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Anne's Nutty Lovers, by Susan Fairfax Reid

16/10/2020

Anne had a passion for nuts. She loved them all, regardless of their color or country of origin.

She lived in an upper-class suburban home with her daughter in the United States.
It was filled with modern furniture, family pictures, and paintings by Anne and her daughter, both artists and widows.

Anne's nutty affairs lasted for decades. She flitted like a bee from her dark brown-shelled lover from Brazil to the sweet tan cashew, from Africa, to her green pistachio paramours from the Middle East, and the U.S.

Hot for all of them, Anne quickly cracked their shells, with the whack of a nut cracker or a bite with her teeth, and pulled out the meat she wanted inside her.

In her seventies, she started getting mild stomach pains. "Probably something I ate," Anne speculated.

A woman from a city in the U.S. where pecans are grown taught Anne how to rub the thin, light brown shells of two of them together until they cracked, revealing sweet, buttery meat. She also taught her to move the nuts around her tongue, so she wouldn't miss a single sensuous experience.

Anne's stomach pain worsened. She had trouble eating anything without pain developing. Frightened because cancer runs in their family, her daughter rushed Anne to a doctor. He said she had diverticulitis. She had to change her diet, and she had to ditch her nutty lovers.

At a family party, relish trays were set up for guests inbibing before dinner. So were bowls of nuts.

With a sinking pain in her stomach caused by the loss of her lovers, a tear rolled down Anne's cheek as she looked at the tan walnuts in a sterling silver bowl on the kitchen bar. She drank a martini.

"Take me," said the dry, bitter native of Mexico through its craggy shell. "You know you can see my erect ridges once you crack my shell."

"Maybe it was the martini," she thought. "Or maybe the stress of the breakup had caused her to lose her mind."

She grabbed her cane and walked by the dark brown chestnuts in a cut-glass bowl on the gleaming teak dining table. "Remember when I wasn't around," the chestnut asked?" She furrowed her brow, thinking. "You couldn't wait until fall arrived, so you could grab me from the store shelf, rush me home, and roast me in the oven," said the chestnut from Asia.

Remembering, she moved as briskly as she could to the white Scan sofa, plopped against a rust-colored throw pillow, and looked into a bowl of cashews on the coffee table. Her mouth watered.

A half-hour of ecstasy with the sweet kidney-shaped nuts wasn't worth the horrendous pain, and possible constipation and bleeding, that might follow, she decided.

Sitting next to her granddaughter, she said with a gleam in her eyes, "The first thing I'm going to do when I get to heaven is ask St. Peter for a bowl of nuts."

The Magic Fig, by Phyllis Souza

16/10/2020

By ruler's measure, Lena stands at five feet. Not a quarter-inch taller, nor quarter-inch shorter. Her eyes not small or big, they're average. Hair, not auburn or blonde, but mousy brown. Lena is sixteen.

At a party, Lena spins the bottle. It points to a boy. He runs—her classmates laugh. "It's not funny," she cries.

Biting her nails, she slumps, not on a velour sofa, but a striped hide-a-bed. Lena's tired of watching American Bandstand. "That's enough," she says, and getting up, flips off the television. “Who wants to Bunny Hop anyway?"

Lena stands in front of the bathroom mirror, pinching pimples. I'm ugly. With glycerin acne soap and cold water, she washes her face, pats it dry with a towel, and splashes on Sea Breeze, “Ouch, that burns.” In case she's allergic to something, Lena stuffs a tissue into her shirt's top pocket. Armored for that unexpected sneeze, she leaves the room.

In her small back yard, on a section of dry ground, a fig tree grows. It’s big and bearing purple fruit.

Dressed in dungarees, Lena reaches up, picks a fig, and squeezes its skin. It bursts. Red jewel-like specks appear. She inhales the grassy scent and tastes honey in its pulp. Even though she’s eaten the fruit before, this time it's different. "This fig is magic!”

One beautiful moment: Without a looking glass, her skin is soft and smooth, her hair long and silky. Without a boyfriend, she's in love. Without music, with the fig in her hand, Lena dances.

