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Moonshiner, by K Hoffman

29/11/2019

We sat listening to my grandfather’s story of his days as a moonshiner. We were too young to really understand what it meant, but the story always fascinated us.

“Ahh, hell, Berta. Remember how we used to hide in the ditch when we saw the fuzz coming? Yah, they’d be shining their spotlights right over our heads and we’d laugh and laugh. Stupid bastards never could catch us.”

“Cleo!”, my grandmother would scold. “Don’t talk like that in front of the girls.”

“Ahh, hell. They don’t care.”

“Grandpa, tell us about the pigs. We want to hear about the pigs!” That was always our favorite part of the story.

“Oh, them pigs. We’d take our leftover mash from the still and feed it to those damn pigs. They’d stand on their back legs and just squeal and squeal. Funniest thing I ever did see.”

We sat there laughing right along with him, not noticing the way he drifted back in time.

Older now, I understand what it meant to be a moonshiner in the 30s and I can picture the drunk pigs on their heels. It still makes me laugh. But I also feel something more profound, as I sit here going back in time just like my grandfather did when he shared his own story.

Redeemed, by Doug Bartlett

29/11/2019

The smoke rises from the torches that are mounted on the soot-stained walls. A heavy haze fills the room along with an abundance of rowdy and raucous men who are anxious to get started. The slaves enter timidly from the front of the room and stand behind the auction block. The auctioneer escorts a young, attractive girl to the block. He thinks that she will bring a good price and could set the tone for higher prices throughout the day. She looks over the crowd with trepidation as she steps up on the auction block with trembling in her knees and a quiver on her lips. The bidding is brisk and quickly escalates. Finally, the bidding boils down to just two bidders. One is at the back of the room. He is a Roman Prince. The other bidder sits in the front row. He is a twisted man with a disfigured face. He keeps an open ledger on his lap and occasionally looks at it. The young girl knows both of these bidders, but only by reputation. The disfigured man is an evil taskmaster. He treats his slaves harshly and severely abuses them. She knows if she ends up with him she will have a life of torture. The Roman Prince treats his slaves like his own children, with dignity and respect. She realizes her life will soon be either Heaven or Hell, nothing in between. Her hopes rise as the prince makes a bid from the back of the room. She prays that this would be the final bid. However, her hopes come crashing down as the evil taskmaster makes his bid. This continues on for what seems to her to be an eternity. Sweat flows off her aching body. Her knot-filled stomach begins to cramp as she becomes nauseous. How much longer can she last? She feels like she is teetering between life and death. At this time the prince stands up and makes a bid that far exceeds the entire net worth of the evil taskmaster. The taskmaster knows it’s all over. He slumps in his seat with his head hanging low and slams his ledger shut. He is totally stunned. The prince takes off his cloak as he walks to the front of the room. He then wraps it around her, covering her nakedness. Every eye in the room is upon them when the prince breaks the silence by announcing, “Today, I set this girl free!” The crowd goes into shock. No one has ever paid such a great amount for a slave…. and then set her free. It was unheard of. “Also,” stated the prince as he removes his royal signet ring from his finger and slides it onto hers, “I make her a joint heir of all my inheritance.” In essence, she is now part of the royal family. Unbelievable? ...No. Incredible?...Yes!

