Blog Archives

The Interview, by Candace Arthuria Williams

29/10/2021

“Good morning, Candace. Thanks for coming in. I’m Marilyn Green. I’ve been HR Manager for seventeen years.”

‘Pleased to meet you, Ms. Green.’

“Your reputation precedes you. My colleagues have run out of adjectives—well-groomed, personable, articulate.”

‘That’s funny. I was thinking the same thing about you.’

“Really?....Ummm….okayyy….I know you met Kris, our Northeastern Team Leader. He found you absolutely delightful. I think ‘refreshing’ is the word he used. Love that outfit. How do you get your hair to crinkle like that? Do you do it yourself?”

‘No, I have a stylist. Did you have a chance to review my work?’

“We’ll get to that later. Tell me why you think you’d be a good fit for this company.”

‘Well, if you read my résumé you probably saw that my background is well-suited to this type of structure. Decentralization allows for more creativity and fewer layers of approval. I have my portfolio right here if you would care to see it.’

“Maybe later. You talked to Jeff. He would be your immediate supervisor. What did you think?”

‘I’m not sure what you mean. He seemed nice.’

“Oh, absolutely. He gets along with all kinds of people.”

‘I see.’

“Do you have any questions for me?”

‘Yes. I’d like to know when you plan to make a decision.’

“Oh, really soon. By the end of the week. I’ll get you in to see Joanie as soon as possible.”

‘Joanie?’

“Yes, she’s our staff secretary. We couldn’t hire anyone without a sit-down with Joanie. But be warned. She’s the toughest member of the team. She’ll grill you until you’re done. Any more questions?”

‘I don’t think so. Tell Joanie not to bother clearing her calendar. I have a pretty busy one myself. Thanks for the interview. Good luck with finding a candidate.’

“Are you saying….?”

‘That’s exactly what I’m saying. Have a good day, Marilyn.’

Hilde, by Deborah Shrimplin

29/10/2021

Kingston ferry terminal (photo: D. Shrimplin)

As Hilde walked up the gangway to board the ferry to Seattle, she thought of the events that had lead up to this moment. Ten months ago, after her daughter and son-in-law were killed by a drunk driver, Hilde became the mother to her fifteen-year-old granddaughter, Lizzy. Lizzy had defiantly rejected her counselor's advice and ran away from home.

HIlde, not satisfied with the police investigation, asked one of her friend's computer geek sons to track down Lizzy's boyfriend, Brian's address. Thinking Lizzy may be in hiding at Brian's, she timed her visit when Brian might be at work.

When Hilde knocked on Brian's apartment door, Lizzy opened it.

"Grandma! Oh, God, how did you find me?"

"Technology. I've come to take you home. Now let me in."

Lizzy stepped aside. Hilde cringed at the sight of disheveled clothes and fast food wrappers littered about the living room.
The air smelled of cat litter and cheap incense.

"You listen to me. I'm responsible for you and I won't have you living like this. I've brought you some clean clothes. Now, go get dressed. I'm taking you home."

"No, I don't want to go home. Brian loves me and wants me here. I'm gonna stay here."

"I don't care what Brian wants. You're a fool to listen to him. You're underage and I could have him arrested. I'll go to the police if you don't come with me right now. Do you want me to prosecute him? Don't believe I won't. The taxi is waiting. Get dressed."

"Brian will come for me."

"Fine. Let him come. He'll have to deal with me. Your parents would be so ashamed if they saw you here. Now, grow up and get dressed. We'll talk more when we get home."

The threat to prosecute Brian caused multiple reactions. Lizzy continued to grouse, complain, whine and rant about how unfair life was. Hilde stood her ground and let her rave on.

Realizing Hilde would not engage in an argument or back off, Lizzy grabbed the bag of clothes and went into the bedroom. When she returned, she saw Hilde holding her head.

"Grandma, are you OK?"

Hilde wanted to get Lizzy on the ferry before Brian returned home. Wincing at the pain running through her temples and piercing the back of her eyes, she said, "Just a headache. Now, let's get out of here."

On the ferry, Hilde tried to speak in a calm voice, "Lizzy, we're going to get through this. You're a smart girl and you could have a bright future. I know you're in pain and miss your parents. You have to stay level headed, independent and hopeful."

"We'll talk more at home Grandma."

Bearing up under the physical and emotional pain, Hilde closed her eyes. She prayed the doctors were wrong and she would have more than three years to live. She desperately needed those years to guide Lizzy onto the right path.

Remembering "Bizarre Baxter," by Greg Vander-Haeghen

29/10/2021

“Bizarre Baxter” Banfield was raised in Southern California by a mother who had a dual diagnosis of substance abuse and schizophrenia. During his formative years, Baxter felt painfully different than the “others” his age who seemingly lived pristine lives.

Indeed, his short life was largely a mixed bag.

On one hand, there were his mother’s outbursts. Her delirium tremens in which she would see monsters on the front lawn. A six-month hospitalization in a psychiatric facility. The ensuing broken promises and shattered dreams.

On the positive side, there were frequent excursions to cultural centers, exposing him to the Arts, in particular the more offbeat movements such as Dadaism, conceptual art and theatre of the absurd. But, his true passion in life was to write and give speeches.

1998

Baxter died of a rare bone disease when he was just sixteen, one month prior to his high school graduation.

During the eulogy, his divorced father sobbed while affectionately chuckling that Baxter was born bizarre. His mother was too choked-up to speak and deferred to Baxter’s sister, who read the speech he was going to give at his high school graduation.

Baxter’s High School Graduation Speech

To my fellow Grandiose and Delusional thinkers, District eggheads, cosmic clowns, Gandy dancers, renegade teachers, and in particular, the students who selected me because they thought I would give a bizarre speech.