"Lena, what are you up to?” her mother calls from the house. “It's time for supper."

"Yes, Mama." She sighs. The magic is lost for today.

Yet, tomorrow, and the day after, Lena will eat another magic fig.

Inside a Box, by Teddy Kimathi

9/10/2020

Chants, rants and traffic could be heard from outside, but couldn’t penetrate the thick walls of his home; a big box. It had no doors, windows or telephone. Everything in the box was sealed from the inside.

The box and everything inside it was black and white, grand and dusty. Nothing ever moved from its position, like the stars. The owner liked his cubed home that way; orderliness, silence and nothing new. He ate the same meals every morning, afternoon, and evening. He repeated the same house routines every day. This lifestyle was his bliss.

Some of his neighbors tried to seal their boxes just as he did, only to admire the screaming colors and chaos of the outside. Slowly folks increased in numbers in the outside. Some later married and got children of their own. The children did all they could to bring down the walls of the boxes, but couldn’t. Wrecking balls’ impact was akin to raindrops hitting a glass window.

The source of the walls’ strength emanated from the box dwellers themselves. The more they resolved to stand their ground, the more their boxes gained strength and grew.

As time passed, the boxes became fewer; the outside world became noisier and brighter. There were street lights and lighthouses everywhere outside the boxes. The oceans were blue, deep and endless. Butterflies made gardens to look like moving portraits. Music oozed out from parks and streets.

So odd and boring the boxes looked, that they became a tourist destination, without the owners’ knowledge. Every child fought for a space to be taken a photo with the boxes, as historians wrote speculated materials on how the box dwellers lived. The box dwellers on the other hand didn’t know that everyone outside thought they were all dead, their bones resting where they liked to stay often, within the four walls.

One day, the one owning the biggest box, accidentally cut himself on the right wrist in the kitchen garden, as he harvested carrots. It’s not the pain of the cut that shocked him, but the color of his blood; it was red! A sense of betrayal haunted him, when he recalled how his parents assured him that his entire body, both inside out was black and white.

Slowly he destroyed the walls of his box house with indifference, until they all fell down. Outsiders ran away and locked their doors, when they saw a man emerging from the fallen box. His black and white appearance looked ghostly. They thought that everyone had embraced the outside world; a world of colors, chaos and adventure.

The Secret, by Mary Wallace

9/10/2020

My Uncle smoked out in the garden where no one could see. He’d hold the hose in one hand, slap at mosquitoes with his other and still manage to have that cigarette. My sister and I liked to sneak up on him, but he was quick, we never saw one in his mouth.
We could smell it though! Pungent, acrid, the fresh air did nothing to dispel the stink of forbidden pleasure. And we never discovered his hiding place, no butts adorned his well tendered garden and our furtive looks under the compost lid also revealed nothing.
From the gardening table outside the old shed, Mr Boo The Pumpkin Head laughed toothless at our efforts to catch Uncle Dave as if he shared the secret. Mr Boo The Pumpkin Head was always there throughout our childhood, perhaps left over from one Halloween or waiting for the next, but we never saw him under construction, he just was!
Uncle Dave started to get sick. He would water the garden from an old chair rather than stand up, his breathing was louder, his face grew more lined, but the odour of forbidden pleasure still surrounded him. Mr Boo The Pumpkin Head began to look different too, his face became soft and soggy looking, as if he too were sick.
I was seven when Uncle Dave died and Carla was five.
“The smokes killed him,” Carla and I heard at the funeral, while we climbed under tables and through forests of black legs. We hadn’t seen Uncle Dave's house for a long time, so we went out to say hello to Mr Boo The Pumpkin Head.
“He looks like he’s dying,” Carla said, and there before our eyes, with puffs of smoke and ash, he collapsed onto the table spilling his and Uncle Dave's secret. The pungent, acrid smell we remembered so well filled the air, the stink of forbidden pleasure encompassed what was left of Mr Boo The Pumpkin Head.
Carla, picking up a couple of butts that had rolled, gave them back to Mr Boo and declared solemnly,
“Too many smokes!”

