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The Letter, by Teddy Kimathi

30/10/2020

Sun rays bathed Sally’s face, caressing her with warmth. Her eyelids were still shut. Getting out of bed in a fine, summer morning was the last thing that crossed her mind.

Fate pulled its wild card with a knock on the door.

“It’s the mailman!” she heard.

Susan lazily dragged herself from the bed to the main door. A blanket was wrapped all around her body. A rectangular, flat object glowed right at the foot of her door. It was a white envelope, reflecting the summer light.

Curiosity cleared away the sleepiness she had, as she quickly bent and picked up the letter. It was written Susan Bridges in black, with a calligraphic fashion.

As eager as a child opening up a Christmas present, she eagerly and cautiously tore the envelope, and removed the letter. She was so excited that she didn’t notice the torn envelope had dropped on the floor. It was quite rare for her to get letters. She wasn’t interested in having boyfriends or pen pals.

Her eyes were scanning through every letter and word on the letter, hoping to see the signs of a secret admirer or stalker. Since her early teenage, Susan has always had fetishes of a man following her in the alleys or narrow streets.

“Oh my God!” she screamed, as she dropped the letter.

“It can’t be!”

Right at the bottom right-side of the letter, she saw a name she thought history had erased. It was non-other than Mike Wells, her former husband. He was a drunkard who forced her to striptease, as he drank himself to shame.

One mid-autumn night, he received a shot in the head, from an AMT Hardballer gun at close range. He was trying to force himself on her, yet signing of their divorce papers was almost complete. Rage had got the best of what she would have called self-control, at that moment.

Her face was splashed with some of Mike’s gray matter, as she dragged him across the stairs. His body was wrapped in a black, garbage plastic bag. She put the weight behind the track, and drove to South Coast Beach, where she let the ocean currents carry her bitter memories to the sharks.

To forget her terrible marriage and past, she sold the house using her husband’s name, and moved far away from the ocean.

Surprisingly, Susan had no regret recalling all those details. The only worry she had was the name of the deceased appearing in the letter.

She started wondering whether she hadn’t shot him right; whether the sharks hadn’t eaten him; whether somehow his ghost came to haunt her.

Her head was sunken between her knees, as she cried and cursed for almost an hour, while seated on a sofa.

“Hi Susan. I’m Dr. Mike Wells Higgins.”

It was a voicemail message!

A smile of relief suddenly enveloped her face. She only knew the doctor with the initials M.W. Higgins, from her previous counseling appointments.

Looking For The Moon, by Angela Carlton

30/10/2020

She’s barely eight, but it's only the beginning of a journey down a twisted, black road. The addiction, his addiction, it would squeeze them.

It had been a cool, grey morning, walking to the bus stop, when she asked her Dad why the sun had disappeared?

“It’s just cloudy,” he replied, squeezing her hand, hurrying her along.

“But why?” she was frowning now.
“Ella Jane, we need to keep walking. We must hurry.” he said, breathing hard.

“But why is it cloudy?”

As they turned the corner, she was looking for the moon, too, in the vast sky until she spotted the wildflowers.

“Where’s the moon?” she asked.

“Listen, we’ve got to hurry. You know, you cannot miss the bus!”

But she stopped, because she wanted to pick the purple flower. “Jane, please,” he winced. Then he paused. Sweat was forming on his brow. She heard coughing again, raspy sounds, the heavy breathing, and he stopped.

She didn’t want to push him. Even at a young age, she knew better than to push him. He was feeble, ill, suffering from asthma, and a severe addiction to pain pills. Her mother had slipped too. Her mind was broken so she stayed tucked away in that home with the others.

Overtime, Ella Jane learned to distract herself, finding peace with the sound of the wind through the trees, and all the birds’ cries. There was the sky full of clouds too, those stars. She found comfort in all of it, as she gripped her father’s clammy hand on an ordinary day.

The dainty flower was still in her other hand, and she felt the familiar stinging behind her eyes as she stuffed it inside his t-shirt pocket for luck.

As she neared her stop, she called out, “Goodbye Dad,” a bit too loud, “bye-bye.” Then, she walked toward the massive, yellow bus, the wheels that would steer her away from his sorrow, troubles.

As she made her way to the middle row, she always chose that seat next to the window so she could look up-up and away to the massive sky.

Whose Are You? by L.W. Smolen

30/10/2020

To the crack in his windshield, she said, "Oh, I think sometimes they do...find dropped crumbs of esteem outside themselves, I mean. But they're just little birds pecking at a trail that fades in the panic of dark aloneness - where, for proof that they are cherished even just a weensie bit - by anyone at all - they check their iPhone again."

Back on their first date, he wondered what a girl like her was doing with him. Even as his phone vibrated in his pocket, she explained why she'd never again buy "one of those creepy hive portals" - a Smart Phone. Saying she loved the smell of Bondo, the low, purring shelter of her voice made it easy to admit he lived in this old Ford.

But today, he'd planned to propose to her, ached to, ached to live in her firelight, He had a ring in the little box in his left pocket - where he fidgeted with his phone.

Today, just like he'd planned, they sat together in his rusting van at Vista House. They could see hundreds of feet below them, down on the expanse of the river's hot, sandy shoals called Bridal Veil - heated by the Summer sun and by what had happened between them down there so naturally, so wonderfully, so - often.

Yet sometimes he was terrified of the accuracy of the incisions her intellect often made. Today, when she said that, knowing in his heart of hearts she was right, he didn't dare move his right hand - to reach out for hers. Not after that. His feeling was that if he did move his hand, she'd witch him out onto the pavement where her eyes would dare him into his dream of walking beside her ever after, where he knew he'd set fire to his van, where holding hands, they'd burst with joy. It felt exactly like that.