And away we go…

I was raised on corn-fed carp, and been stigmatized, hypnotized, had cabbage implants for my teeth, painted the inside of the family outhouse—with what looks like a pathetic replica of Salvador Dali’s “Persistence of Memory,” was coaxed into mud-wrestling one of those three-pound New Zealand snails, tried to send smoke signals during a Level IV hurricane (I forgot to capitalize the proper nouns) and of course, my compulsions, obsessions and dreams for the world.

Aside from wishing that you will all excel in life, I must share that I have the profound compulsion to wallpaper Argentinian ice cream cones and spray Silly String on beef jerky. My obsessions include the number 5,999,999,999,999,765 (and lime green porcelain termites). I love my porcelain termites. And humanity. Although I don’t understand most of it. Or them. Or my fellow students. Or plastic shoes for that matter.

But, all in all I’m delighted to be here today (posthumously) and promised my Mom that I would seek counseling when I get to the “other side.”

What I want for the world is rather complex so I will just give you the Cliff Notes version. I just want a world where every individual who walks this Earth has the finesse of a Wal*Mart greeter and the enthusiasm of a carnival barker. That’s how real change will occur.

So, my fellow latte gulping citizens of the planet Earth, this is “Bizarre Baxter” saying, “Life is like a tube of toothpaste; that is, you never try to squeeze the most out of it till you’re near the end.”

With that said, I’ll see you somewhere out there.

Mrs. Hamilton, by Don Tassone

29/10/2021

When you’re a kid, all grown-ups are a little mysterious. When I was a kid, Mrs. Hamilton, who lived next door, was the most mysterious grown-up of all.

For starters, no one knew where she came from. One day, she just showed up. Everyone called her Mrs. Hamilton, but we never saw her husband or any children. There were rumors, though.

We always knew when Mrs. Hamilton was around because she cackled. She cackled loudly and often.

Mrs. Hamilton always made you think of Halloween. She had stringy hair, a long nose, beady eyes, greenish skin, even a wart on her chin. She was tall and thin. She wore long dresses and floppy hats.

We usually saw her at dusk, walking around her yard. Sometimes she sat on a bench under a sycamore tree in her backyard with a big black cat at her side. She never spoke to us, and we never had the courage to approach her.

“Mrs. Hamilton looks like a witch,” my sister said at dinner one night.

“Sarah!” my mother scolded.

“Well, she does,” my father murmured.

“Jack!” said my mother, biting her lip.

One Halloween, I was the last one home after trick-or-treating. I always tried to get as much candy as I could.

As I stepped onto our front porch, I heard a familiar cackle. It was louder than ever, though. I looked over at Mrs. Hamilton’s house, which strangely had been dark the whole evening.

I saw a figure rising above the roof. It looked like a woman riding a broomstick. Her robe flapped wildly behind her. She flew in ascending, widening circles, her cackling ever fainter. Then she rode across the wondrously bright full moon and into the murky darkness beyond.

I never saw Mrs. Hamilton again.

The Encore, by Jim Bartlett

29/10/2021

There’s a fire inside of me – one that wishes it could burn on and on – yet my time is ever so short. Those flames, once brightly flickering in my eyes, now glow dimly, and my final hour draws near.

No one has said as much, but it became obvious when the stream of visitors began arriving at my door this evening. One after the other they marched in a long parade, most of whom haven’t been around since last year, and each averting their eyes to avoid staring at the look of terror carved into my face.

They’re all gone now, I lie here alone. But not for long, as I know that the kind lady who’s been taking care of me will soon make her appearance. And when she does, it will mean that the hands on my clock are about to tick their last tock. Light’s out, so they say.

If only there was a little more time. Just a few more magical moments to make someone smile.

If only...

The door opens and there she stands. Our eyes meet, both of us knowing what comes next and wishing there was some other way.

She gives a wistful sigh, moves to the front of me and leans close. But a noise from behind gives her a start, and she spins around. A small white van is parked just beyond the fence, and two more visitors are making their way up the walk.

“Oh, my, you’re just in time,” she says, a note of relief in her voice.

“Trick or treat,” the two, both in costumes, say together.

“Just a minute, I’ll get the candy.”

“Wow...cool Jack-o’-Lantern,” the taller one, definitely a girl, says, pointing at me. “Did you carve him yourself?”

“Yes I did. Thank you.” She takes another one of those wistful sighs.” I was actually just getting ready to blow out the candle.”

“Oh, no,” says the smaller one – a boy, I do believe. “What will happen to him?”

“I’ll probably take it, ah, him, out to the forest for the animals.”

The two look at me, then look at each other, then back to me again. Finally, the girl takes a step forward.

“Could we have him? We didn’t get one this year at the shelter.”

The lady’s eyes widen, her face goes pale. Slowly she moves over to the edge of the porch and takes a long look at the van. She must see the same thing as I do, because she puts an open hand to her mouth.

The sign on the side says: Crimson County Child Services

When she turns back to the kids, her eyes are filled with tears.

“Yes...yes you most certainly may have Mr. Jack-o’-Lantern. And the rest of my candy bowl. Let me carry them out to your van for you.”

The two light up as if they, too, have a candle deep inside.

Well, I guess this isn’t the end of the line for me after all...

N.O.B., by Alex Blaine

29/10/2021

Legend has it that on Friday 13th of April 1640 a holy man was travelling to perform an exorcism. His coachman made haste through the storm. When the clock in the town struck eight, a sick boy sat up as if cured. It was a miracle. At the exact same time, at the edge of town, the horses reared up and in the mist there appeared a figure ... When the carriage arrived in town the holy man was nowhere to be seen. His coachman could not explain it: the inside of the carriage was burnt to a crisp; only the remains of the numbers 666 could be seen, each number scorched a deep glowing red. Some say the holy man was dragged to Hell, and on the 13th of each month, at 8 o'clock in the evening, the numbers 666 appear a choc-berry red at the edge of town ... And if it should happen to fall on a Friday, the figure of a holy man can be seen fighting a horned beast.