Together, by Don Tassone

9/10/2020

John and Christine met in their twenties in a shoe store in Manhattan. From the moment their fingers touched over a single shoe, they knew they were destined to be together.

A year later, they pledged their lives to one another. Ten years later, still childless and weary of the big city, they decided to start fresh. For years, they had dreamed of Alaska. Now they ventured there by train to make a new home.

They had a cabin built on the shore of Auke Bay. From their front porch, they watched glaciers calving, great frozen endpoints, once liquid, breaking free and returning to their origin.

For 40 years, they lived there simply, quietly and happily. They both taught at the local campus of the University of Alaska until they retired. They were inseparable.

Then one November, Christine became ill, very ill. John brought her to doctors in Juneau, but they could do nothing for her, so he brought her home.

As the snow began to fall, John cared for Christine day and night, but she grew ever weaker. For each of them, the thought of losing the other was nearly unbearable. In their suffering, they were fused.

In the spring, a neighbor went to their cabin to check on them, but they weren’t there. Then he discovered a single set of heavy footprints in the soft soil from their front steps to the water’s edge.

Breathless, by Candace Arthuria Williams

9/10/2020

She was his basket of flowers, sweetening every day of their marriage. From the time he first saw her, he knew she was the one.

Fumbling for words, he asked her out, with no expectation that she would ever accept. He was thrilled when she did. Then self-doubt began to emerge. Why would she agree to date a loser like him? Brendan wasn’t like the other guys. He was endowed with sense and sensitivity, enough to recognize how fortunate he was. How did her parents know to name her Ruby? She was his gem. All through school he never looked at another girl.

When she miscarried, he felt the pain, rubbing her back as their waterfall drenched the sheets. How many unworthy had been blessed to have a family? How many parents had failed to protect and provide? Why was this happening to them? The doctors said that it would never be. Brendan and Ruby needed a new plan.

It was years before they found Amy, abandoned and afraid. Now she didn’t have to be frightened anymore. She was Daddy’s girl. And Mommy’s. Amy had the very best Mommy in the world. Father and daughter adored her. And so did everybody else. Ruby was that proverbial sun that lit up every room she ever entered.

****************************

They were no longer young when it happened. Youth had been so much wiser than middle age. Brendan never saw it coming. When Ruby broke the news, a volcano took residence in his heart, spewing its lava smack dab at the center. He was just some guy up the street—innocuous and anonymous until now. What black magic had invaded his Ruby Flower? What toxin had infected her soul?

Brendan was not like other guys. He never had been. Broken hearts are not a man’s dominion. He was supposed to be tough—yell, slap, hire a high-priced lawyer to ruin her life. But begging supplanted his pride. He didn’t know how to man up when the little boy inside him was crying. Who cares if the whole world knows? Maybe someone can tell me what to do.

As the lovebirds drove into their purloined sunset, Brendan and Amy struggled to inhale. The most they could manage was an awkward, alternating rhythm. It would be a long time before they were able to breathe on their own. In retrospect, nothing had changed.

From the time he first saw Ruby, she had taken his breath away.

The Philosopher, by Janice Siderius

9/10/2020

He is seventy years old when he walks into the court. He is dirty and unkempt, his feet bare. There is a stir among the jury and the viewing public. Most of the men present know him either personally or by the reputation he has gained over the years. But I know him because I am a student of his.

He attempts to defend himself at the trial, but the odds are stacked against him. He cannot convince the jury that the charges are politically motivated. He tries to point out to his enemies, and the jury, that his life was devoted to questioning others and seeking wisdom. His most famous teaching was, “The unexamined life is not worth living.” But, in the end, they find him guilty.

They unjustly condemn him to die. I am not surprised by the outcome.

As Socrates lifts the cup of hemlock to his lips, he tells his friends not to mourn him.

So ends the life of the wisest Athenian in my lifetime.