Instead, with his left, he checked his messages.

Under the Watch of Invisible Eyes, by Krystyna Fedosejevs

30/10/2020

Julia woke up hearing voices. She checked on her son next door. Found him fast asleep.

“A ghost?” grinned her husband at breakfast. “There’s a scientific explanation for everything.”

“If that’s so, why couldn’t you figure out what’s causing our electrical glitches?”

The clicking of switches without turning lights and stove on had been going on for sometime. More frightening was what happened in the basement.

Julia was alone, cleaning shoes. Her son’s remote toy car started up on its own. Rolling along a wall it reached the corner, turned, increased speed and aimed towards her. Within two feet of her side it lurched to a stop.

“Neighbour’s garage door opener having same frequency as the toy car,” Daryl reasoned.

“Really? Why didn’t the car continue straight into the laundry room instead of turning?”

While Daryl thought of an answer, their son burst into the kitchen.

“I heard you talking in your sleep, little man,” Julia quipped.

“I was awake.”

“You got up to play?”

“No. A boy was standing by my bed, staring at me. We talked. Then he disappeared.”

“What did he look like?” Julia asked.

“It was too dark to see.Think he was my size.”

Julia shivered. “That’s it! Same boy spirit trying to get my attention.”

“Nonsense!” snorted Daryl before leaving.

“He just wanted to play,” said their son.

All the strange occurrences soon stopped, except for one.

Daryl felt tickling at the back of his neck. Sure it was Julia he turned to confront her but saw no one.

“There had to be a sensible explanation,” he maintained. “Even if not obvious at first.”

Someday, by Doug Bartlett

30/10/2020

Little Johnny was playing with his friend Timmy at Timmy’s house while their mothers visited.It came time for them to leave when Johnny was invited to spend the night.

“ Can I mom, can I, please? “ pleaded Johnny.

“ Someday, but not today, but someday.”

Johnny went home disappointed and upset. Based on past experience Johnny knew that “someday” meant it was not going to happen….. ever.

Fifty -five years flies by and John goes to visit his mother in a rest home. This particular one is not a very nice one and the smell of urine hits him in the face as he opens the door. He goes down the corridor and into his mother’s room. His mom is ecstatic to see him.

“ John, thank you so much for coming to see me. Can we please go take a ride, even if it’s just for a little while?

“ Someday Mom. Today I’m on a tight schedule, but someday.”

Jimmy and Me, by Phyllis Souza

30/10/2020

I'm eight-years-old, kneeling on the back seat of Jimmy’s car looking out the window. Don't know why I'm praying, but I am.

Jimmy is my mother’s boyfriend. He’s driving me and her through urban neighborhoods looking at houses.

Boys and girls are playing ball in the middle of the street. They move to the side when we pass. I wave and slide down in my seat.

With my hands folded in my lap, I stare at the back of Jimmy's head. I don't like grey hair.

Jimmy glances in the rearview mirror. "Hey, Sweet Pea, how'd you like to live here?"

I hate it when he calls me Sweet Pea. "No," I say, tired of looking at white picket fences. “I want to go home.”

My mother reaches over and touches Jimmy’s arm. She's smiling at him. That makes me mad! She never smiled like that at my father. Well, maybe once, when he gave her a blue rhinestone necklace after they had a big fight.

It scared me when they argued. I'd cover my ears with my hands. Sometimes I’d hide.

Again, Jimmy is looking in the rearview mirror. "Sweet Pea, do you think we've looked at enough houses?"

"Yes." I keep staring at his head. Maybe 'cos it's sooooo big.

"How would you like to go out to dinner?"

"I guess so." I shrug and gaze out the side window.

Jimmy parks at the curb in front of a restaurant called Mike's Place.

He runs around the front of the car and opens my door. I step onto the sidewalk. He takes my hand and escorts me inside. My mother follows.

I get to order anything I want. I look at the menu, don't understand it, never read one like this before.

After a few minutes, Jimmy says, "Sweet Pea, would you like me to order for you?"

“Yes," I say.

He calls over a waitress. "Bring the young lady a dinner salad, shrimp, and fries."

I frown at the mention of salad. Jimmy pretends not to notice, though I see him smile.

A few minutes later the woman brings a salad. She puts it in front of me: Cut-up lettuce with a slice of beet, thousand island dressing, and tiny pieces of toast. I pick up a napkin and stuff it into the neck of my dress.

I taste it. It's better than nice, I love this. Especially the stuff on the top. I think they're called croutons.

Maybe, like the salad, if I give Jimmy a chance, I'll love him, too.

That would make my mother happy.

I still wish he’d stop calling me ‘Sweet Pea.’ Hmmm... I'll call him 'Shrimpy.'

A Cultural Assimilation or a Systemic Racism? by Sankar Chatterjee

30/10/2020

Sheila wondered loudly “Should we or shouldn’t we stop at León?”

Bret’s assertive response was “We should.”

That was a part of their conversation during a road-trip on past Christmas Eve, going from Granada, Nicaragua to Tegucigalpa, Honduras in Central America. The highway was winding up and down through the mountainous regions. They came to know from Mr. Pedro Martinez, their knowledgeable driver-cum-guide that they would by-pass the town of León. Historically, the town had been the intellectual center of Nicaragua. Lately León served as the birthplace of the Sandinista Revolutionary Movement establishing the current government. In addition, León has been a coastal town on the Pacific Ocean offering a magnificent view of the surrounding nature.