The Ritual, by David Walby

22/10/2021

“It is on this day that we offer our souls to Maldictus in exchange to give order to the souls of others. May our contributions be of use to our lord in his rebellion against the false gods. We seal this pact with the blood of Valonia's own and we rise!”

With the closing of this incantation, dark energy enveloped the room. The temperature dropped and the dark shadow of the God of Death could be felt all around them,

“I accept your offering and grant you my power.” Maldictus said sternly before grabbing all of the practitioners with black tendrils piercing their eyes and their hearts.

Their screams echoed off of the chamber walls, yet in the Obsidian Monastery there is no mercy and there is no remorse. Maldictus dropped them back onto the ground and left as quickly as he came. The ritual was a success. The cultists' eyes had transformed in the trademark black abyss of a necromancer and their chest bore the brand of the God of Death.

The Push Button Universe, by Greg Vander-Haeghen

22/10/2021

Sometimes things are not as they seem, including humans, non-humans and universes.

It was an unusual day, punctuated by Russian space junk, at the highly-secretive Saturn Research Facility, Think Tank and Video Game Group. Located in orbit, along the third ring of Saturn, inside a mammoth, football field length space station, which houses some of the diabolical minds of the Universe, including the frenetic souls of Alexander the Great, Blackbeard, Julius Caesar, and one-hundred of the crème de la crème video game programmers and players.

Absent from this patriarchal group, were such caring souls as Mother Teresa, Florence Nightingale and Helen Keller.

Built in a parallel universe to ours, named ironically, Mattella, Simon, an android, was given a directive by Mathena, the Goddess of the Multiverses, to enter the “Forbidden Zone,” also known as Saturn Ring Number Three.

Indeed, Simon is to be lauded for his work uncovering The Push-Button Pyramid Project by an elite group of aliens who worked with the Egyptians to build the pyramids, then use its inside chambers to house the first generation of mega video consoles that began to control our entire universe.

In essence, since circa 3,000 B.C., our universe has been one colossal video game.

Built into the video program were such recurring themes such as war, crime, pestilence, power, lust, history repeating itself, etc., and on a galactic scale, violent storms and hurling space objects.

Part and parcel to the sinister plan of the “Video Game Group,” was their plans to conqueror other universes, and convert them into video games as well. Indeed, history does attempt to repeat itself.

Fortunately for those who believe in old-fashioned ways, along came Simon, “The Luddite Crusader.”
Upon arrival at the Saturn Facility, Simon quickly “befriended” Blackbeard and boldly challenged him to a “winner-take-all” arm wrestling match, with the grand prize being complete control of all of existence. High stakes, indeed.

But first, a round of drinks was in order for every member on the space craft. And another round. And another. And another. And another. The entire crew of the ship passed out, except for Simon, and Blackbeard, who was seemingly un-phased by his drinking three quarts of tequila.

With Simon having an honorable reputation, Blackbeard allowed the un-escorted, bio-engineered android to go to the Control Room to recharge his batteries.

Surely Simon could be easily trusted. Not!

One-by-one, the crew awoke to the sound of a bellowing Blackbeard, who was ranting, ironically, about an android who plundered all of their battery packs, thus disabling the entire video game network in the universe.

Suddenly, humans and aliens alike, began to smile again, and come alive, for they were finally free from the tyranny of the Galactic Wii Machine.

Someone Else to Do the Dirty Work, by John M. Carlson

22/10/2021

“I’m going to have to be more careful with my short story submissions,” James said at breakfast. “My usual publication announced that they’ll be executing writers who have a regular problem with following the writer guidelines.”

“Are you serious?” Lucille, his wife, said.

“Yes. A publication ran a flash fiction story, which was about a firing squad executing writers who didn’t follow the submission guidelines. Editors all around the world liked the story—and some decided to find a way of making it happen in real life. Although the publications I write for have opted to use hit men—they say a hit man is a more practical solution than a firing squad.” James sighed. “Who knew editors hated writers so much?”

Lucille had been married to a writer for ten years. Ten long, unhappy years. She could easily imagine that an editor would get aggravated enough to think about executing some writers. The only surprise was that it hadn’t happened sooner.

“Although if enough writers are executed there will be less competition for selling stories!” James said cheerfully. He refilled his coffee mug (it was a large “writers are fueled by coffee” size mug). Then, he headed for his study, where he spent much of his time literally plotting and scheming.

Lucille sat, sipping coffee. Suddenly, an idea hit. She now had a way to getting rid of James—with someone else doing the dirty work. She could submit a bunch of stories under his name. They’d blatantly break the rules. Too many submissions for the month. Stories that were too long. Stories that weren’t formatted properly.

And then James would be executed. No one would be surprised—he was always breaking the rules. Just last week, he’d said: “Yes, the story was a thousand words too long—but those words were too important to cut! It’s better to be ‘too long’ than lose important meaning!”

Lucille smiled for the first time in a long time. She reached for her laptop computer.