The Mechanical Monster, by Robert Plumlee

9/10/2020

I could not escape the ominous sickening sound of the fierce battle echoing from the ravaged valley below. From the safety of the mountaintop, I watched as the machinery of war slowly crept forward.

In the distance, there was an explosion. I turned, watched giant fingers of fire escape from a burning building. The flames raced skyward, blotting out the sun. After the explosion and the curling black smoke had cleared, a ghostly figure, a lone soldier, staggered from the burning building. Leaving charred flesh and the carnage of war behind, the soldier inched himself forward, slowly escaping to a nearby field.

I watched mechanical iron monsters, with teeth of steel, like slithering snakes, slither into the valley. They ravished the countryside, destroying the landscape, annihilating cattle and men. I watched these mechanical monsters slowly moved forward.

Those monsters of iron and steel, I watched, charged across muddy fields, fording mighty rivers. I watched as they rapidly approached another village. Ruthlessly each monster crept onward, each one intent on eliminating a human life, and a way of life.

The lonely soldier, afraid and confused, finally escaped the smoke and flames. He staggered into a nearby muddy field where he knelt down upon the soggy ground. On his knees, he looked to the Heavens, then shouted out:

"Why! OH, WHY!"

He beat violently upon his chest.

"You Bastard. You filthy bastard! How could you let this happen? Why did you desert us in our hour of need? Have we not faithfully served you? Have we not given you our all? How could you do this to us?

From the smoldering burning buildings, another mechanical monster suddenly appeared. It crossed the muddy field and slowly consumed the kneeling soldier. Indifferently gorging itself on more burning buildings, devouring more soldiers and cattle, the slithering monster with teeth of steel continued its march onward, toward another unsuspecting village.

I watched the monster from the mountaintop. I watched it until I was sick. I watched until the sunset in the west; then I fell asleep. I never woke up.

The Conspiracy, by Jim Bartlett

9/10/2020

Gladys peels open her second floor bedroom curtain just enough to peek across the street where those two abhorrent neighbors, Milly Steinberg and Shelly Appleton, have gathered once again on the sidewalk concocting their latest set of vicious rumors. They lean close, whispering into each other’s ears as if it’s some big secret that they despise Gladys, then, adding insult to injury, steal a glance or point an accusing finger at her house.

Gladys shakes her head. It’s a wonder that vile man from up the street – Jess? Josh? With her blood pressure on the rise, she can’t recall which – isn’t right in the middle of this gang of conspirators.

Jealous they are. Each and every one of them.

When they leave, she steps from the window in a huff and snatches her cup of tea, cold now, having giving up hope on her prompt return. It’s then she realizes this all started last summer right after she’d gone out of her way to put together a Fourth of July block party. She had a drawing with a handmade prize, a wonderful barbecue, and even got Jack Stephenson – bless his soul, he passed just last winter – to play his guitar while everyone gathered ‘round singing “America the Beautiful.”

Though she’s been here for nearly 20 years, a stream of newcomers, mainly retired folks, have slowly filled the neighborhood, most in just the last couple of years. Was it so terrible to think it might be nice to have a “get to know one another” sort of thing?

Obviously so.

Things have been no different with her job – or FORMER job that is. After giving her soul to the company for 35 years, there was a downsizing. And, of course, it was HER department that ended up being shut down, leaving her no choice but to retire.

So today, after having never missed a day at the plant, she’s home on a Monday, relegated to the pain of watching the neighbors gossip about her.

A knock at the door pulls her from her self-pity, and she cautiously makes her way down the stairs. However, she stops at the bottom step when she sees that man’s face – Jess, she remembers now – peering through the window. What could he possibly want?

“Yes?” she says, opening the door only a crack.

“Hello, Gladys. I was wondering, with such lovely gladiolas gracing your front yard, if you could take a look at my garden and tell me what I’m doing wrong. I can’t seem to find my green thumb.”

She feels the heat of a blush, then nods, pulling the door the rest of the way open.

“Oh...I guess I could.”