So, the decision was made to stop by. They arrived at the town in the late afternoon and headed straight toward the beach. From the deck of a bar, they viewed a glorious sunset, while drinking shots of locally produced rum. Disappearing sunrays near the horizon began to fragment into all the colors of a rainbow, while the soothing sound of the breaking waves surrounded the nature with a kind of mysticism.

The beach was within a short walking distance from the central market of the town. Arriving at the market at dusk, they found it packed with local citizens, busy with holiday shopping. They sat down for an early dinner in an outdoor café. Soon, they started hearing the sound of drums emanating from different directions. It turned out that, in the evenings of the Christmas season, local teenagers would come out to act out the folklore "La Gigantona". According to a version of the folklore, the show evolved to project the assimilation of the Colonial Spanish culture and its religious traditions with the culture and beliefs of the indigenous mestizo people. Thus, “La Gigantona”, a tall Caucasian woman puppet dressed with a colorful gown adorned with jewelries, carried by an unseen teenager, represented a Spanish woman with beauty and elegance, while wielding power. She is surrounded and followed around by a few “Pepe Cabezón” (big-headed) characters wearing big black head-gears representing short but not-so-smart indigenous men.

As they watched, various groups started to crisscross the plaza stopping for a performance in front of the café. “La Gigantona” of the group danced wildly while “Pepe Cabezón-s” shook their huge heads up and down. Meanwhile, one member started to recite “coplas” (poetic sayings of praise) in a loud voice to the spectators while the drums played on. Small donations were collected at the end and the groups then headed towards various local neighborhoods.

Interestingly, in another explanation of the show’s theme, it could very well be a representation of the historic domination of the Spanish colonialism over the poor and marginalized mestizo population.

“So, was it about cultural assimilation or systemic racism?” Sheila asked.

“Either way, it was quite a serendipitous experience.” Bret replied.

Mr. Martinez was already driving toward next destination.

You Can't Hurry Love, by Jim Bartlett

30/10/2020

Nor will you hurry this...

Ray looks up from under the Chevy’s hood wearing a streak of black grease on his cheek and a knowing smile. “Sugar Pie, Honey Bunch. The Four Tops.” He points a finger at Mac, who’s sitting at the workbench holding a beer in one hand and his iPhone in the other.

“Okay, Smarty, see if you get this one.” Mac again thumbs through the phone’s playlist, finally picking a song with a self-satisfying, “Ooooh, yeaaaah.” He juts his chin at Ray as he hits play, the shake of a tambourine and the deep call of a piano filling the garage

“Too easy. Build Me Up Buttercup. The Foundations.”

Mac shakes his head. “You know old music almost as well as you know old cars. Figure out what’s up with that carb?”

“Music fills the heart and soul. ’57 Chevys empty the wallet,” Ray says with a wink. “Damn choke is sticking. I think I got it.”

Mac nods and then pokes at the phone, bringing another song to life for a few short beats.

“Get Ready. Rare Earth,” says Mac’s son, Thomas, stepping through the side door.

“Close, but no cigar. Though they did it some real justice, I must say.” Ray closes the hood and looks across at Thomas. “The Temptations. I wanna say 1965.”

But as Ray slips around the Chevy, Mac’s granddaughter, Kat, stands in his way, shaking her head. “1966, actually. Smokey Robinson wrote it. It only made it to 29 on Billboard’s charts, while Rare Earth’s shot up to number 4.”

“Ain’t you a walking, talking Wikipedia,” Ray says, chuckling.

“Actually, I came by for something else.”

“What is it Kit-Kat?” Mac waves her over and her father, Thomas, follows.

“Now that I’m eighteen, I can vote for the first time, but I’m not even sure it’s worth it. I mean, it’s like, INSANE, right? We’re soooo divided, Grandpa. I think we’ve lost our compassion. Our humanity. Maybe mostly our minds. Just look at social media...everyone’s at each other’s throat, there’s no middle ground. Was it like that when you were my age?”

“Ooooh, boy. When Ray and I turned eighteen, we were drafted and sent to ‘Nam. That was ’68, and, yeah, this country was a mess. The protests were everywhere. We couldn’t agree on the war. Civil rights. Or even women’s rights. Then, making matters worse, Bobby Kennedy and Martin Luther King were assassinated...” Mac pauses, turning his head to clear his throat and rub moist eyes. “I guess this is probably the most divided I’ve seen us since.”

Kat shakes her head. “So we’re back to where we started? Why should I even bother to vote?”

“It’s going to be your world soon, Kat,” replies Ray. “Your voice does count. And remember, hate is insidious, it spreads like a virus. Love takes time.”

Mac nods. “That’s for sure. Take it from someone who knows...” He taps the phone again, letting Diana Ross and the Supremes sing their lesson, You Can’t Hurry Love.”

Success, by Bruce Levine

23/10/2020

Janice and James looked around at their new home in their new town in their new location and marveled at the success of their transformation.

It had taken courage to make the move.

For James it was the third consecutive apartment which became his new home sight-unseen, other than a website provided by the landlord. Each could have been a disaster. Landlords were notoriously deceiving. But James’ luck, and thereby Janice’s, had held steadfast.

They looked around at their new home. Eight days to completely unpack and decorate and all was done.

The setting was magnificent, especially as the fall was engulfing them in its bouquet of colors. Their new home was completely nestled in a variety of trees and thus creating a complete spectrum of shades and hues of reds, yellows, oranges and evergreens.

Now, as the chipmunks and squirrels scampered outside their back door, they drank their morning coffee and planned their day.

The Spirit, by Candace Arthuria Williams

23/10/2020

They say that genies only come out of bottles. Well that would explain it. Because wherever she came from, this dame was nobody's genie. And she didn't emerge from a pretty pink vial. But as soon as the family was gone, she wafted out of hell to torture Grandpa.