Different Page, by Daniel Aceituna

22/10/2021

Paul climbed out of the CM1.2 and looked around. It was the exact wooded area he had aimed for, a few blocks from the lab, twenty-four hours in the past. He smiled and then turned pale when the CM1.2 slowly dematerialized. So Paul walked back to the laboratory, where his design team would be finishing the CM a day before its trial run. His team was shocked to see him walk in. His other self was even more surprised.
They assumed they knew what went wrong, but a week later, the same results. Now there were three Pauls.
“Okay, people we gotta figure this out. We can’t be producing more copies of me. It’s driving my wife crazy.”
“Why are these machines disappearing?” Tom, the hardware engineer, said. “I say we start there.”
“By the way, where’s the software contractor?” Paul number three said.
“Fred has been visiting a sick relative the last three weeks,” Tom said.
“Get him on the phone,” Paul number one said.
“Fred? We’ve got a problem. Two times the CM has traveled back a day. Each time after I exit, it disappears.”
“Yeah. So?”
“Do you realize there are three of me now!”
“That’s what it’s supposed to do.”
“What?”
“Well, you guys hired me to program a clone machine, right?”

Feeney’s News, by David Milner

22/10/2021

Seen him hanging around the kebab shop, or the jerk chicken. It was skateboards, outsized headphones, fast food, easy laughter, full of life to come. Didn’t know the kid.

Seven floors up from ground level, Feeney sits, steaming mug of tea, as usual, at the small table by his window. He is watching the night roll in, or the sky relinquish its light, take your pick. He feels the cold, more inside than out, these days; but know this – the heating won’t be going on until the stroke of 7pm. Below him, the reassuring twinkle of light, emanating from vehicles, streetlamps, retail outlets. The pulse of the city running through him.

Didn’t know the kid. Until he was a dead cover star. Across the print media. Local, evening, national tabloid, Feeney had bought them all. Bought them all; the least he could do. Jared. A budding architect, enthusiastic chess player, the papers had it. Pupil at the local Academy. Jared. Stabbed in the neck. Matter of metres from his doorstep. 15 years of age. Feeney couldn’t bring himself to throw the newspapers away. Kept them about him. Had to hide them all when the police called (yikes!). Door to door, in search of answers, getting only the neighbourhood omerta. What do they expect? A fair-haired Inspector and a female Sergeant. And she asks if Feeney was working… was working, she came out and asked this to his face? Wouldn’t take a cup of tea or coffee, thank you. The pair of them got nothing out of Feeney.

Vigil at eight o’clock. Candles will burn. Someone will sing. Soft and low, vibrato. Feeney won’t attend. Too much sorrow on show. He doesn’t know what to do with the emotion. The monotony of a family in turmoil. Tears you can only turn away from. Words you can’t find. A child killed. Feeney, feeling older by the minute. Useless. Couldn’t bring himself to throw the papers away. Needed the connection. Before it becomes too late.

It’s nearly eight, and the mourners are milling. So, Feeney gathers the Chinese-style lanterns he has made from the newspapers he has kept and takes them into the night air of his balcony. More than a dozen of these – well, Feeney knows they are lanterns! He’s opened a bottle of Jameson’s whiskey. Has a swig. Lights the first lantern, which sort of staggers to the ground in a burst of flame. The second burns in his fingers. But the third…. takes flight…. as does the next and…

And just about everyone knows the identity of the real perpetrator. The person responsible for Jared’s murder. Only a brave fool would speak this name. The female detective left her contact details, so she did – should anything come to mind?

For luck or something similar, Feeney floats his lanterns in the dark.

Market, by Michael Roberts

15/10/2021

Even though they’d known each other for almost a year, this was their official First Date.
It was still summer enough that the sun was still over an hour from setting, even though they’d already had dinner and drinks and were making their way through the market district to where the car was parked, playing a game as they went.
Ruth looked up at an apartment window above the Butcher’s, half-obscured by a lace curtain and filled by old Royal Doulton figurines.
“How would you put that apartment in a story?”Ruth asked.
Hugo looked up at the window for a second, considered it, then looked back at her.
“Guy goes by, sees one of those figurines. He’s a bit odd, but has an eidetic memory…That’s means he..”
“I know what an eidetic memory is, thank you,” Ruth said, smiling.
“Sorry…Anyway, he remembers reading about a figurine just like that one,” he said, pointing to the one third from the left. “He remembers that it was very rare and worth a mint….So, he starts thinking about how to get it…Pull a con on the woman? Rob her? Befriend her and then steal it?”
“Wouldn’t that be the con?”
“Maybe,” he said, “ That’s a good point…Anyway, the wheels start turning in his head.”
“Ok…..What about the Jamaican place?” Ruth said, pointing to the dark storefront of “Irie Groceries.”
“Gramma’s making and selling patties with a teenth of crystal in them….You just gotta ask for the ‘Authentic Old Style Kingston Patty’.”
“ Wow, you have a cynical view of things,you know?”
He shook his head.
“The funny thing is I don’t, I just like to imagine the ways that you can generate a mystery, I guess.”
“You write this stuff down?”
“Some,” he said, “Not enough, I guess…Can’t write everything I think of.”
“Ever going to do anything serious with it?”
“The writing?”
He shrugged.
“Probably,” he said,”I mean, I should….right?”
“Yeah, right.”
“ What about you?”
“I dunno,” Ruth said, “ you never know…I might write something cool and get it published or I might just become that boring suburban housewife who writes for an hour while the dishwasher or dryer’s doing its thing.”
“That seems so sad, though.”
“I dunno,” Ruth said, “ there’s kind of a charm to that lifestyle…A certain stereotypical quality to it.”
“Maybe write racy Harlequin Romances or something.”
“Something for other bored housewives to read in between doing the dishes and masturbating.”

The car made a muffled chookchook sound as it unlocked.
Hugo opened her door.
“ Such manners,” Ruth said.
As she went to get into the car, her hand brushed Hugo’s and she paused and looked at him.
Suddenly she was curious what his mouth would feel like against hers.
All she had to do was lean across over the window and kiss him and it’d be done.
Was that too much?, she thought, too ‘ready to move’?
She decided that it wasn’t.