She follows him down the walk, then along the side of his house toward his backyard. As he opens the gate, she catches sight of an arch of balloons, under which stands most of her neighbors. A banner stretches across the fence which reads: HAPPY RETIREMENT!

“SURPRISE,” they call out.

Gladys can only cry.

A Sweet Ripe Mango, by Sankar Chatterjee

9/10/2020

American Jim Morrison was traveling through South-East Asia for his cultural immersion of the society, religion, and culture of the various nations in that part of the globe. He spent several weeks in Cambodia, Laos, Vietnam, Myanmar, and Thailand, respectively. This offered him the opportunity to learn how these countries had come to existence, their languages had evolved, different kingdoms throughout history had ruled the nations, and the religion of Buddhism, emanating from India had spread throughout each region. In fact, the famous temple complex of Angkor Wat in Cambodia was originally devoted to Hinduism, but now serves as a holy place for the Buddhists. Interestingly, even being the birthplace of Buddhism, the Hinduism remained the predominant religion in India. Jim began to wonder about this unique fact, while arriving in New Delhi, India.

Initially, Jim explored the northern section of this vast country. He learned that throughout the history, various kingdoms ruled various sections of the land, thus giving rise to varied languages, culinary preferences, and cultural habits. But it was the philosophy and teaching of the Hinduism that bound the populace for millenniums. Besides visiting various architecturally magnificent palaces, forts and Hindu temples, he would also visit several equally spectacular mosques, places of worship of the followers of Islam that was also practiced during Mogul occupation of the land.

Next heading toward the southern section, Jim arrived in Kerala, a southern state of natural beauty. He spent a couple of days in a houseboat carrying him through backwater alleys, giving him exposure to everyday village life. Then he arrived in Cochin, a former coastal fort-city. While exploring the city on foot, Jim noticed the presence of several neighborhood churches. He entered into a historic Renaissance-style Catholic Church located in the main plaza. Among all the brilliant decorations inside, there was a roof-painting of the Last Supper of Jesus Christ. But what was on the plate in front of Christ (not a loaf of bread, but an elongated yellow object)? Jim inquired to a local devotee standing next to him. The gentleman smiled mischievously and replied “A sweet ripe mango.”

Soon the fact followed. During the historic occupation of the various corners of the country by foreign colonial powers, Christianity also arrived. Then the conversion process began. One of the most popular fruits of this subcontinent had always been the mango. In order to appear friendly and sensitive, the church officials at the time took the liberty of commissioning the painting with the deliberate choice of portraying the last food of Christ, before his crucifixion, a sweet ripe mango and thus its appearance on the plate. And throughout the centuries, the painting stayed in its original form.

In a way it made sense, whether it was intended or not. That painted mango became a historic witness to the forced religious conversion of the defeated by the winner in the flow of the river of our civilization, as witnessed in other continents too.

Delta Hotel, by Phyllis Souza

9/10/2020

1900… The Delta Hotel in Stockton, California, stood proudly on the waterfront. It catered mostly to travelers brought in by the railroad—two dollars a night for a room.

As the town grew, so did the gunshot holes in its doors. It had become home to migrant workers, prostitutes, and drug dealers.

Present-day... As if a mouse is caught in a hinge, the door to 332 squeaks.

Joe, slightly overweight, lumbers downstairs to the lobby. A foul, musty smell envelopes his senses. An underdressed woman clings tightly onto the arm of a customer. A drunken man stumbles into the corridor—an aging woman with too much make-up yells at a young man exchanging a small package for cash.

Outside, rain clouds drift across the sky—hookers on the sidewalk—slow-moving cars and a luxury SUV on the street. Cops are eating donuts in a cruiser parked at the curb.

Joe draws a cigarette from his tan overcoat. He lights up, lifts his collar, and walks quickly to his car.

*

"Where in the hell have you been? Do you know what time it is?" Ruby scowls in anger.

"I always work late on Fridays," Joe takes off his coat and hangs it in the hall closet.

"Oh, please don't give me that line of bull. I know you're not selling insurance policies in the middle of the night." Ruby tightens the neck of her terry cloth bathrobe. She moves closer. She pokes at his chest with her index finger. "Don't lie to me."