She was more like a cloud of black and putrid vapors, inserting herself in every available crevice. Wherever he went, she was there. If he climbed the stairs or sought refuge in the depths of the cellar, she was there. Why wouldn't this demon leave Grandpa alone? He offered her a sacrifice of raw chicken and eggs. But that did not satisfy her lust. She pursued him relentlessly into every room, filling up his nostrils, seeping deep into his eyes until they were scarlet red.

Even his hair was immersed in her smell. He hid in the shower and bathed, but the steam was eviscerated by her thick dark cloud. Then came the awful screeching. Grandpa had learned how to silence her screams by dismantling the object at the top of the stairs. But the spirit had multiple voices. Her mechanical devices were all over the house and Grandpa ran from room to room trying to find them. Evil clutched and clung tightly to his throat. The cough was beyond control. The old man couldn't breathe. Eventually, he collapsed.

Now the sirens were blaring outside. His daughter rushed in with big men and women wearing uniforms. The various groups were color-coded. Paramedics went to work, while others dragged their tools throughout the premises. The revival attempts were successful and as soon as the patient was rescued, the white coats surrounded their target. Not to be outdone, the investigators began the interrogation. Meanwhile, the sirens were still blaring outside.

Little Joey brushed pass the entourage and instinctively ran towards the kitchen. And in an exasperated whine, he offered his report. "Mommm….Grandpa's been cooking again." His mother picked up the glass that had survived unscathed and whispered in the old man’s ear.

'Tell me something, Dad. Did you come into contact with any other spirits today?' She really didn’t want confirmation of what everybody already knew. The cloud of smoke was slowly displaced by the guilt and accusation that permeated the room.

Elder isolation is a serious matter. If you know of anyone in need of help, please reach out to health care providers, insurers, and/or local social services agencies.

Apple Snow, by Mary Wallace

23/10/2020

Steven lay among the ‘apple snow’ feeling the petals land softly on his face. He and Julie had lain there together, arms stretched, fingers touching, while tiny boots enclosing tottering feet, had circled them. Chubby hands showering them with apple blossoms and the odd twig or clump of grass. Apple snowballs!
Their greatest joy was seasonal; when apple trees bloomed they would lie, ready to be blessed by the apple snowman. Each year, the shoes became larger, the steps more certain, the fistfulls of blossoms more forceful. The laughter stayed the same. Julie would giggle as the petals tickled her face. His beautiful wife had remained a child at heart.
Arms outstretched and fingers almost touching, eyes closed against the blossom deluge, Steve imagined those shoes walking. Baby boots leading the way; a procession throughout the years. Even college sized sneakers came home for ‘apple snow’.
Julie had adored it and their son had never forgotten. Even after she became ill, she had insisted on lying under the tree to feel the snow falling. She passed away after Michael’s last snowman visit.
Steve’s world changed. Life felt empty without Julie. He immersed himself in work. His son Michael did much the same; moving interstate to take up a law position. The seasons continued. Steven avoided the first ‘apple snow’ by taking a cruise, but depression found him. He quit working, stayed home, and lost all contact with his son.
Again the tree blossomed. He lay among the apple blossoms, pretending he could feel Julie’s finger tips and hear her giggles. In his mind he heard footsteps circling. He imagined tiny baby boots and large college sneakers.
The air left his chest in a rush. He opened tired eyes to see a child astride him. Michael and a woman stood before him.
“My wife Connie,” Michael indicated, “and that imp is your Granddaughter Julie. She wants to be a snowman.”
Steve closed his eyes; a tear mingled with the petals. Connie and Michael lay down beside him, their fingers touching. Julie circled on tottering legs; her giggles reminiscent of her Grandmother.

Blood Ties, by Amie Orr

23/10/2020

Charlotte, focusing on the polished points of her boots and the conspicuous clicking they were making on the uneven cobblestones in the narrow side-street, pushed on the heavy steel door to her immediate left. Inside, she turns swiftly to a door on the right of the overgrown environment before her and knocks six firm times.
“Get in.”
There he was.
Her eye twitched.
“You are lucky I had nothing else to be doing,” She said stiffly. “I am not eager to risk my stature for you”
A silence.
Handing over a well-concealed package from her bodice to the shrunken man, Charlotte sighs, and places a ginger hand to the bare concrete.
She recoils. “Fixing your filthy walls was a priority, wasn’t it not?”
“You know my priority.” He says.
Charlotte musters a moment of tenderness and approaches the man like one approaches a stray cat. An angry and irrational thing, but just pitiful enough to sympathise with.
She beckons at him. “Come home to us.”
“Never! You know my answer, you brainwashed pig!”
Reeling back, tripping on her fine satin skirts, her face turns over. They are both standing now.
“You are the one fallen prey to brainwashing-”
“Thick! Stupid girl, don’t you understand?” He steps closer, light travelling across his unkempt appearance. His finery is worn and damaged. A true deviant.
Charlotte grabs for the rotted door and wrenches it open.
“Do not expect me back.”
“That was never a coincidence, Charlotte. You truly believe his innocence?”
She snaps her head around to face her brother one last time.
“Our father is innocent! You are a deranged fool,” She snarls. “He means nothing to you?”
Howard looks murderous.
“Our sister did. She is dead. And I know what he did.”
Charlotte marches out of Howard’s sight. My father is innocent, she thinks, Always.

A Tale of Two Artists, by Swati Moheet Agrawal

23/10/2020

She had been to Amsterdam, Ira was saying as she ambled along the river with Anmol. She had seen The Girl with a Pearl Earring and The Milkmaid. She had been to Paris and had gorged on Water Lilies. She had also traveled to Madrid. Unfortunately, it was a Monday and the Sorolla was shut. She had also been to The Borghese Gallery and Vatican Museums. But now that she had taken ill, traipsing about all over the world was not possible.