Keep On Keepin' On, by Doug Bartlett

15/10/2021

RRRiiinnnnnngggggggg !!!!!!!!! RRRRRRiiiinnnnnnggggggggg !!!!!!! Bill groggily woke up and turned off his alarm.

“Ah,” he thought, “ Today was Friday, his favorite day of the week. The day his story which he had so intensely labored over would be posted on FFF. “

He didn’t have time to see it now as he had a doctor’s appointment. He turned on the radio as he got dressed. The newscast stated his governor was not recalled as Bill had hoped for.

“Oh well, “ He thought, “ at least I can look forward to my story coming out. “

He was given bad news at the doctor’s office.

“ Your tests came back positive and while this probably isn’t a death sentence, your life will dramatically change.”
This news knocked him down but not out.

“ At least I can look forward to my story coming out, “ he thought.

He left the doctor’s office to get in his brand new car only to discover someone had backed into it, caving in the frontend and crunching the left front fender.

Bill started to sink into a depression and then remembered his story, his precious story.

He thought, “ At least I can look forward to my story coming out. “

Also, several of his friends had gotten accustomed to seeing his stories posted on Fridays and would be anxiously waiting.

He hurried home and was so anxious to get there he almost didn’t hear the siren or see the flashing red light.

“ What’s the problem, officer? “

“ You were doing 55 mph in a 35 mph zone. “

In Bill’s mind the officer couldn’t write the ticket fast enough.

“ At least I have my story to look forward to,” he thought, “ but if one more thing happens to me I don’t know what I might do.”

He screeches into his driveway and shoves the transmission into “ park “. He quickly exits the car and makes a beeline to the front door. He puts his key in the front door lock but it doesn’t work. He tries the other keys in his pocket and gets the same result. He then notices a small note attached to the door . It was left by his wife and stated he was no longer welcomed here.

His entire life was crashing down and shattering into what felt like a million pieces. He was contemplating on how to end it all.

He then remembered his story was coming out and by now he would have several comments to the story. He loved reading the comments as much as writing the story.

He went back to his car and pulled up FFF on his phone. He searched frantically for his story and was shocked that it was nowhere in sight. It then dawned on Bill that for the very first time his story wasn’t going to be there for it had been rejected.

Don’t feel too sorry for Bill. You see, he persevered and in a few months would win the Christmas contest that FFF puts on every year.

Suzy Q, by Angela Carlton

15/10/2021

I used to call you Suzy Q. You with your silky brown hair and eyes to match. We were silly teens with endless energy, those colorful dreams. Man, could we dream? Barefoot at the pool or riding around with the sunroof back and the radio at full volume. We were fearless, happy, and bold, living, with our eyes open wide. No regrets.

Then I moved away. Time passed us by, didn’t it? There were some disagreements over the years quite a few tears. We grew apart. November turned into June and June turned into December. The snow fell hard, fast and everything iced over.

But Spring always comes, doesn’t it?
I’ll roll the sunroof back and switch on the radio. There are days, when “Brown Eyed Girl,” will play, and I see you. I can see you standing beneath the Georgia Moon with the cherry balm, cut-off shorts, those braids in your hair.
I smile.

For, in that moment, we are twenty again, Suzy Q.
And we are free.

Don't Mind Us, by Daniel Aceituna

15/10/2021

I have always assumed I was the only person with the telepathic ability to read people’s emotions. I decided a long time ago to use this skill for good, so I became a marriage counselor.
“Do you feel safe at home, Mrs. Smith?” I mentally probed her.
She replied “sure” while avoiding eye contact by looking around my office. I sensed fear building up in her mind.
“Why do you ask if she feels safe?” Her husband said, in a raised voice.
I probed her husband and found anger mixed with some fear.
“It’s something I ask during these sessions,” I said, as I looked at her. I didn’t see signs of abuse on her face and arms. Perhaps she was hiding some bruises elsewhere on her body.
“How about you, Mr. Smith?” I said. “Do you feel safe at home?”
He looked at her.
“Be honest, I’m only trying to help.”
“Fine,” he said, “I feel safer at home than I do here.”
I sensed his anger rising along with her increasing fear. They were definitely hiding an abusive relationship.
“So why don’t you feel safe in my office?” I said.
He stood up. “Let’s go honey before I punch this peeping Tom in the nose.”
“Excuse me?” I decided to address it head-on. “Mr. Smith, if your wife feels she’s not safe, you should face up to your anger, for her sake.”
They both looked puzzled.
“What are talking about? I’ve never hit her once in my life.”
“I never said ‘hit’, but you do seem to be an angry person, and she does seem to be scared.”
“That’s because of you.” He said.
“Huh?”
“You’re not the only person who can probe minds, and we don’t like you probing ours. You’re pissing me off and scaring my wife.”
She nodded in agreement.

The Presentation, by Jim Bartlett

8/10/2021

His presentation complete, Montee risks a look up from the lectern, letting his gaze drift to the far side of cavernous Honor’s Room. There the commissioners, a distinguished group comprised of the world’s most acclaimed scientists and political leaders, sit quietly behind a massive stone table that stretches across the rear podium. The air hangs heavy as he waits, his legs seemingly ready to give. Finally, after a moment too long, the Chair takes a deep sigh and rises.

“It would seem that the lengthy time you’ve invested in your research, intimately intermingling with these creatures, no less”—he pauses, thumbing through the archaic stack of papers and images—“has concluded with a rather extensive, and I must say, impressive report. Correct me if I am wrong, but my readings do not provide a favorable impression of this species. They are aggressive. Territorial. Destructive. Have little or no regard for their own. And, with no natural predator, their population has outgrown their food and water resources, resulting in one herd attacking another--”

“That’s to be expected, Commissioner Zye,” interrupts a panelist two seats over. “Remember, these are simple creatures with limited adaptation skills.”

