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No Longer Forgotten, by Marjan Sierhuis

27/10/2023

Fifty-year-old James shivers each time pellets of rain strikes his exposed skin. He crouches beneath a bridge’s overhang, but it offers no reprieve from the harsh weather.

His body aches when he coughs or tries to take a deep breath. And he doesn’t know how much longer he will have the strength to carry on.

His prayers for food and a warm bed have gone unanswered, and it is far more appealing for him to shut his eyes and go to sleep.

He pulls his old threadbare coat closer to his body with long knobby fingers. But the painful movement leaves him exhausted.
And like his shabby coat, his life appears to hang on by a thread.

Too weak to stand any longer, he collapses onto the ground, and he hears someone gasp.

James lifts his head with great effort as he stares at the stranger who kneels beside him.

“Hello, I am a community nurse. My name is Emma. I will look after you.”

James nods while he is covered with a blanket, and a tear rolls down his cheek.

And the sound of a siren is heard nearby.

No longer forgotten.

Mrs. Hachette, by Don Tassone

27/10/2023

I had a paper route when I was a kid. Most of my customers were in my neighborhood, but one, Mrs. Hachette, lived in an old house on the outskirts. To get there, I had to ride over a wooden bridge and down a dirt road, much of it covered by a canopy of trees.

I delivered an afternoon paper. I had to get a light for my bike so that, in the fall and winter, when it got dark early, I could steer clear of fallen branches on the way to Mrs. Hachette’s place.

I never met Mrs. Hachette, although I caught a glimpse of her once. She was putting something in her cellar and closing the big, wooden doors behind her. She was moving fast. I think she’d seen me coming. The sun was setting, and I could just make out her silhouette. She was tall and thin. It was windy, and her long, stringy hair swirled around her head. It reminded me of Medusa from history class.

Mrs. Hachette lived alone. Nobody knew anything about Mr. Hachette, including why he wasn’t there anymore, although there were rumors.

Mrs. Hachette paid for her paper at the end of each month. She left money in an unmarked envelope on a small table on her front porch. There was always a big, black rock on it.

One October, I went up on her porch to collect. It was windy, and the branches of a weeping willow brushed against one side of the old house. Somewhere a crow cawed. It was dusk. There was a light on in the front room, but I didn’t see or hear any movement inside. I grabbed the envelope and stuffed it in my jacket pocket. Before I left, though, I decided to take a peek through the front window.

I was stunned. Scattered all around the room were body parts: arms, legs, hands, feet, torsos, even heads. A naked body lay on the sofa. Another lay on the floor. A lamp in the corner cast a pale, eerie light over the whole, macabre scene.

I felt like screaming but, in case Mrs. Hachette was inside, didn’t want to give myself away. Who knows what she might do to me. I spun around and lept off the porch, jumped on my bike and raced home.

I thought about telling my parents or calling the police, but I didn’t say a thing to anyone. I felt rather guilty, but I knew saying something would only draw me in, and I wanted nothing more to do with Mrs. Hachette.

After that, I stopped delivering her paper. I was relieved when she never inquired or complained. A year later, when I handed off my paper route to a friend, I didn’t even mention her.

Years later, I asked my mom if she knew whatever happened to Mrs. Hachette.

“I think she moved away when Sears closed,” she said.

“Sears?”

“Yeah. Mrs. Hachette took care of the mannequins.”

Halloween in September, by Marjan Sierhuis

20/10/2023

James opens the door, steps onto his front porch, and picks up the morning paper. He frowns when he observes paper bats, paper pumpkins, artificial spiders and cobwebs. They are attached to strings suspended from the porch’s ceiling.

The morning chill is all but forgotten when he sees Jack-o’-lanterns along the driveway, and skeletons with moveable joints swinging in the wind as they hang off tree branches. He shakes his head and wonders why there are Halloween decorations on his property. After all, it is only September. But his attention is immediately diverted by a high-pitched scream that sends shivers down his spine.

“Dagnabbit, get off my property,” he shouts at a raccoon and a litter of babies that are ready to dive headfirst into a witch’s cauldron prop that sits in the middle of the lawn. But they don’t seem to listen as they take the plunge.

Chloe joins her husband and wraps her arms around his waist. She puckers her red lips and flutters her eyelashes when he tilts his head towards her. She wears a bustier with a gold emblem across the top. She then shakes her hips in shorts covered with white stars. A pair of knee-high boots completes the outfit.

“Who are you shouting at dear?” “I don’t see anyone.”

“We have a few trespassers who have the audacity to climb into one of your Halloween decorations.”

“So, what do you think, James?”

“Are you asking about the raccoons or the Halloween decorations?”

“I am talking about me, silly.”

“Perhaps a little early to dress up in a superhero costume.” “After all, Halloween isn’t for another seven weeks,” says James and kisses her on the cheek.

The Junkyard, by Xena Perova

20/10/2023

The people of the Junkyard couldn’t wait till their main fete began, and they started collecting junk and sorting it into boxes. Everyone understood that it was absolutely necessary, that their word would stop without the Day of Gathering and the gatherers’ enthusiasm.