“I, too, have been to Paris, but it was only a flying visit to see a childhood friend who was sick. I’ve also been to Tate Modern although I couldn’t spend a lot of time there,” Anmol reminisced. “I’m glad I have not seen as much as you, because it only makes me hopelessly discontented with my own work, it makes me acutely judgmental of my own creations.”

“Well, we can’t all be Van Goghs and Picassos, Monets and Michelangelos,” Ira told Anmol in a matter-of-fact way. “And obviously everyone can’t be Ira,” she chuckled disdainfully, haughtily.

“I would paint, nevertheless, because if I didn’t I’d die,” Anmol tossed off his insecurities into the river. “Some of my days pass in a torpor, but every once in a while, I am enraptured by something and there is a feeling of unbridled enthusiasm, fulfilment and joy. I am awed by something greater than myself. It is in these moments in life that I find inspiration. Somewhere between self-doubt and confidence, somewhere beyond that crazy internal monologue, I am given these moments that help me get on the other side.”

“Well, I am my own muse. My own source of creative inspiration. The other day I’d painted a woman carrying a basket of golden apricots, pyramids of cherries and grapes, and a ripe russet split open. No sooner did I finish my masterpiece than a few birds flew down and greedily pecked at it. I could have given Caravaggio a run for his money,” Ira tooted her own horn more than once.

“Well, weren’t the birds intimidated by the woman carrying the basket?” Anmol couldn’t resist taking a dig at her.

Chocolate Cookies, by Phyllis Souza

23/10/2020

Reggie wears a woman's dress, cut down to fit her ten-year-old body. The oversized sleeves swallow up her thin arms. She ignores the musty old smell of the fabric as she smears peanut butter and jelly on two slices of bread. Taking one chocolate cookie off a plate, Reggie puts it in a brown paper sack along with her sandwich.

On the other side of town —

Wendy, also ten-years-old, has on a starched white blouse underneath a jumper. She's sitting on a kitchen stool, swinging her feet. Her two-tone saddle shoes are new. She watches her mother make a ham sandwich. Along with a banana and carrot sticks, her mother fills her yellow lunch box. On the lid, a picture of a golden-haired mermaid.

Clifton Elementary School. Morning recess.

"Can I sit with you at lunch?" Reggie asks.

"No. You smell," Wendy pinches her nose. "I'm going to call you Stinky. How do you like that, Stinky?"

"I don't stink." Reggie twists her mouth as she scratches her neck.

"Yes, you do." Wendy stomps. "Why are you scratching? You have cooties." She saunters off.

Wendy joins other classmates. They jump rope and sing, I like coffee. I like tea. I like the boys and the boys like me.

Reggie sits alone on a wooden bench. A grey sparrow lands on the ground in front of her. Looking for crumbs, it pecks at the cement. It stops. Cocks its' head. Reggie bends over and reaches out.
Wiggling her fingers, she asks, "Do you want a friend?"

The bird flies away. Reggie closes her eyes and sweeps through clouds too.

Lunchtime —

Staying several feet behind Wendy, Reggie calls out, "I'll let you have my chocolate cookie."

Wendy turns. She glares at Reggie.

Reggie attempts to win Wendy's friendship, "A cookie." Reggie lifts her lunch bag.

"Give it to me."

"Can I sit at your table?"

"No." Wendy pauses and turns. She stares at the sack. With narrowed eyes, she says, "Yes, but I still want that cookie."

In a shaded area, at a lunch table. Reggie reaches inside her sack. "Here." She hands Wendy the cookie.

Wendy nibbles. "Hmm... this is good." Slowly she bites, chews, and savors.

Reggie watches Wendy, and proudly, she says, "My mother made it."

*

Twenty years later, Reggie owns a successful bakery featuring: Mother's Chocolate Cookies.

Remembering the chocolate's taste, Wendy grips a ten-dollar bill and stands in a line wrapping around the corner.

The Big Break, by Doug Bartlett

23/10/2020

Harry was a football coach at a very small junior college trying to catch a break so he could move up to the major college football ranks. It was toward the end of the season and he and his team had an outstanding record.

He was walking off the practice field when his assistant excitedly approached him.

“Coach, coach, Sports Illustrated is on the phone and they want to talk to you.”

Harry’s adrenaline began pumping and his heartbeat accelerated. This was his big chance. They obviously wanted an interview with him. He knew once Sports Illustrated, a national magazine, published the interview he would be getting tons of phone calls from prominent colleges throughout the country. He would have his choice of where to coach. Later he would be asked to be a guest speaker and flown around the country to speak as a motivational speaker and/or as a highly skilled and astute coach. His life was about to change for the better. First he would buy a brand new car and then a large house in a nice area.He entered his office and picked up the phone. All those years of hardwork and sacrifice were about to pay off.

“Hello, this is Coach Harry.”

“Hello Coach, this is Sports Illustrated. We were wondering if you’d like to renew your subscription this year?”

Let Me Say Goodbye, by Sally Stephenson

23/10/2020

We sat outside the office. After thirty years conversation finally escaped us and there was nothing left.
My niece bounced on his knee. She was sixteen months, full of life and curiosity.
I coo over her. One final attempt to break through and I manage a weak smile from her father.
She’ll be different when you see her next.
I know.
I feel the plane ticket in my pocket, nestled against the scars that are scraped against my heart.
She’ll know who you are, one way or another.
My stomach churns. The thought of the woman who will shape a narrative that’s not hers to tell. That this small child may be filled with a darkness that is not hers to carry.
You’ll do the right thing.
I see the wince my brother tries to hide. I wonder about the secrets he keeps, the stories he’s stoped telling me and his life behind closed doors. But I cannot know and will never know. A new life, a new country beckons. One filled with promise, with hope, with escape from the war that I’m bringing to an end.
I smile at my niece and stand. She will know me one day, and I will flood her world with the truth, with freedom, and I’ll help her escape the war that she will one day carry herself.

