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Mr Blessed and the Absent School Shoes, by Fliss Zakaszewska

28/10/2022

Miss Davis (PE) rolled her eyes as Mr Blessed strutted towards a hapless Year 7, whose school shirt was hanging out of his trousers. She heard a lot of ‘tutting’ as he pontificated on tidiness needed when wearing school uniforms. Turning to Mr Trimble, (Biology), she shook her head. “It’s bad enough when the kids can’t stand a teacher, but when even the teachers… you know.”

Trimble sighed and nodded and the two walked out to stroll in the fresh air. It was called ‘morning playground patrol’. “He almost has apoplexy when he sees a kid wearing trainers at school.”

It was her turn to nod as they walked on. They did their accustomed tour of the outside patrol, timing it to walk back a few minutes before the bell rang.

“Oh Lord,” she said, “he’s cornered Harry Grant. He’s got trainers on.”

The 14-year-old stood, hands in pockets, a look of perfect indifference, a look he’d mastered after many a run-in with Mr Blessed.

“…trainers, Grant, trainers are not school shoes. They are nasty, sweaty, unwholesome footwear, fit only to be worn during physical education or a form of sports and not fit to be worn around the school all day…!” He paused for effect, but Harry rolled his eyes.

He took breath, ready for the next verbal assault. “I have a jolly good mind to call your mother. What do you have to say about that?”

The boy shrugged as Davis and Trimble looked on with a smile. “You can if you want, sir, but she’s up north on a business trip. Won’t answer her phone. You can call the au pair if you like. His name’s Carlos. Don’t speak no English, though.” He lied. Carlos spoke perfect English.

Red-faced, Blessed harrumphed like an exasperated horse, drew breath and launched into full flow. “You have been chastised for wearing that filthy footwear countless times. You have been told to get your shoes ready the night before.” The teacher clenched his fists. “I am exasperated beyond belief at your inability to follow simple rules and organise your school uniform in better order, boy. I have reprimanded you time and time again, so tell me, WHERE… ARE… YOUR… TRAINERS?’

Harry looked up and smiled. “On my feet, sir.” With that, the bell rang, and the boy turned and walked towards his classroom.

Davis and Trimble turned sharply and walked away. The teachers’ common room was a strange place that day. The mention of ‘shoes’ caused the incumbents to cough or sneeze loudly and the deputy head to walk out, holding her stomach.

Many years later, Harry remembered that, strangely, the number of times he was hauled up for misdemeanours lessened drastically for a few weeks and more than one teacher quietly asked, “Where are your trainers, Grant?” before walking away with a smile.

Needed Help, by John M. Carlson

28/10/2022

“I was OK. Or so I thought,” Susan said. “Then...”

“What happened next?” Dr. Connor, her psychologist, asked.

“Well, I went to a Halloween party. Everyone was wearing a costume, of course. The usual—ghosts, witches, and movie characters. But one man was dressed in just a suit. I thought it was odd.”

“It is odd that someone wouldn’t wear a costume to a Halloween party.”

“Well, as is turned out, it was a costume. He’d decided to come as a politician running for election. I heard later he’d said it was the scariest thing he could think of! But at that moment—well, it triggered me! Elections are so awful now!”

“They certainly are.”

“I cracked. I went berserk. All I really remember is tossing a jack-o’-lantern at him. It was lit. Fortunately, I missed, but it made a mess! And it started a small fire. I knew at that point I needed help!”

“Many people are having problems with this election. You aren’t alone. But we can work through these issues.”

He thought for a moment of how good the election had been for his practice. The increased case load was why he’d recently been able to buy a Mercedes, instead of a Toyota. Soon, he thought happily, he’d be able to afford a luxury January cruise in the Caribbean.

Halloween Night, by Phyllis Souza

28/10/2022

As if their capes were bats' wings, witches, wearing black pointy hats, cackle. They propel through the air on broomsticks.

A Goblin Cat prowls the streets looking for a bad little girl.

Six-year-old Susie stomps. "I want to trick or treat."

"No. Danger lurks on Halloween night." Her mother warns.

"You're a liar. I want to go." Susie crosses her arms and pooches out her lower lip. "I want to go." She throws herself on the floor. With her arms flaying, she kicks, "I want to go. I want to go."

"Stop that." Her mother reaches down and pulls Susie up. “Go to your room."

"Candy. I want it. I want it. I want it." Susie runs to her room. She glances back at her mother. "I hate you," she yells.

Ten minutes later, Susie is sitting on top of her bed. A light flicker in her brain. She gets up, tiptoes, and peeks out the door. The coast is clear.

Out on a dark street, Susie is searching for candy.

The Goblin cat is searching for a bad little girl.