Commissioner Zye nods. ”Noted. I think my fear is that their proclivity for violence will not stay self-contained. Their nature is one of using up the resources of a region, then simply moving on. This report details some of their early attempts at migration beyond their own realm, so we must weigh the possibility that one day they might stretch their hunting grounds in our direction...”

The panelist on the far right jumps up. “Unacceptable! These creatures are horrid and vile. They pose a great threat. I move to have them eradicated immediately.”

“Hear, hear,” call out a good number of the group in unison.

“But, wait...wait...” Montee raises his hand. “Did you not listen to the Sound-maker? Feel its impact? See how this changes everything?”

“Sound-maker?”

“Yes... the little box included with my report.”

“Well, no...we thought the report brought forth enough of their nature. No need to—“

“Never mind,” Montee interrupts with a huff. “Let me show you.”

Feeling the weight of the commission’s eyes upon him, he shifts a stack of his papers, revealing a small device. A set of wires dangle from it leading down to large boxes that sit to either side of him. With a smile, he swipes the device’s glass cover and the grim hall suddenly fills with magical sounds.

There’s a collective gasp and several of the commissioners spring to their feet.

“What...what is that?”

“It’s called music.”

“And these creatures make this, uh, music?”

“Yes,” he says, swiping the glass to turn it off. “As repulsive as these creatures may be, they bring hope in their art. And music. Throughout their Earth they play it in so many different forms, yet each speaks to the heart, as if it were a universal language.”

“We’d love to hear more,” says the Chair.

“Of course. Please...listen to the music.”

I Never Knew, by Daniel Aceituna

8/10/2021

“I wish to return this Mindlink unit.”
“Why? Is it defective?”
“Yes. It has destroyed my relationship with my dog.”
“How’s that?”
“Your ad said that I can become of one mind with my little Fifi, by linking our brains together. Instead, it has done the opposite.”
“Madam, be more specific.”
The woman straightened out her mink shawl. “My Fifi used to obey me and be my faithful companion because she loved me. But after using this device, she is now solely motivated by a continuous selfish desire to get treats.”
“Madam, are you sure that Fifi was not like that all along, and the Mindlink has simply revealed that to you?”
“I’ll never believe that. Can I get a refund or not?”
The customer service rep examined the Mindlink cables and probes. Part of the cable had teeth marks on it.
“When did you buy this?”
“Last year. But I didn’t open it until a week ago.”
“I’m sorry, I can’t give you a refund.”
“That’s too bad,” the woman said. “I have plenty of friends that can easily afford your products.” She then cleared her throat.
“I see,” the rep said, glancing at her large diamond ring. “Perhaps, I can offer you an exchange.”
“I said I don’t want anything to do with Fifi anymore. She’s not the same.”
“No, I meant, for something better. I’ll be right back.” The rep went into a back room and emerged a minute later. “I’ll exchange it for this human version. It was previously returned, but still works perfectly.”
“Can I use it with my husband?”
“Of course.”
“Very well, at least I know he still loves me.”

Margot, by David Milner

8/10/2021

We find Margot this late September morning in the backroom of the charity shop, sifting through a pile of buttons at a large wooden table. It’s been said that were it to rain buttons, Margot would be able to pick out the right one for her needs. Margot sewed buttons like it was the Lord’s work. Oh, it was good, rocking gently back to normal business. The sun shining softly in its sky. Soon her daughter Maxine will phone. Hearing voices slightly raised in the main part of the shop, Margot pauses a moment, should it be anything worth troubling herself with.

Peter, half-dressed in boxer shorts and t-shirt, is standing at his bedroom window, his female tabby by his side on the windowsill, both transfixed, and a little terrified, by the sheer size of the Grey Heron regally perched on the garden fence.

“He named his tabby cat Tabitha.” Margot is telling her daughter.

“What’s that supposed to mean, Mum?”

“If I’m wait for Peter to ask, I’ll be ninety before we marry!”

“Does he know?”

“What do you think?” Margot laughed heartily.

Her father used to sing a song, he’d made up himself, that Margot had come into this world during a-once-in-a-lifetime tropical storm. All BS and rum-fuelled romance, what you gonna do? for a story she had believed, happily so, through many a year.

Margot hears heavy footfalls approaching and, looking up from the table, she sees the tall figure of Alison beckoning her from the doorway…

“Oh, Margot, Margot,” Alison flutters, “you must come and see this…”

The sixty something, short-haired lady at the counter is delicately tapping the screen of her phone. The previous week she had purchased a 1000-piece jigsaw of His Holiness Pope Francis. Unfortunately, several pieces were missing.

On the screen of the Nokia was a photograph of the jigsaw depicting Pope Francis in his white cassock and zucchetto. He is amongst his people; relaxed, arm raised, a lovely smile on his face, and a gaping hole of missing jigsaw pieces where his crotch should have been.

A joyous – some would say innocent – laughter filled the sun-lit charity shop.

During the summer his neighbours had fitted a pond in their garden. This explains the scary Heron on the shared fence. Peter is seated on a park bench. He watches Margot approaching.

In her shabbily chic dark velvet hat, faded denim jacket, and the purple pleated culottes tucked into her weather-beaten cowboy boots, all Margot needed was an ammunition belt and an old carbine… Arriba la Revolución!

“She’ll do” Peter mused. When he should have been thinking, “Here’s my girl.”