The Lady Saboteur and the Jungle Hut, by Robert Plumlee

23/10/2020

Seated cross-legged on the jungle hut’s dirt floor, singing a fiery Latin song, was a beautiful young Cuban girl, the lady saboteur.

Silently, sneaking like a black cat, I approached her and concealed myself near a darkened doorway. Hiding in the shadows, I watched her slender body rhythmically sway back and forth to the music. Her dark Cuban eyes sparkled, reflecting the nearby firelight. Her music, to me, spoke of love. It was passionate, alarming. Her firm breasts expanded with each breath. Her hands, delicate as they were, continued their task. I can almost feel her touch; hear her voice whispering to me.

I watched from the doorway and wondered what it would be like to make love to her. Reluctantly, I brought myself back to reality. I continued to watch as she, holding the duct tape, delicately wrapped the four sticks of dynamite, then cut the red wires. I silently counted.

‘One-two-three-cut, strip. One-two-three-cut’. I watched as she secured the wires to the fuse. Her movements happened in one continuous motion. There was no doubt she knew what she was doing. I surmised she had done this many times before. Intrigued, I continued to watch as she went about her task. She appeared to be unaware I was watching.

Unseen, I approached from the shadows, but she sensed my approach. Startled, she quickly rose, turning toward me, raging fire flashing from her dark eyes. In one swift, clean motion, she pulled an unseen knife from somewhere in her tight-tight pants.

Screaming like a Comanche warrior, she charged wildly toward me.
Suddenly she stopped charging, her knife inches from my throat.

“You shouldn’t sneak up on a person like that. You might get hurt.” She smiled, winked at me, then slipped the knife back into her tight pants.

“I saw you watching me—from over there by the doorway.” She pointed toward the shadowed doorway from where I had come.

“I knew you were there.” She delicately placed the explosives into a backpack sitting near the table. She heaved the pack onto her shoulders.

“Perhaps, someday, I’ll see you again.” She smiled, turned, and quickly left the hut—disappearing into the thick underbrush of the jungle trail.

I watched for a moment, then tried to follow. Only a sweet, captivating scent, drifting here and there along the jungle trail, she left behind.

A tropical bird, flushed suddenly from the vine-tangled path, screeched an alarm. It quickly flew away, disappearing into the approaching dawn. For a moment, I thought it was my friend, my new lover, the lady saboteur, but I was wrong. She was gone.

My memories of the ‘Lady Saboteur,’ the jungle hut, and my desire to find her, still, today, haunt me.

Mrs. Simmonds, by Teddy Kimathi

23/10/2020

“When will the tides come again?” she mourned. Big sunglasses covered her face, as she gazed plainly at the still horizon. It was summer, after all. She was stuck intentionally in an island which filled her soul like a six-star hotel suite.

For a moment she thought about her husband, who was still misplaced in the vast, blue ocean. He promised her he would bring her favorite fashion and gossip magazines. She really wanted his presence around him, as they planned what name they would give to their island.

Many friends often told her how her husband was mysterious and deep, like the ocean. Sometimes she felt as though it was true, when she felt her soul drowning into his eyes. His skin was also salty, when she tasted it.

She tasted her skin, stared at the horizon for a while, and started to cry. This went on for days, until she acknowledged that her husband would never enjoy her sun, sands, and palm tree shades.

The Empty Hands, by Sivan Pillai

23/10/2020

“Look at that baby.”
The clouds parted, revealing a new-born baby, crying feebly, and kicking its legs.
“Is there anything in its hands?”
“No, they’re empty.”
“Now look there,” the old man commanded, pointing in another direction.
A dead body lay in a casket, fully dressed like a man about to step out, on the edge of a freshly dug pit. A few people stood about, looking bored, and talking in a low tone. Both the body and the mourners were vaguely familiar. Instinctively, I looked for the diamond rings on the dead man’s fingers, the expensive wristwatch, and the golden chain around his neck. They were all gone.
A priest said a prayer in a solemn voice. A couple of bystanders paid brief tributes to the man in the casket. It was then lowered into the pit and the mourners left after throwing handfuls of soil into it. A man filled the pit with practiced hands. The place was deserted in a few minutes, except for some birds that descended from the nearby trees in search of food.
“What did he have in his hands,” the old man asked suddenly, bringing my attention back to the present.
“Nothing.”
“Did you recognize the baby and the dead man? Both were you.”
I had no doubt about the man in the casket.
I did not know where I was or what I was doing above the drifting clouds with this mysterious man in white with a flowing beard. What I did remember was the shattering blow I had felt when my financial adviser told me about the crash in the market and informed me that I had just become insolvent.
I had switched off my cell phone, locked myself in my room, and swallowed a fistful of sleeping pills.
“You spent a lifetime chasing name and fame, when all that you needed in the end was.....”

Bobby and Me Rockin' and Rollin', by Susan Fairfax Reid

23/10/2020

Ain’t nothin’ but six-year- old musicians, "rockin’ all the time."

My friend Bobby and I began our musical careers when we were six, performing our first concert in my living room to Elvis Presley's hit, "Hound Dog."

After placing Elvis's single on my parents' record player and hitting the play button, I dashed across the room in my penny loafers and emerald green corduroy dress and took my seat on a dining room chair facing the upright piano.