He grabs her arm. "I'm in no mood to argue." Joe hesitates, then he lets go. "Ruby, I've got a headache. Go to bed." He rubs his forehead.

"I'll go to bed when I want to." She twists her mouth, "I need a Xanax. My nerves."

"That's right, Ruby, any excuse to stupefy."

Joe walks toward the kitchen. He sits at the table.

Like a diamond needle sticks in the grove of a record, the scene in room 332 repeats itself in his brain: Blackjack. Himself, the dealer. Francesco, a card shark, gathers his winnings. Gabriel, a pigeon, holds up a concealed weapon. Francisco surrenders the money.

Wearing killer-red lipstick, Ruby marches into the room.

Joe looks up. "What--

Ruby is surprised that the gun makes so little noise when Joe falls dead to the floor.

Experiment, by Teddy Kimathi

2/10/2020

She watched him float in formalin; still, unchanging, and lifeless. He was also naked. Every student, professor or lecturer could see him as he was, from top to bottom. He wasn’t seen as a human – he was seen as a contribution to science.

The university was so honored by his wife, that it honored her with a certificate she couldn’t quiet understand what merit she attained. Words written on the certificate were too alien and complex for her to comprehend. She didn’t know whether to smile or put a still face.

Her husband hadn’t signed for his body to be used for science. As a matter of fact, he hadn’t signed any document, regarding how he wished the government to treat his body.

As she watched him float in formalin, she remembered how he treated her like a doormat. His confession was always “Honey, it’s just an experiment of love”, whenever emotions crawled nearer his soul. His “experiment” had cost her a job, friends and self esteem.

No tears clouded her eyes, when he met the angel of death at a subway train station. He wasn’t hit by a train – a heart attack surprised him unexpectedly. She wondered whether his soul was so dark, that his heart couldn’t accommodate it. His heart had to vomit it out, in the pretext for a heart attack.

The experimental man he was, she decided to donate his body to science. She gave the university authority to use the body as they pleased.

The Invasion, by Candace Arthuria Williams

2/10/2020

Holy Moly. Great balls of fire! I was jolted out of sleep at three a.m. Semi-consciousness reminded me it had been years since the last attack. We were overdue. That’s probably why it was a big one. The fumes made their way throughout the house, leading to a terrifying conclusion. This was no ordinary invasion. It was a genus we had never encountered before—Skunkus Hippopotami. No itty-bitty skunk could have done this.
Samson was barking like crazy. No, he doesn’t belong to me. I would never name a dog for a biblical hero. Seems trifling. Besides, that wimpy little mutt couldn’t bring down the walls of his doghouse, let alone the Philistine temple. He lives and barks next door, settles down around nine and sets his alarm for seven. That way I don’t have to bother setting mine. Poor thing. He’s off his game, most likely terrified and asking himself, what the hell is this? My sentiments exactly.
I imagined a giant species from a hostile netherland planet with its groundship speeding menacingly towards Earth. They would have to be smart to come from down under while NASA is obsessed with the sky. That’s all we need—GIANT ALIEN EDUCATED SKUNKS. With our own flailing government, we were doomed.
As the overwhelming vapors filled the streets, we would all be rendered unconscious and most likely captured by daylight. But maybe we could turn them into allies, throw a big block party with home-made chicken salad and Ritz. I guess we’d have to ask them what they like. But it appears we may have run out of time. With a national plan, we could have been prepared.

*************************

Then the SKUNKS made a fatal mistake. They forgot to put on their masks. As their troops came in, the VIRUS took them out.

Dance, by Phyllis Souza

2/10/2020

Socks on his feet, shiny black shoes on the floor next to the recliner, Patrick still had time for a dance.

A Whitney Houston favorite, "I Will Always Love You," flowed through the air. Sunlight streamed in from an open window. I hope this heat won't have its way tonight. Patrick held out his hands and asked, "Would you like to dance?"