He finds Susie. And eats his Halloween treat.

Like, by Rani Jayakumar

21/10/2022

It was a normal day, scrolling through insta and liking wayy too many posts. I hadn't posted anything in ages, like 2 days, and my own popularity was plummeting. I needed to do something cool, but every idea I had was already out there. I went back to stalking my fave celeb, Rihanna, for obvious reasons. She's gorgeous, and her hair ... I can't even. I'd DM'd her before (heart-emoji ILY heart emoji), but no response. But she's my OTP, so I had to get to her. Fortunately, the service offered "Drop-ins" on the DL, for a fee. So I posted a storm with sponsored content for six months, raking it in. They offered me 15 minutes, and today's the day. There she is, singing in the bathroom, and a second later, I pop in her story. TBH, her hair is not that great right now. But it's her. She screams until the paperwork they sent pings in. Then she sweet-smiles me a hello, and I almost faint. A maid brings matching vodka-spiked pumpkin spice lattes and she lets me touch her eyelashes. We tour her home, and I almost cry. At the last minute, I reach for her cheek and kiss it, which is technically against the rules. When I'm back, the story hits my highest count ever. Best of all, the clump of hair I yanked out while I was kissing her is going in my collection.

Trouble in the Archives, by Janice Siderius

21/10/2022

Margaret, an adjunct professor researching her dissertation on Hammurabi's building projects, waited for the archive librarian to deliver a set of documents. When she looked around the room, she realized she was not alone. At the other table, a young man was studying a series of cuneiform tablets and fragments. She was tempted to speak to him, but just then her materials arrived.
Time flew by. Before Margaret realized it, the archive librarian announced that it was time to close. The young man stood up, put on his coat, and walked out. Suddenly the archive librarian picked up the phone and spoke in a panicked voice. After she hung up, she rushed toward the door.

“STOP!” she yelled.

The next thing Margaret knew, a security guard came into the room. The librarian and the security guard examined the table where the young man had been sitting. She could overhear the word “stolen”. A second security guard rushed in,

“We found him in the men’s room. He still had the items on him.”

The trial began two months later; Margaret was called as a witness. The judge asked her what she had seen that day. Margaret didn’t feel she had much to add but she was able to identify the young man who had been sitting near her in the archive research room. When the young man took the stand in his defense, he told the judge that he was a graduate student. He did not have sufficient money to pay his fees. He had been recruited by an art dealer to steal an artifact for a client who was a collector of ancient Babylonian items. The temptation was too great to resist; he agreed to steal the small clay tablets.

The judge sentenced the student to three months community service and a fine of five hundred dollars. Margaret felt the judge had been too lenient. In her mind, stealing and selling antiquities was the same as stealing a nation’s history and culture. Was a small fine and community service enough punishment? And what about the art dealer? Was he going to be charged?

As she filed out of the courtroom, she noticed a bedraggled woman sitting on a bench. The woman had a young baby on her lap and a diaper bag at her feet. Just at that moment, the guilty young grad student came out of the courtroom and walked up to the woman. They both began to cry. All Margaret could hear was the young man saying,

“I did it for us. I am so sorry.”

The Eight-Legged Tyrant, by Rod Drake

21/10/2022

The scorpion swaggers on his six legs across the desert, feeling like he ruled this sun-baked kingdom on a warm, buoyant summer morning. Clutching and unclutching his two pincer claws at anything that might notice him, he let his poisonous barbed tail swing freely, just a casual threat in case anyone needed reminding of his lethal sting.

A dim-witted beetle saw him coming and scurried out of the way, finding a safe hole in a Yucca plant; the scorpion chuckled to himself, thinking loftily, oh yes, you better run and hide from death itself. A rattlesnake off to the left noticed the brazen scorpion, but kept his rattle quiet, hoping the arachnid would move on without trouble; other creatures, even a young coyote, gave the venomous bully a wide margin.

The scorpion was bursting with pride and power now; every animal that walked, crawled or hopped was afraid of him, even man, that foolish being that walked barefoot in shorts, like that child he remembered stinging only weeks ago (which made his rep and created his feeling of great power).

The scorpion sees another human, coming towards him; ha, he too will suffer, maybe die, from my poisonous sting, but wait, this human is wearing heavy-soled boots, knee-length boots, and one of them has been raised up and is coming down fast and hard on--

Gareth, by Deborah Shrimplin

21/10/2022

As the passenger train continued its journey through the mountains, Gareth, alone in his cabin, glanced out the window. He was twenty years old and built like a Welsh rugby player. His fingertips were calloused from years of playing the guitar.

After an unsuccessful year of living in the big city and his dreams unfulfilled, his parents told him to come home.