Turkey Burger with Fries, by Adam Kluger

29/11/2019

Melvin Mudlicker sipped his coffee slowly as he worked the numbers on a napkin at his fifth favorite diner.
"Are you ready to order sir?"
On this afternoon, Melvin's luck wasn't getting any better. Instead of the sublime and comforting waitress Anastasia, the dark-haired beauty from Albania, waking him from his numbers-crunching despair, Melvin was suddenly jostled out of his work-mare by a ruddy-faced older woman with frizzy red hair and a plump, sweaty face eager to get this transaction over with already.
"Can I have a turkey burger please?"
"Do you want that with fries?"
"Yes, please, that's a great idea."
"Coming right up."
She was gone before Melvin could ask for a refill.
I guess that's the price of efficiency Melvin thought to himself.
"Here you go."
The turkey burger had arrived. That was quick!
It was all alone.
"No fries?," Melvin asked.
"You didn't ask for a Deluxe," the waitress replied impatiently.
"I know , but when you asked me if I wanted fries--I said yes."
"I never asked you that."
Melvin looked into her eyes. He was not sure what he saw there but he knew what he had to do.
"Yes, yes you did," Melvin persisted.
"Would you like fries with that?" the waitress asked, acting still as if the French fries were a new topic of conversation.
"Yes, that's why I had already ordered them," Melvin replied resolutely.
"Ok, I will bring some on the side, but they may take a little time."
"Thank you very much."
By now, the family seated at the nearby table was looking up from their meal to watch the exchange.
Before Melvin knew it a busboy had buzzed by his table and brought him a refill on his coffee.
He felt bad about having over-reacted. He didn't even want the fries anymore. he missed Anastasia--her delicate touches, black eyes and hair the color of licorice.
When the fries did come they were still delicious as always but he had to eat them without the burger.
There would be no combination of divine textures and juices. He would have to make do with his sugary red sauce and crispy yellow treats and lukewarm bean water and no Anastasia and it was all so inexplicably sad and the numbers on the napkin were bad, bad, bad and when she came back with the check she was ashamed. Melvin had caught her in a lie. She knew she had lied. She had, in fact, asked Melvin Mudlicker if he had wanted fries with the burger. She didn't know why she lied. Maybe she was just afraid. Maybe she really needed this job Melvin realized.
"I'm sorry, so sorry," her voice trembled.
Melvin got up from his chair and the two hugged briefly and then smiled at each other and laughed, for this world had made them both do and say things that they had regretted

Turkey Day, by Jim Bartlett

22/11/2019

From behind the thick oak, just to the front of the barn, Tom watches as the men shake hands with the Farmer, fold up their papers, and make their way back to the car. With a final wave, they head up the old dirt road, disappearing on the main highway, leaving nothing more than a cloud of dust in their wake. The Farmer, his shoulders in a bit of a sag, remains frozen in place long after they are gone, his gaze unwavering from where the car once was.

Finally, after several more minutes, he picks up his wicker basket, filled with corn and squash freshly picked from the garden just to the side of the barn, and turns toward the house.

“What was that all about?”

Henrietta’s question catches Tom with a start – he thought she was with the rest of the group out behind the garden – and he jumps forward, banging his beak on the tree.

“Sorry...” she says with a chuckling gobble.

“It looks like Farmer has decided to become something called a vegetarian. Which means he’s not having...uh, turkey...uh, one of US...for Thanksgiving dinner this year.”

“Oh my...that’s wonderful news! Isn’t it?”

“I sure think so.”

“So who were those other men?”

“I guess Farmer doesn’t feel right keeping us here, so he’s sending us off to some sort of Turkey paradise run by those men.”

“Turkey paradise!!” Henrietta’s voice jumps a full octave. “Oh my! Where, oh, where is this wonderful place?”

“I’m not sure, but I heard them call it Butterball...”

Just for Ten Seconds, by John M. Carlson

22/11/2019

“Every second counts! Take care of seconds, and you take care of minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, years! Accomplished people use time wisely — they know the exact value of every second.”

Tim heard Aunt Helen’s lecture in his mind. It was one of many lectures she delivered again and again and again for thirty years. She was always lecturing. Always telling him what to do in her cold, hard voice.

That day, Aunt Helen screeched her lectures nonstop. Suddenly, Tim found himself choking her. Just for ten seconds. Just long enough to teach the old witch something.

He now saw the clock out of the corner of his eye. He had been choking her for fifteen minutes? He let go of her throat. Her lifeless body slumped down in her chair. In his mind, he could hear her shriek: “It was supposed to be for only ten seconds! Ten seconds! Every second counts!