Four-year-old Maggie dropped her baby-doll named Annie. Barefoot, she rushed to Patrick, jumped on top of his feet, and wriggled. "Dance."

He moved her forward and back. Maggie chuckled, and Patrick laughed.

One step right. One step left. Father and daughter glided across the living room.

When the song was over. Patrick raised Maggie, kissed the top of her head. "You're beautiful."

"Oh, I know, I look like Mommy."

He put her down. "Wouldn't want an ugly mug like mine, would ya?" Patrick beamed.

Maggie puckered her rosebud lips and thought as she studied his face, "I think you're pretty."

Twenty minutes later, Patrick now dressed in his blue uniform left the house.

Mommy walked into the room, picked up the doll, and said, "Maggie, it's time for your bath.

An out-of-control crowd.

The second night of protests in the streets, people were dancing—some raising ugly dolls of the American President. Others were holding up civil rights signs.

Chanting, "kill cops" and shouts of "burn it down."

Like wolves searching for food, they devoured anyone in their path, including peaceful protestors. Rioters, wearing masks, helmets, and dressed in black. Agitators screaming profanities threw bricks, rocks, and Molotov cocktails. Looting the stores, they destroyed.

Patrick wearing protective gear moved through the mob. A shield in front of him—uncontrollable violence.

Flames and smoke. Everything on fire.

Pieces of fragmented steel flew. Shots fired. Hit— officer down!
The warm glow of the dance went out. Patrick's uniform sullied.

*

Alone in her room, Maggie picks up her doll. With a blue crayon, she furiously colors Annie's face. She holds it up. "Ugly mug. Dance."

The Fortune-Teller, by Harman Burgess

2/10/2020

The fortune-teller knits as she waits for the killer. A draft seeps under the tent’s thin walls and she shivers, pulling the gaudy robes the carnies gave her tighter. A kettle is boiling in the kitchen behind the tent for a cup of tea she’ll never enjoy. She reaches under the circular table that houses a (useless) crystal ball and switches yarn from purple to dark blue- pleased with how her scarf is coming along.

Listen:

This fortune-teller is one of the few people who truly understand the nature of time. It is not—as poets suggest—a branching path with many winding options, but a stream where each second flows into the next inescapably. She can see the course of the river but cannot change it.

The kettle’s scream builds and builds, but before it reaches a fever pitch, a man comes in. His shoulder length hair is plastered against his scalp with sweat and there’s a wild staring look in his eyes. A carving knife gleams silver in his shaking hands.

“I’ve been expecting you,” said the fortune-teller. An old trade joke.

The man’s mouth contracts like he’s trying to eat the words he’s about to speak before he can say them. The fortune-teller knows what he’s going to say, knows why he doesn’t want to say it, and knows that he’s going to say it anyway. And so does he.

“Take it back!” exclaims the man, spittle flying from his mouth. “I don’t want to see it anymore.”

“I’m sorry,” she said, setting down the knitting. “I can’t. Don’t you think I’ve tried myself?”

The man starts pacing back and forth. “I can’t sleep no more. All I see is what happens. The Future. The Past. All of it. I’m going… I’m going to kill you, aren’t I?” Why did you do this to me?”

“I warned you,” she shrugged. “When you and your friends came in here last week, blind drunk, and begged me to tell you the secret. I did warn you.”

“You could have just not!”

“And so can you.”

“I’m going to be sorry about this, you know.”

“I know.”

And she holds still as he slides the knife into her neck. The blade feels cold inside; a flood of red pours out of her as he pulls back. Quiet. She notices the kettle has finished boiling, and motions for him to check on it. Awkwardly, he pats her shoulder a couple of times before escaping into the back. She doesn’t hold it against him; not really, besides, he’s set to die in a car crash before the year is out.

Then, for one glorious moment, before the river swells up and swallows her- time shatters. Its pieces falling around her in an infinite fractal of possibility. The man comes back in, holding a warm mug, to see that she’s smiling.