So every fete started with a grand party and games with heaps of broken and dumped things, as well as exclusive items lost in the Junkyard. As it went, rarity or rubbish meant no difference. Junkers cherished both as true magic artefacts and stored them carefully in their boxes. Their entire world consisted of these boxes, and every Junker dreamt of adding one more to it, thus widening the borders of their world. Adding boxes was the only way of improvement they knew, and today, everyone, from the smallest kid to the most venerable old Junker, rode the wave of joy and excitement.

“It will happen any minute now. The new dump of junk is just about to get sorted!” they quivered with impatience. “Soon our boxes will cover the sun and the skies, and our world will reign everywhere.”

And while Junkers planned their bright future, enjoying the gathering and sorting, their nemesis—Cleaner—stood vigil on guard. He watched the party through the spyglass, noting every picked bauble in his notepad so that later, he could track it down and destroy it. Because this was what his entire world consisted of. This was the only way of improvement he knew.

A Letter to the Grade 6 Teacher, by Padmini Krishnan

13/10/2023

Dear Ms. Mildred,

I still remember the first day of my middle school. Somebody complained to you that I had written my classwork in disconnected letters. You smiled and said that students from grade 6 were old enough to write in cursive. I remember hastily connecting my letters before you came over on your rounds and spotted the errors.

My parents and I were still grappling with the news of my dad’s unexpected transfer while packing my stuff to start my schooling in your coastal town. I was asked to stay in my aunt’s house until my parents could join me three months later.

I did not know whether it was the new place, the burden of additional subjects, or my lack of interest, I found my grades ebbing away like the faded leaves in the town’s Palm trees. All I was interested in was eating (excessively sugary) sweets sold by the ‘auntie’ and roaming the huge grounds of the school, which used to be a graveyard long ago.

There was one more thing I was interested in, Ms. Mildred. And that was to listen to the non-detail books in your hushed, soft voice. Well, your voice was not like that when you scolded us for not handing in our homework. How I long to listen to the abridged versions of Ivanhoe and Peter Pan in the last hour of the class?

And then you went on a long leave because you got married that year. Your sub was sweet as well as strict, but she never read us non-detail books. You came back as our English teacher when I was in Grade 7, but you were not the same anymore. I missed your passion for teaching and even your anger. You had developed patience, looked tired, and maybe even disinterested. You were on leave every other week. Was this because you were a new mom?

Our new homeroom teacher was extremely kind and hardly punished anyone, but I missed your presence and brisk efficiency. I wonder what the studious kids thought about this? Or do they just think about their studies and never about the teachers?

Can I come back to Grade 6, Ms. Mildred? Will you please be your old self and read Jane Eyre for our class? This time I promise I will pay attention to all the new subjects.

Yours Faithfully,
An ex-student

Summer Breeze, by G Lynn Brown

13/10/2023

The August morning scorched so badly that even the birds refused to exert the energy to sing.

Millie walked through a field of wildflowers. Monarchs rested on asters and bees buzzed around buttercups, pollen from which stuck to the hairs of their little legs. Millie found them remarkable, perfect works of God's art, all of them.

And when she reached the creek that divided the leah from the forest, she sat in the cool reprieve of a weeping willow and she, too, wept.

She knelt at the water's edge and looked at her reflection. A water strider landed on the illusion and the water rippled, obscuring any outward evidence of the tears she cried. But she could still feel them as scorching as the August sun the willow shielded her from, trickling down her nose and her cheeks.

But she didn't wipe them away. She liked feeling them. She wanted to feel them. As long as she felt them it meant she was still alive. And, more than that, they were all she had left of Bryce.

Each teardrop burned just as his kisses had, and they reminded her of every kiss he ever smothered her in, and of all the ones he could no longer give. She savored those salty drops. And when they ran down her face and soaked her lips, she drank them in, just as she had his passion, his love.

She looked at her reflection once more and didn't recognize the girl who stared back. She was sallow and thin-lipped and hollow-eyed, and she beckoned Millie to join her beneath the water's surface.

Millie was tempted, as she had been every other day before. But the dead, they feel nothing, and she'd rather continue feeling Bryce's kisses than join him in the void.

She reached in and stirred the water. The ghoulish reflection rippled away and, for a moment, a rainbow appeared in its place.

Millie smiled.

A sparrow landed in a nearby oak and, defying the heat, whistled a most beautiful tune, and, in the chattering of the breeze-driven leaves, Millie thought she heard a whisper of I love you.

She walked beneath the oak and looked up at the songbird perched upon the branch Bryce had surrendered to, a frayed length of rope still knotted to the limb dangled in the summer breeze.

"I'll always love you, too" she whispered, his kisses drenching her lips.

Unintentional, by Don Tassone

13/10/2023

Elise poured herself a glass of Chardonnay and, as she did nearly every Friday evening, ordered a small pizza for delivery.

How she wished she had someone to share it with. Elise had tried hard for years to find someone. Dating sites, church groups, happy hours, taking a bus to work, volunteering, taking classes, joining a gym, even becoming a “regular” at a coffee shop. But nothing worked. Now 35, Elise was still single.