The Funhouse Mirror, by Nia Walker

22/11/2019

I look at myself in the mirror and am confused. I make a smile. I can feel the muscles in my face moving, and I know I am smiling. I am sure of it. But the face in the mirror is not smiling. It tells me this is “me”. Well, I guess it is me and it is not.

This always happens when I look in this damned mirror. I see things that cannot possibly be there. I cannot look this bad—haunted eyes and strained veins, cracked skin and yellowed teeth.

A knock on the door jolts me away from the image. “Can I come in sweetie,” my mom’s muffled voice travels into my room and I hear the creaky doorknob already starting to turn. I grunted an affirmative and felt myself shrink as I tried to smile up at her.

“You left your pills downstairs again,” she said and gently passed me the bottle. I glanced at her own reflection in my mirror and saw a woman just as beautiful as she looked in front of me.

“Damned funhouse mirror,” I muttered, swallowing a pill with my spit.

Salt and Lemons, by Tessa Edgecombe

16/11/2019

The Betty-James bounced through the Guernsey-blue waves, sea spray billowing over her bow. Jane pushed back her hair, already sticky with salt and glanced one more time over to the handsome captain’s mate, Sam, with as much insouciance as she could muster. She desperately wanted to forget the blush that had enveloped her as she had grabbed his hand to board. It had shaken her equilibrium and rendered her very thoughts visible and public via her crimson face and blotchy neck.
”Dolphins, starboard!” As a group of dark and sleek dorsalled backs, seesawed through the water, the passengers leapt up as one, craning their necks to get a better view.
“Please don’t crowd to one side. Everyone will get a chance to see ’em”. At this, the skipper diverted the Betty James from her usual route and started to sweep around the bay, the dolphins continuing to gamble close to the boat. Sam made his way around the chattering tourists, answering questions, warning them not to lean too far over the gunwale.
“It’s as if they really want to have fun with us!” Jane exclaimed as she managed to sidle up to him. This had been no easy feat, with the waves buffeting the boat and the deck slick with seawater.
“You’re really lucky. This is early in the year for ‘em, and it’s a big pod.”
Grabbing her phone out of her cagoule, Jane turned away from him, hoping to hide yet another burst of embarrassment by taking photos. As she did so, a great whale of an American tourist barged into her and Jane’s mobile performed a perfect arc over the boat’s side and into the sea.
Jane lurched after it in vain and suddenly felt a strong arm grab her.
“I think I’m going to be sick”. Sam immediately sat her down on one of the drenched benches as he wrestled a large paper bag from his pocket and handed it to her.
Eventually, Jane’s nausea subsided under the blanket of platitudes such as “it was only a phone, nobody’s died”, that she might normally have recoiled from, but Sam’s soothing voice was working its magic on her. Seeing her face turn from green to deathly white, he proffered a packet of sherbet lemons that had been waiting in readiness. Jane popped one into her mouth and slowly sucked on the sweet. Sam stood quite close to her, patting her shoulder, sick bag still at the ready.
“Feeling a bit better, now?”
Jane looked up into the kindly face. Something in the way he looked at her compelled her to gently pull him down onto the seat and snuggle up to him. “I will be, just give me a minute”. She smiled as she savoured the salt on her lips and lemon on her tongue and breathed in the comforting warmth of the man beside her.
“Not married then”, said Sam grinning and looking at her ring-less left hand clutching his sleeve.
“Not yet” thought Jane.