Once the needle hit the 45 RPM and we heard the pompadoured singer belt out, "Ain't nothing but a hound dog," we sang tremulously, as if we were at an audition. The overhead light was our spotlight.The afternoon sunlight streaming through the windows created yellow footlights.

Because my feet couldn't reach the three piano pedals, Bobby sang from the floor. Kneeling in his neatly-creased navy blue slacks and tattersall shirt, he placed one hand on the floor to maintain his balance and used the other hand to work the gold pedals just above the worn oriental rug. The soles of his high-top tennis shoes were raised in the air.

His freckled face was flushed. His wavy black hair became dishevelled from sweating, singing, and working the metal pedals that adjusted the piano's sound. His green eyes shined as brightly as sunlight on a car.

Matching Elvis's energy was easy for six-year olds, but we couldn't match his talent. The song climbed to Number 1 on the Country, Pop, and R&B charts in the United States in 1956. Our version never made it beyond the living room.

My mother was our audience, smiling through the spectacle we created, being untrained vocalists and piano players. Her dark brown hair was wrapped in a doughnut. She wore a blue and white striped shift, and tapped her low-heeled pumps from her seat on the Duncan Phyfe sofa.

During the concert Bobby and I starred in, my job was to sing and imitate Little Richard's style of rapidly moving his fingers across the keyboard of a baby grande as he sang, "Good Golly, Miss Molly." We loved that song and had memorized the words, but the song's sexual meaning was beyond our childhood understanding.

We pretended we were on the Buddy Deane Show, a television show broadcast in Baltimore. MD. in the 1950s and 1960s. National performers and bands played to the television audience. The teenaged girls who attended the show wore flared skirts and cardigan sweaters and twisted and jitterbugged with boys in their button-down shirts, ties, and dress pants.

Bobby and I presented more concerts to 1950s and 1960s hits until we broke the scratched piano pedals, an accident that ended our musical careers and our dreams of traveling the world in fancy suits and gowns, singing and playing the piano to large audiences filled with screaming, applauding fans.

But we weren't sad, and we weren't "cryin' all the time." Spring was coming, and we began planning softball team lineups and game schedules.

The Fourteenth Day, by Angela Carlton

16/10/2020

The first time we have coffee after psychology class, you laugh as I pour too much sugar in my over-sized mug, and it’s refreshing to see the humor behind small cravings.The second time we met, I learn you take your coffee black and the real reason you are drawn to psychology as you speak of that dark day your sister jumped off the bridge as a girl. The third time we met on Monday, I told you about my father and how he left us when I was a boy. And the way I foolishly search for him in a crowd as if a reunion with him, the father of my emptiness would make a damn difference now.

The next week, I shaved and trimmed my hair, and my skin’s got some color. It’s all those lonely hours you see, between classes, sitting under the scorching sun watching the waves crash and spill, crash and spill over the rocks.

On the fourteenth day, I am thinking of you-you-you, how I want us to forget the coffee and drink cold beer in a pub under the low lights, down the street. I want to drink beer with you, rum and vodka, all of it, as my fingers brush against your neck, while my wife does her rotations at the hospital.

See, it’s her job to save people.

The Finish, by Candace Arthuria Williams

16/10/2020

The race had begun long before it made history. From the time Mukesh was old enough to talk, his parents had filled his head with the platinum-paved streets of America. In this faraway fairy tale place, everybody was rich with equal opportunity to get richer. When the time was right, the family boarded the plane, as Destiny lifted welcoming arms to embrace its latest recruits. A boy of eight, a family of three, and fortunes not yet counted.

Mukesh could not remember why 447 had always been his lucky number. But when his 401K reached 445, the market began to tumble. Every breath he took had the singular goal of getting his money back. It was all he lived for. And so the count-up began, as the market slowly recouped its losses. Mukesh pulled out his iPad to check the balance on his account—$447,363.02—immediately setting his sights on half a million. He picked up the remote to hear the latest death toll. 447,000. Was that some kind of an omen? Seconds later, the hospital phoned. His wife, an “essential worker,” made 447 and one.

In My Heart, by Brian Taylor

16/10/2020

The doorbell rang at 9:31. I thought, who in the world could that be this time of night? I got up from my chair and went to open the door. When I saw who it was, my jaw dropped. I couldn't believe my eyes. It was actually her.

She hurriedly said, "Please, don't say anything. Just let me say what I need to say...please. This is so hard for me. I know I left you so cruelly, I didn't even answer your texts or calls, and I'll live with that regret forever. My only excuse is I was confused. I thought I found what I wanted in him... wildness, sexiness, adventure... but...I'm so stupid...I lost what I really needed...stability, normalcy, true love, a family...you. I realize it might be hard for you to forgive me totally...but if you'll give me one more chance, I swear I'll spend the rest of my life trying to make it up to you...Baby." Tears fell from her pretty blue eyes.

I looked at her, the only woman I ever loved and wanted to be with forever, just standing there on my porch in the cold night air, hurting and pouring her heart out to me. I thought about it for a few seconds and then I said what was in my heart.

"Fuck...you," just before I slammed and locked the door.