The train entered a tunnel. When it broke out of the tunnel, Gareth froze. With his heart racing and his mind in shock, he pushed the red dragon's tail off his lap.

"Pardon my tail, Gareth. I'm too big for this cabin. Just a minute," the red dragon said. Then, he shrank to human size and sat in the seat opposite of Gareth.

"So, you're goin' home are ya? Well, first, you look mighty stupid in that jelly roll hairdo, that leather jacket won't keep you warm at home, and your guitar needs tuning," the dragon said without breathing fire.

Gareth took off his glasses, rubbed his eyes and replaced his glasses. The red dragon was still there.

"What's going on? Am I dreaming or having a nightmare?"

"Neither. Do you want me to spit some fire to prove I'm real? I can do that if you want."

"No. Give me a minute to wake up."

"I haven't much time. Get out your guitar, tune it up and play the "Suo Gan" lullaby," he said as he pointed a foot at the guitar case on the overhead rack. "None of this "Jailhouse Rock". That's not your style."

In fear of being incinerated by dragon fire, Gareth did as he was told.

"Great. Now, go wash your hair and get rid of that ridiculous jelly roll. You're not Elvis!" the red dragon said. He was going to blow some hot air at Gareth but thought that would be too much for him to handle.

In fear of being burnt toast, Gareth did as he was told.

When he returned to his cabin, the dragon was gone.

The train entered another tunnel. When it came into the sunlight, Gareth looked out the window. In the grassy field, Gareth saw his grandmother sitting under a tree playing her guitar. She looked up from her guitar, waved and gestured for Gareth to join her.

Gareth fought his tears of remembrance.

The train entered another tunnel. When it traveled into the daylight, Gareth recognized the landscape. He was almost home. Gareth took off his leather jacket, opened his bag and pulled out the woolen cardigan his mother had given him.

That evening, Gareth's family celebrated his return with a traditional Welsh feast.

After the meal, Gareth decided to play his guitar for his family. He went to his bedroom, placed the guitar case on the bed, and unlatched it. As he lifted his grandmother's guitar out of the case, he saw three bright red dragon scales shining in the corner of the case.

Gareth smiled.

Blink and a Black Canvas is Filled, by Steven Holding

21/10/2022

He was tired of trying.
Typing opening lines, saving files, adding another wasted page to the piles of unfinished, half-scribbled poems and unfulfilled ideas. Every sentence seemed to have become just that: a punishment set, the structure of the letters serving no purpose other than to fence him in.
A lifetime had been spent building worlds with words. The lives led on the page had always been the easiest to manage, and the success of his fictions had allowed him to distance himself from the disaster that his unwritten autobiography had rapidly become.
The back-bedroom office he inhabited twelve hours a day existed as a manifestation of his cluttered mind. Accessed via a narrow passage, the walls of the tiny room were lined with paperbacks. A cocooning womb of comforting books. What once felt so safe now seemed to stifle, sitting at his desk, no longer the captain of the ship, just a stowaway on a sinking vessel.
Sipping his bitter drink, her face in the framed photo upon the shelf smiled at him from better days. That she had been written out of his life was a plot twist that he had failed to see coming, despite the cliché it so obviously was. Her only remnants: pictures on paper, images in his head, making her life the equal of the characters he spat out in stories. Now, even that simple pleasure had been robbed from him.
Spinning in his chair, the tears made their daily appearance, when his foot caught a teetering pile, sending it crashing. Revealed, at the bottom, was a long-forgotten notebook. Picking it up, he realised it was blank bar one simple inscription.
FOR YOU AND ALL YOUR WONDERFUL DREAMS.
Sighing, then smiling, he took a pen, then began to write.
He was tired of trying…

Dreams, by Angela Carlton

21/10/2022

Sometimes I dreamed of you. I paced the floor when I couldn’t sleep and wondered why you left me. I wrote poetry and cried in the dark. Occasionally, I visited my mother who now lived peacefully on the family farm. Mostly, she sat on the balcony and looked out to the koi pond. She liked to watch the fish swim around after her daily walk.

“Why are you sad?” she says, when she sees me.

“I'm alright Mama, just not sleeping well.” She begins to hum the Elvis tune she used to sing to me as a child while I sat with her on the swing and watched the fireflies flutter and rise all over the yard.
“You know, as a child, the first story you wrote was called, The Super Fish,” my mother says. My eyes follow the bluegills in the pond, as she whispers, '' I always think of you and your magic. Hold on to it, my dear”

Later, as I laid my head down on a soft pillow, I was finally able to sleep. I dreamt I could fly. I flew all over and around with the ability to see you. I found you in the meadow gazing at the lazy wildflowers, you, my man who had vanished. There were track marks covering your arms. And your eyes were as black as the evening sky, before you mouthed the words, “I’m sorry.”