The Great Indoors, by Mandy Meikle

8/10/2021

Microbes are not smart. Microbes do not plot and plan, wheel and deal, they simply do what they must to survive. Through centuries of what was called 'progress', some humans did their best to control nature but they could not dominate the microbial domain. Microbes were everywhere; they were myriad. Eventually, these humans became hermetically sealed in their sterile apartments, connected to various places by vacuum tube, and eventually they forgot about death and disease. These digital humans existed logged into their world of carefully balanced work, rest and play, with drones delivering their needs and wants so long as they could pay for it. Drugs in the scrubbed air and the filtered water meant that people felt great. Monitored 24/7 but safe from nature—safe and content in the great indoors.

Life outside sounded like hell to digital humans—all that back-breaking work to provide just the basics and all that uncertainty. Digital humans had no clue where anything came from, not the food they ate, the clothes they wore nor the ideas they held as their own. Meanwhile, over the decades, life on the outside improved. Slowly. Sustainably. Free from the delusion of perpetual growth-based economics.

Although few of them realised it, the digital humans were still totally reliant on nature: the corn and bean basis of their false-food diet, the reusable bio-plastic trays of their heat-and-eat 'food', the vibrant fabrics of their clothes. An engineer might occasionally fix a self-driving tractor but he had no idea what it was doing driving up and down in the dirt, putting things into or taking things out of the ground. All production was automated now—even reproduction.

As resource limits were inevitably reached, the digital cities faltered and chaos ensued within, while to the outside world they remained what they had always been: impenetrable fortresses—monolith on the outside and monoculture within. The digital humans had to remain inside, despite services failing, because they could never go outside again. Their immune systems, along with everything else, had been provided for them.

The neo-indigenous populations—the germ-laden 'outsiders'—had not tried to dominate nature, they had worked with it. They understood the concept of 'enough', the difference between wants and needs. The hubris of civilisation had run its course. Death was just the other end of life once more. Death was not bad, it just was.

It was bound to happen one day, the only question was who would be around to see it. When the sun emitted the most massive coronal mass ejection in its history—one which would have decimated all electrical devices and destroyed the digital cities anyway—humanity carried on unchanged. If the distant lights of the cities had not gone out long ago, they would have gone out on this night. This night of the most spectacular auroras, seen from pole to equator, as a tsunami of charged particles washed over a small blue planet.

My Attempt to Marry America, by Greg Vander-Haeghen

8/10/2021

Living at Venice Beach and barely scraping by, all I could think about was my aging parents, their reverse mortgage, my uncertain future, and my clever scheme to marry America.
During our morning brunch, I vividly remember how Jennifer Benson, my attorney cried out, “Patriotic, yes. Broke, yes. Go ahead—give it a try!”

In the Santa Monica courthouse, she stood beside me as I asked the Court for the right to marry America, citing my unrelenting love for everything from sea to shining sea.

The Judge said, “All marriage proposals considered must include a prenup.” It took Benson and fifteen of her attorneys (working daily on contingency) six drafts and three years to complete the damn thing—the exact same number it took to get the United States Constitution right, I gather.

During the contentious six-month legal arm-wrestling match, the judge had a coronary event and died suddenly in the courtroom. His successor was ready to go on vacation and approved the prenup in less than three hours.

We wed beneath the Liberty Bell and honeymooned on one of her protectorates where she wore her red, white and blue bikini every day.

Driving School, by Candace Arthuria Williams

1/10/2021

“Gimme the keys, Dad.”

‘No, you don’t have your license yet.’

Jimmy staggered and swerved the half block to the parking lot. He unlocked the doors, then collapsed onto the faux velvet seat in the back on the driver’s side. Selena sighed and took the wheel. Nervously, she shifted from park to drive and transferred her size 5 to the accelerator.

“I think I should call Mom.”

‘No! I’ll never hear the end of it.’ At least he was still coherent.

“But I’m not that good a driver, Dad.”

‘Just take it slow and you’ll be fine.’

It was dark and scary, but there weren’t many cars on the road. The ones that were whizzed by on a frenzied mission to go nowhere sooner. Selena was a wreck. Then suddenly, a thud.

“What was that, Dad? I think I hit something.”

‘No you didn’t. It was just a road bump.’

“But Dad….”

‘I said, no you didn’t. Now hurry up and drive. It’s getting late.’

About a block from the house, he ordered his daughter to slide onto the passenger seat. Jimmy got out of the back and took the wheel. Selena cried the rest of the way.

“Dad, we need to go back and check. I know I hit something.”

‘No you didn’t! Now put your arm around my waist and don’t say anything to upset your mother. You know how she gets whenever I take you out for a drive.'

Don't Mind Me, by Daniel Aceituna

1/10/2021

As a multilingual psychic interpreter for the US government, my job is to quietly sit in on meetings involving a foreign diplomat, read his or her mind, and assess their true reactions to what is being discussed.
On a cold day in December, while attending a meeting between the US ambassador and his Russian counterpart, I noticed another person sitting in the room. Her long blond hair and green eyes combined with her stealth figure instantly caught my interest. I couldn’t help but think about having dinner with her and then some.
“Keep your dirty thoughts to yourself,” a voice in my head said in Russian.
Startled, I looked around and resumed looking at her. She was now frowning.
“Did you think that?” I thought.
She tighten her jaw and avoided eye contact.
Her reaction aroused me, so I couldn't help but think about her further.
She crossed her arms and legs and glanced in my direction. “Now you’ve gone too far. Knock it off.”
“That was you.” I thought, sitting up in my chair. “I guess we Americans are not the only ones eavesdropping on people’s thoughts.”
“Of course not, who do you think started the whole psychic abilities research? We were doing this back in the seventies when you were going in your diapers.”
“Hey, let’s not be offensive.”
“You are the one being offensive, with your dirty thoughts. What kind of a woman do you think I am?”
“I don’t know. But I can find out during dinner.”
“Ha! As if I would go to dinner with a stupid, childish, sex-crazed capitalist.”
“Admit it, you would love to get together with me.”
I could sense the anger growing in her mind.
The two diplomats stood up and shook hands.
In the debriefing room, the US ambassador asked me, “So what was his reaction to our arms proposal?”
I froze, realizing that I had missed out on most of the meeting.
“Ah,” I tried to think fast.“Actually, it was hard to assess his thoughts.”
“What do you mean?”
“His mind kept going to that woman in the room,” I said, feeling smart for coming up with that one, “I think he is sexually involved with her.”
The ambassador frowned, “Well, I’m not surprised. That’s his wife."