The Separation, by Ranju Radha

16/10/2020

While lying in a sofa with severe neck pain, Bhaskar sees her vanish from his life forever. He lies in pain for hours, no pillows in support and a pungent smell of viscous pain balm fuming on the neck.
A heart-wrenching pain radiates throughout the body and forms an eternal ache on the neck. After an hour or more of continuous agony, he tries to get up and a memory of her runs past his ribs. He screams in remorse.
He hears a cat moving outside the kitchen window and waits for a response.
After a long pose, Bhaskar gets up and dawdles inside the apartment, one step at a time. An unbearable emptiness sulks inside and he tumbles. The sofa creaks as if in pain. A constipated memory explodes inside like an unhealed hemorrhoid.
In the evening, a prayer from a nearby temple touches his soul making him arise in an overpowering memory and anticipation. He goes to the kitchen, washes utensils, prepares her favourite sardine fry, fish curry and boiled rice for dinner. He waits for her, but she never returns. He receives a message after sometime in his cell phone: “I’m going to my friend’s place.”
He makes small sticky rice balls with his nervous fingers and gulps it after dipping in the fish curry. He grows big like a lonely monster in his shadow, chewing the bones of fried sardine. Then he retires to the bedroom and struggles hard to fall asleep.
He tries not to weep. But he can’t… So, he weeps and falls into a half-sleep, sad and disturbed.
In the wee hours around two, Bhaskar wakes up suddenly as if in response to someone’s plea. But he hears only a frightening noise from within. A broken man sulks inside and prays. He stares at the roof and stays awake in bed for hours. A stifling quietude embraces his conscience.
A hidden fear of loneliness creeps in and takes the dreaded face of a werewolf. It hangs from the roof and stares back at him. He feels it like a tripping dream projected on to the roof. A table full of books and a pen-stand turns upside down, crumbling him under its weight.
Lying numb in bed, he sees a big white cat slowly descend to his bedroom. It comes to the bedside and stands right in front of his face with a tail wagging incessantly. The cat looks into his eyes, turns around and poops.
The stink of cat poop fills the bedroom. It slowly begins to spread across the plenitudes of his memory.
The cat walks into the kitchen, grabs a sardine fry and disappears.
Bhaskar sees the door lying half-open in the morning. He leaps forward in a bid to shut the door. It closes with a banging sound.
Trembled, he turns around. He feels no pain on the neck!
Bhaskar sees a feline tail swish behind, grown from his body. He jumps on to the floor and cries: “Meow…”

Those Who Diminish Our Humanity, by Sankar Chatterjee

16/10/2020

It was a gorgeous summer morning in San Antonio, Texas. Peter and Becky were in town while exploring the western US for its landscapes as well as the region’s history, culture and culinary scene, influenced by the neighboring country of Mexico. On this morning, the couple ventured into a locally famous breakfast place, when Peter picked up a copy of the day’s newspaper at the entrance. He noticed a front-page blurred image of what appeared to be a little red doll hanging from the shoulder of an adult.

As the couple sat down, Peter took out his reading glasses and began perusing the story associated with the image. And that’s when the enormity of that image revealed itself. In fact, it was not a discarded piece of a pop-art, but the lifeless body of a little Mexican girl attached to the similarly lifeless body of her dad floating in the water of the Rio Grande River that separates the two nations. The story went on to describe how she, along with her parents as well as other desperate refugees, was trying to flee their poor country for a better life in a neighboring rich nation. Now that rich nation began erecting fences at the border to deter such poor migrants. Operative human smugglers in the area, after charging heftily, led a whole group to the alternate river-border where the crossing was narrow. Unfortunately, an overnight sudden thunderstorm had swallowed the river. While some were able to swim across, this dad carrying his daughter on his shoulder drowned. Now their comingled bodies surfaced near the bank. But there was no trace of the girl’s mother.

Following year, in another gorgeous morning Peter picked up his daily newspaper from the driveway of his home in the suburb of Philadelphia. Immediately, his heart started pounding. There was a dark but visible image on the front page. A little boy, wearing a yellow and green soccer uniform with number 10 and the name of Neymar Jr. (belonging to the Brazilian superstar) emblazoned on his back, was standing in front of what seems like a cage. Recently, rumors were spreading that the current xenophobic administration ordered border guards to practice inhumane separation of little children from their parents who were attempting to enter the country fleeing poverty, crimes and violence from their own countries. Now, a brave photographer, in the dark of the night, was able to snap a few shots to document the unfolding events.

Peter, the only son of Holocaust-survivor parents, suddenly remembered a blurred blue prisoner’s identification number (ending with 10). This was permanently etched on his dad’s (now deceased) arm by the Nazis in the Auschwitz death camp. He wondered what could have happened to his parents if they were not allowed to relocate in the US after their liberation at the end of the Second World War.

Peter then looked at the clear blue sky above his head, as if looking for an answer to his own inquiry.

<<Previous

The Letter, by Teddy Kimathi

Looking For The Moon, by Angela Carlton

Whose Are You? by L.W. Smolen

Under the Watch of Invisible Eyes, by Krystyna Fedosejevs

Someday, by Doug Bartlett

Jimmy and Me, by Phyllis Souza

A Cultural Assimilation or a Systemic Racism? by Sankar Chatterjee

You Can't Hurry Love, by Jim Bartlett

Success, by Bruce Levine

The Spirit, by Candace Arthuria Williams

Apple Snow, by Mary Wallace

Blood Ties, by Amie Orr

A Tale of Two Artists, by Swati Moheet Agrawal

Chocolate Cookies, by Phyllis Souza

The Big Break, by Doug Bartlett

Let Me Say Goodbye, by Sally Stephenson

The Lady Saboteur and the Jungle Hut, by Robert Plumlee

Mrs. Simmonds, by Teddy Kimathi

The Empty Hands, by Sivan Pillai

Bobby and Me Rockin' and Rollin', by Susan Fairfax Reid

The Fourteenth Day, by Angela Carlton

The Finish, by Candace Arthuria Williams

In My Heart, by Brian Taylor

The Separation, by Ranju Radha

Those Who Diminish Our Humanity, by Sankar Chatterjee

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