A Ride Home, by S.R Malone

14/10/2022

The idiot overtook me, speeding through the rain. With a dull ache eating at my temples, I chuckled at the irony; at the ‘baby on board’ sign attached to his back window, this fool having tailgated me for miles.

Now the harsh red glow of his brake lights punctured the gloom ahead, until the car pulled a three-point turn and fled past me in the opposite direction. My lights caught the frightened expression on the driver’s chubby face.

I craned my neck upwards, windscreen wipers slapping away the rain.

Moving against the evening clouds, partially hidden by the jagged peaks of the woodlands, was a slender frame; spindly, insectoid. I rubbed my tired eyes, a sickness welling. Far off thuds indicated where its massive legs were landing. The ground shook as one slammed into the woods to my left, flattening a gathering of trees like bowling pins.

I pulled the same three-point turn and ground my accelerator into the floor. In the rearview, the spindly silhouette raised what might have been its head and roared to the heavens.

I never did like driving this route anyway.

Chants, by Angela Carlton

7/10/2022

When I lost my mother, I was forced to move out west to live with my grandmother for my father had left when I was a toddler. At school, I did not fit in, so I painted my eyes, and lips black. I wore punk boots and it captured the attention of one boy, Jeremy, the guy who hung out with the Goth kids. Together we all spent our time in the cemetery and continued to speak to the dead for guidance. We lit incense and chanted in the dark. There were stacks of books about black magic and voodoo. We studied them the way some would study the bible. Thoughts of my mother in that horrific car crash swam around in my brain and I began to chant louder-louder-louder hoping to shake the dead.

"I need you, I need you. I need-need-need you, mother.
Return to me, Rise!"

Night after night this was my chant as I tossed my old locket in the bonfire and waited for your spirit to appear. But you didn’t, you never did so my passion for black magic grew deeper as I turned myself over to a life of mystical actions finding a sense of control in the power. I spent months at the cemetery chanting, practicing with herbs, black tea, and human hair until that one day I chose to cast a mini spell on the “creep, bully” at school.

“Slip in the mud and be doomed boy,” I shouted.

One day later, when they found him beneath the cliff barely responsive, the magic was, well, it had become real, my blood was rushing, but I wasn’t numb.

Twenty Years Later, by John M. Carlson

7/10/2022

I stood in front of the door. I didn’t want to go in. I had a feeling something was wrong. I went inside this door before to find that something terrible had happened. I couldn’t remember what it was—just that it would happen again. But I pushed the door open, anyway, and entered. Then, I saw Scott’s dead body.

Suddenly, I was awake. It was just a nightmare.

I wasn’t surprised that I had this nightmare. This week marked the twentieth anniversary of the day I found the body of Scott, my roommate, after he killed himself.

Twenty years. Twenty years! It seems almost like yesterday—but it also feels like a lifetime ago.

I started getting up. It was nearly time to get up. Plus I really didn’t want to go back to sleep and risk another nightmare replay of finding Scott’s body.

As I prepared for my day, I thought back to the day I found Scott’s body. It was a month into the first year of college for both Scott and me. I was coming back from class, and I decided to make a fast, routine stop by the men's bathroom at the end of the hall. Only to be greeted by the sight of his body, hanging from a beam near the showers.

I never heard why Scott killed himself. There were rumors and speculations, of course. Doing poorly in class. Pregnant girlfriend back home. Financial trouble. Family trouble. Unable to form social connections at college. All of these things. Or none of these things.

It was horrible finding his body. I had nightmares for weeks. I spent weeks wondering if I should have noticed something wrong. Even though I hardly knew him. I kept wishing I could have done something—anything—to stop him.

Eventually, the horror of finding his body dimmed. The few sessions of therapy my health insurance was willing to pay for helped. The passing of time helped.

But it’s not something I’ll ever forget. I still have an occasional nightmare about it.

Part of me wishes I could forget the horrible experience completely.

But a bigger part of me wishes that Scott hadn’t killed himself. That he were still alive, well, and happy.

Mr Blessed and the Absent School Shoes, by Fliss Zakaszewska

Needed Help, by John M. Carlson

Halloween Night, by Phyllis Souza

Like, by Rani Jayakumar

Trouble in the Archives, by Janice Siderius

The Eight-Legged Tyrant, by Rod Drake

Gareth, by Deborah Shrimplin

Blink and a Black Canvas is Filled, by Steven Holding

Dreams, by Angela Carlton

A Ride Home, by S.R Malone

Chants, by Angela Carlton

Twenty Years Later, by John M. Carlson

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