Not that she heard her “biological clock ticking,” though she would welcome being a mother. But what she really wanted was a lover. Not for the sex, although she would welcome that too. But for the intimacy, someone with whom she could share her heart and whose heart she might hold dear.

Elise hadn’t found Mr. Right, but she kept her eyes open for any contenders. That’s partly why she ordered pizzas on Friday nights. Maybe her lover would appear in the form of a dashing pizza delivery guy. Alas, tonight’s potential candidate wasn’t shaving yet.

Elise poured another glass of wine, grabbed two slices of pizza and settled in for a movie. What to watch tonight? She’d seen every rom-com on Netflix and couldn't take another one anyway. She picked a documentary about five communities where people live extraordinarily long and vibrant lives. But she fell asleep before it was over.

The following morning, Elise went to a nearby coffee shop where she’d become a regular. On Saturdays, she always got there early, when it wasn’t crowded yet. She usually picked a small table in the corner from which she could see all the other customers. All the other prospects.

But by the end of every Saturday morning, Elise was one of the last customers left, and she hadn't met or even spotted any prospects. Maybe she’d seen too many rom-coms, but she kept expecting some handsome, or even not-so-handsome, guy to approach her table and say, “Would you mind some company?”

This Saturday, though, she’d slept in. Maybe it was that third glass of wine. At any rate, she didn’t get to the coffee shop until mid-morning. By then, the place was packed.

Elise had never gotten a coffee to go but, standing in the long line, she considered it. She didn’t see an open table. Nor did she see any tables where cute guys were sitting alone.

But maybe the early morning coffee drinkers would be leaving soon. She went ahead and ordered her usual latte in a ceramic mug.

By the time it was ready, though, the place was still full. Standing near the door, she looked around, hoping someone would leave but ready to pour her latte into a paper cup.

“You’re welcome to share my table,” someone said.

Elise looked over. Right next to her stood a 30-something man with broad shoulders and a kind face. He was standing alone at a tall table with no chairs. Elise hadn't even noticed that table before.

Essay Writer Godmother, by John O’Keefe

13/10/2023

“If you let her talk, she’ll tell you tall tales,” my uncle would often warn us about our aunt’s otherworldly ability to create an epic story out of the most mundane occurrence.

After he died and her youngest son left for college, we encouraged her to write down her fables and send them for publication.

She had a huge vocabulary but “shy” and “modest” were not in it, and submitted several dozen articles. They would all be rejected for fundamentally the same reason: “we like the piece but we don’t publish essays, personal or creative.” After studying them we had to agree with the editors: even the most off-center tales smack read real life.

“Well, why don’t you send them to essay editors?”

Again she didn’t need much convincing, and one by one each piece would be accepted, even by big hitters.

Part of her success was due to her changing personality on command. She first experimented with being a kinky 22-year old nurse who wants to play rough sex, preferably with morgue workers. The next one was a middle-aged traveling salesman, faithful to his wife and a good family man back home, who turns into a ravenous beaver hunter as soon as he gets on the road. The third type was her favorite: an old man spending his pension money on underage prostitutes in addition to being an animal lover in the most physical sense.

After identifying as one of the three characters in a short paragraph, an essay completely unrelated followed, which created a dizzying fog for the readers who eventually caved in concluding that their minds had been stretched to new limits and, as a result, they’d become better persons.

Refined people could not get enough of her articles. Sex sells—even though the rest of each essay had nothing to do with sex. The magical first paragraph did the trick every time.

The few of us who knew her realized that in addition to seeing the world through a cockeyed lens her true talent was that during writing she could convince herself that she really was one of the three perverts.

In reality she was a lonely old lady who went to church every Sunday and once a month to confessional.

Those poor priests.

Dear You, by Angela Carlton

6/10/2023

I am caught up in the silence, your web, those promises, each one wicked. As I lay in silk with you, trembling, bare, cold, but warm from your sweat and the heat in your eyes, I think maybe this one time, I will reach you. Maybe this time you won’t hide. You won’t run. But somebody always leaves, don't they? And what are we left with nothing but empty space.

Jaded, no rest, weary, still you come crawling back, hanging round my door. Again, I am stripped down, floating under silk sheets, the full moon glaring like one massive eye outside my window, only this time, I’m left shivering. There is too much silence here. Where are you? Where?
I need to know.

And, on this evening, a harrowing Sunday, I finally break, “I need to quit,” I whisper, as I stumble and drift in the dark, fishing for all the scattered pieces, the parts that might make me whole.

No Longer Forgotten, by Marjan Sierhuis

Mrs. Hachette, by Don Tassone

Halloween in September, by Marjan Sierhuis

The Junkyard, by Xena Perova

A Letter to the Grade 6 Teacher, by Padmini Krishnan

Summer Breeze, by G Lynn Brown

Unintentional, by Don Tassone

Essay Writer Godmother, by John O’Keefe

Dear You, by Angela Carlton

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