At the BMV, by Don Tassone

1/10/2021

“Next,” said a middle-aged man sitting behind the counter at the Bureau of Motor Vehicles.

His voice was robotic. He didn’t look up. He was staring at a computer screen. His eyes looked dead.

I understood. The BMV was probably my least favorite place in the world. I never imagined renewing my driver’s license would be the highlight of my day.

I wondered if I could still pass the vision test. I wondered if this would be my last driver’s license.

The line inched forward. The linoleum floor was wet from people tracking in snow. As I stepped forward, I slipped and fell down hard, landing on my back. My head hit the floor, and I nearly passed out.

Those near me in line backed away. Maybe they were afraid of losing their places by helping me. Then, looking up, I saw the man who had been sitting behind the counter. He was now kneeling beside me.

“Are you okay, sir?” he said.

I moaned. I couldn’t speak.

“Someone call 911,” the man shouted.

He took off his sweater and balled it up. Then he gently lifted my head and slipped his sweater under it. It felt like a pillow.

I looked into his face. I saw concern in his eyes. It was the closest I had been to anyone, face to face, in years. I’d nearly forgotten what it was like to look into someone’s eyes.

“I’ll stay right here until help arrives,” he said, patting my shoulder.

I noticed movement. People in line were moving forward around me. As they passed, they looked down at me with curious eyes.

When the EMTs got there, they checked me out, then lifted me onto a stretcher. The man from behind the counter helped them lift me. Then he picked up his sweater, stretched it out and carefully laid it on top of the blanket over me.

“Be well, sir,” he said as they rolled me out.

On the way to the hospital, I wondered if the man had gone back to work. I wondered if his eyes had changed. I wondered if mine had changed.

Routine Question, by John M. Carlson

1/10/2021

“The easiest thing is to leave the body where the murder takes place,” Greg said. He gave Jeff a hard stare. Suddenly, he wondered how many other times they’d discussed where to leave a dead body. It was, after all, a routine question that always came up when they were writing one of their mystery novels.

“I know.” Jeff sighed. “But Greg? I’d like something more creative.”

Greg wasn’t surprised that Jeff wanted “something more creative.” They’d been friends since college. More than thirty years now. Jeff had always been imaginative. Too imaginative sometimes. Greg, on the other hand, was more practical. Their differences had made the mystery novels they wrote stronger than they’d have been otherwise. But...there was no denying that their differences often made the process of writing those novels difficult.

“We’ve come up with so many interesting places to put bodies in our books,” Jeff said. “Like the time we had them find the body sitting on the lap of an inflatable Santa Claus.”

“You know,” Greg said slowly, “I’ve always wanted to use some of the ‘classic’ spots. How about using a home library?”

“I always liked books that had the body in the library.” Jeff said. Then, he sighed. “But who the hell has a library anymore? It would be more realistic to have the body in a TV room. Or I guess they’re called home theaters now. A library isn’t practical.”

“What? You’re being practical for a change? You’ve gone out of your way to use some obscure poison in a book. Leaving me with the problem of figuring out some way of making that obscure poison seem believable!”

“Enjoy this moment!” Jeff laughed. “It may never happen again!”

Jeff’s cell phone rang. He answered, talked a minute, and then hung up. “That was our agent’s office. Our publishing contract won’t be renewed. Thanks to Eric.”

It was quiet a moment. They thought about Eric, who was an editor at their publisher. He had been the most difficult editor they’d ever dealt with.

“Well, we knew this was probably coming,” Greg said. “Short of a miracle.”

“Yes. But you hope for the miracle. Oh, well. Back to our plans. Eric thinks our books are unrealistic? Well, little does he know, but we’ve spent the afternoon planning to murder him in real life—and the murder will be just like one in a mystery novel!”

The Loop in the River, by Isabel Evans

1/10/2021

It is an unpromising suggestion; to leave the path and cross the rubbish strewn rough grass to the wreck of the old building – rusty wire fencing, old tissues, old beer cans, old bottles, old condoms.

I pick my way slowly, trailing his enthusiasm.

“Look!” he says “Look!!” and points through the wire at the ground. “Look!” His green wool hat is nearly coming off in the excitement and the bitter cold.

There on the floor he’s pointing to…

No, they’re not turds. They are owl pellets: huge, black, shiny, curvaceous, full of the tiny bones of rodents.

“The barn owls roost in here!”
And suddenly I’m angry.

We’ve seen gulls, and sparrows, of course. Swans, mallard, geese. Chaffinches, redpoll, fieldfare, redwing, oystercatchers, mergansers, golden eye. A kestrel hanging in the air, hunting. We’ve seen island snowdrops, and springing buds. Walkers.

A small paradise of rough ground, water, and the widest sky my heart can hold. A wide sky so close to the town, a precious link to the wild. And now – the evidence of barn owls.

There’s a plan to build a road, a new bridge over the river. Across all this.

Where will the barn owls roost? Where will the kestrel hunt? Where will we walk, under a huge sky?

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