spreading the sky with a pink glow. In a narrow alley, just off the main road in his hometown, Gulam was patiently waiting in an explosive-filled dark van. That humiliation three years ago changed his life course. He had quit school, joined the underground separatist movement, got indoctrinated, and recently received training in carrying out a suicide-bombing operation. When the word came to his leaders that there would be an exchange of security forces in Sukh Marg, he was dispatched with a mission.

Now, he heard a similar siren from three years ago, while a military convoy began driving past the alley. Gulam started his van, sped up and rammed the fourth truck of the caravan carrying sixty military personnel. A fireball accompanied with a booming sound erupted, while bodies started flying in all directions.

As his eyes began to close, Gulam Ali noticed the US-made similar F-16 jet fighters of both countries began to fill up the sky amidst the drum-role of incoming mayhem of a war. He also realized who the real profiteer was from such a conflict.

It's To Die For, by Phyllis Souza

11/9/2020

 
It must be here somewhere. Granny gave it to me before she died.

Mona opened the closet door and took out a cardboard box. She plopped it on top of the bed and glanced at the clock—2 p.m.

When she pulled back the flaps of the box, all the years of her life stared up at her. Every special event recorded: Birth, Baptism, and Confirmation. Report cards and her first-grade drawing of a rainbow. High school diploma, even her polio vaccination records.

She rifled through them. Where is it?

The photograph of her standing in the front yard next to a magnolia tree reminded her of how much she hated the dress she'd worn. The blue gingham made her feel like a housemaid.

Remembering she had but a little time before he came home, she dumped the contents of the box. Mona spread them across the cover, her fingers rummaging through the documents. It has to be here somewhere.

Pictures flashed. Envelopes flew.

She glimpsed the incriminating scrap of paper, grabbed it as relief surged through her, and held it to her chest. "Granny, hope you're not baking in hell." She tucked it safely into her pocket.

As the front door creaked open, her smug flow fading, she frowned.

Mona threw everything back in the box and shoved it into the closet. She ran her hands through her hair, straightened her skirt, and marched out of the room.

"You're home early from the senior center," she said to her husband.

"Of course, I wanted to share my 80th birthday with my beautiful girl." Herbert tottered over to kiss his young wife.

She turned a cheek--old fool.

"Let's pop the cork on a bottle of champagne. We'll celebrate and make a toast to many more years together." He smiled.

"I'll bake a killer of a cake." Like frosting, a sinister grin spread over her face. It's to die for.

Mona was already counting the money.

Your Marriage, by Hailey Bartlett

11/9/2020

 
The year is 1994, and we are together. We sit on the steps of a church in the city, myself smoking a cigarette, and you, looking over as though you want one, but remembering the promise you made to your mother. We sit in complete silence as I puff away. I think to myself, Did I really just get married? And I can only imagine your reply. Yes. Short and simple. You’re normally so long winded, but not in this instance. I can’t imagine you saying anything else. What else is there to say? Yes, “my love.” Yes, “my dear.” Maybe, but it doesn’t sound right coming from you. Nothing really sounds right after a wedding. There’s just this sinking feeling that you made the wrong decision. That maybe the “if we’re not married by 30 we’ll marry each other” pact wasn’t such a good idea after all. Eventually we’ll go to a hotel, and we’ll try to have sex for the first time. It won’t feel natural, but we’ll finish, or maybe we’ll just give up an hour in. The divorce will approach faster than the honeymoon, and we know this. We just accept it. We’re never going to make it, but for now, I will smoke my cigarette and you will watch. You will watch, and you will yearn to feel like I do.

The Sacrifice, by Doug Bartlett

11/9/2020

 
Ten year -old Timmy proudly walked into the local cafe with a huge grin on his small face and found an empty booth to sit at. He had been consumed with the one thought every night and day for the last few weeks of eating his favorite food. He had just been paid for mowing a neighbor’s lawn. He could now afford to buy a hot fudge sundae.Mounds of vanilla ice cream smothered with hot fudge, squirted with a mountain of whipped cream, generously sprinkled with chopped peanuts and topped with a bright red cherry. He loved sundaes more than anything else to eat. He emptied all the coins he had in his pockets 0nto the tabletop and started counting them when the waitress came over to him.

​
“What will you have?” she said gruffly and impatiently. She figured this kid would cost her extra time causing her to lose tip money from other customers.

“How much is a hot fudge sundae?” he asked her as he counted up his change.


“You have just enough,” she growled after taking up her precious time to add up his coins., “but it will take all you have.”


“Oh, no, I can’t do that,” he exclaimed, “Then I’ll just have a single scoop of vanilla ice cream.” He knew that would leave him with money left over.


“ Yup,” the waitress thought,” he’s already wasting my time.”

She sure didn’t appreciate Timmy as a customer and was glad to see him leave.
She went over to the table to clear it when her heart sank and a tear trickled down her cheek.

You see, Timmy had left all of his money on the table. The waitress then realized he didn’t order that sundae he wanted so badly because he wouldn’t have had enough money to leave her a tip.

It's 4.00 a.m., by Angela Carlton

11/9/2020

 
It’s 4 am. My Mother wants to drive. There’s nowhere for us to go, but she wants to tell me about Jesus, the devil and music. I am almost 6 years old, my feet can barely touch the floorboard in the car. She has turned the radio knob up as high as it will go, and the sounds of pianos, guitars and horns fill the air.

My Mother used to be a sexy singer in a cocktail lounge, before her head got sick, all sour. Now, she collects checks in the mailbox, and we just drive. She begins to hum now, and in her deep, pretty voice, she sings “Wild...fire,” loud, intense like she’s back on stage again. My insides go all soft like red playdough, and I shuffle my feet for a few seconds. The Wildfire song is about a horse. I should know. I’ve heard it one hundred seventeen times. It makes me want to catch one fast and ride off and away. My Mom thinks she needs to practice her singing every single day. She thinks if she drives-drives-drives, sings enough, she will get her job back, and my Daddy might come home too. I think me chasing down a horse will happen first! I look for my horse in the fields, out the glass window, white ones, golden, brown ones, my favorite, are the black ones. They shine like they are almost blue in the sun.

When she’s not singing, she’s talking about Jesus almighty, the devil’s water and all of my Daddy’s sins, but I don’t say a word. You can’t fix a sour head. And when she starts to say all those curse words, and beats her fist against the steering wheel, her tears will come fast like bullets. I take a deep breath then like I might be blowing out all the candles that light darkness. The piano in the background soothes me for a minute or two, but she’s running through the red lights now. That is when, I have to pretend, we are on a magic carpet ride again, and I get to go to special places, like most kids do, maybe the skating rink, a bowling alley or that park with the six flags. We’re flying up high now, all over, looking down at the lime grass, and those itty-bitty yellow flowers, the ones Daddy picked once for my Mother back when her face was bright as the fat moon, and she didn’t need to drive down all these dead end streets.

At the end of the magic ride, I spot all those circles and circles of cool, turquoise water that make me want to hold my breath, jump in, kick and kick as fast as I can until my eyeballs burn, but I don’t. And I don’t get to chase my horse today, either.

Still, sometime tomorrow, after 4 am, I’ll get to go to the circus.
​
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    Longer Friday Flash Fiction Stories

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


    However, in response to demand, the FFF team constructed this forum for significantly longer stories of 151-500 words. Please send submissions for these using the Submissions Page.

    Stories to the 500 word thread will be posted as soon as we can mange.

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    One little further note. Posting and publishing 500-word stories takes a little time if they need to be formatted, too.
    ​Please note that we tend to post longer flash fiction exactly as we find it – wrong spacing, everything.

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