The Magic Laptop, by Doug Bartlett

2/10/2020

Whenever the stress at work becomes unbearable young Tom slips out his laptop, the magic one.
As soon as his fingers touch the keyboard he has entered a new world. The old one has been temporarily left behind. His stress has melted away. Some would call this therapeutic. Tom calls it a “slice of heaven”.

His mind and fingertips are now perfectly synchronized. His mind generates a thought and is magically transferred to his fingertips. They then move on to the keys of the keyboard and then his thoughts are finally displayed on the screen. However, the journey doesn’t end there. His brain receives the input from the screen which stimulates a new thought and the process continues on.

He is in charge. He creates the setting, the plot and the characters. He is in total control.

You see, this not only allows him to cope with the stress at work but somehow allows him to create wonderful, magnificent stories.

One day at work it became intolerable. However, at the same time he came up with an amazingly wonderful story, his best ever. He knew he had to get it written down quickly before he lost it forever.He went back to his cubicle. He opened up his laptop only to discover something was wrong, terribly wrong. He had forgotten to charge it up.

Tom now had no way to vent his frustrations and release his creative juices at the same time…. or did he?

Was it possible to solve his dilemma by another process? He was completely stymied.

“There was just no other way to get his thoughts down in written form,” he thought as he dropped his ink pen while loading the photocopier with a ream of paper.

The Potluck Blues, by Angela Carlton

2/10/2020

Jane hated having dinner with her boyfriend. His roast was always smothered with pepper-gravy and rare, the way he liked it. Lately, she had a hard time getting through one serving.

During their short courtship, Carl had spent his spare moments between the television and the oven. Cooking was his new kick. The nights he stayed with her, he’d rush home from K-9 Champions, where he worked as a dog trainer, and pounce on dinners.

“You’re not eating?” he’d say.

“What?”

“My roast, he swallowed, not eating a damn thing!”

“I’m not hungry.”

“Janie, it’s home-cooked. I dreamed it up for you.”

Carl was sitting on a bar-stool with his visor perched on his head. If Carl wasn’t plopped in front of the television, he was busy cluttering the kitchen. Oh, he could find one thousand ways to annoy her in the house. If he wasn’t slicing, he was dicing, whipping or blending. Sometimes, Jane wished she could shove him inside that damn oven and turn the heat to 500 degrees.

“What are you cooking now?” she asked, in a high-pitched tone, after scrubbing every counter.

“Chili…for the potluck prize at work.”

“What?”

“Money-money-money,” he sang, then,“where’s the cumin?” he snapped, like she was a collie on command.

His phone had been ringing and ringing. She could hear him discussing recipes with co-workers, but Jane wanted to relax after being on her feet at work. Still, the distractions were heavy. The more she thought about it, the tension grew. In the beginning, Carl’s energy was exciting, playful like one of the fuzzy poodles he’d trained. He was fun, flirty, but over time, he became bossy.

Now Jane was preparing her bubble, salt bath. She lingered in the warm water, and thought of everything, then nothing and welcomed silence. Her spirits were lifted when she stepped into a silky gown.

Then, tat…tat came a noise from the kitchen…tat…tat…tat. Carl was chopping vegetables for his glorious chili.

“Can you keep it down Carl?

“I need more butter! Here, taste this!” he barked, shoving a
spoon under her nose, smelling of onions.”

“Well, it’s…”

“What?” his eyes were bloodshot.

“It’s uh…”

“What?” “It’s too strong,” she sighed.

“Come on,” he snapped, like she was a pug on a leash.

“It’s just, well, not the right blend.”

Carl searched her face, “Right blend? What?” He glared at her as if she were toothless.

“Carl, we’re not the right blend. Listen, I’m sorry. I need you to leave!”

But she wasn’t sorry. It just sounded polite, the right word shoved inside an empty moment. Turning on her heel, feeling lighter, she walked down the hallway as the front door slammed. The noise reminded her he’d left a monster mess in the kitchen. Still, she felt as if she were floating, gliding, as that cool silk brushed against her with a slight tingle, that tickling of the skin, and it gave her a tiny thrill.

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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.

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