The Blood-Sucker, by Sivan Pillai

15/11/2019

Blood-sucker.
That is what they call me behind my back.
And today I am after them, literally begging for their blood. For my son, who needs immediate transfusion and the blood banks have no stock of the rare blood.
Two people in the village have the required blood group -Ramu and Gopu- but Ramu can be taken off the list outright. Only last week I had asked him to vacate his home when he failed to repay my debt. That was the agreed condition when he borrowed money. To his credit, he did not protest but simply asked for a little more time, which I granted.
The people of my village have a philosophy of their own. Poverty had been their lot for generations but that had never come in the way of the few occasions of joy in their life. They celebrate with abandon, mostly with borrowed money, spending lavishly, dancing and singing, feasting and drinking.
True, I charge higher interest than the banks, insist on collaterals, and am strict about payment of interest on time. That is the only source of my livelihood as had been my father’s and forefathers’. I never cheat. Terms and conditions are explained, but they are least bothered when in need of money. They affix their thumb impression wherever required and simply grab the money and leave.
Ramu has been missing since the news about my son broke out. Even his wife and children do not know his whereabouts. Or so they say.
The man I sent after Gopu reports he has high fever but is willing to donate blood but the doctor says no. I am taken aback. A sick man readily agrees to come to the aid of an ‘exploiter and class enemy’. No bargains, no attempt to humiliate me or take advantage of my vulnerability.
Even as I lose hope, news comes from the hospital: Rahul is out of danger after Ramu donated blood.
The ‘blood-sucker’ is in shock.
I must get rid of that tag. Fast.

The Scarecrow, by Mary Irvine

15/11/2019

It had been a lovely day. The gardens were beautiful, as
always. She felt pleased with the ‘photos she’d taken.
Improving all the time. Wouldn’t be able to choose the one
for the competition till she’d seen them on a bigger screen.
Maybe there would be THE one this time.
Most people had headed towards the gates - only thirty minutes to closing time. But there was time for one
more shot or two.
She suddenly became aware of being watched.
Looking up she saw a line of five scarecrows at the top of
a grassy knoll. She moved up the slope, stopping every few
yards, changing position slightly to get different perspectives.
All the scarecrows were unique, but the one she felt drawn to was the one on the extreme left - the portly, jolly one with the
friendly smile. He was the one. She moved in for a close-up.
The scarecrow saw her approach. He slowly lowered
his arms. A frightening leer replaced the friendly smile. He
began to stump towards her. She froze. Fetid breath
smothered her.
It had been a lovely day. The gardens were beautiful, as always…

I Am a Successful Car Salesman, by Meghan Gresk

15/11/2019

They call me successful because I tell people to waste their money and they waste it.

My son is what people call “unemployed.” During the day he chills out (accomplishes nothing) at his apartment, and at night he plays guitar in his band, sometimes eight shows a week. Crowds no larger than fifty, but most people walk out happy they’ve discovered the existence of The Mangy Rottweilers.

I made ten overpriced sales last week. Most people walked out happy they’d discovered the existence of sky control and seat coolers.

Last night, I reminded him about the open front desk position at the dealership. I made sure to point out there was no work experience required.
“Dad, I work every day,” he scoffed before shutting me out for the next two months.

To me, the music sounds like a Rottweiler with his paw stuck in a garbage disposal. I guess I’m not most people.

He spends time with his girlfriend every day. Whenever he’s not playing and she’s not working, they make time to be together. They browse for discounts on bands with names like King Gizzard and the Lizard Wizard with hopes they can afford one single record.

I see my wife most days. I tell her she looks beautiful as I rush out the door, and I tell her dinner was delicious when we watch primetime TV. We talk. I can’t remember the last time we talked about us.

One day he comes over and asks if he can borrow twenty dollars. He explains that the show is 118.6 miles away and his tank is low. He can’t fight the smile off his face as he explains the “epic-ness” of tonight, that sometimes seventy people show up and the acoustics cannot be beat.

Of course I give my son the money.

A Silver Necklace, by Sankar Chatterjee

8/11/2019

Ms. Valeria Zinsky was strolling slowly in Kurfürstendamm, a neighborhood full of retail stores as well as restaurants, making it one of Berlin’s must-see fashion districts. Suddenly, her attention got directed to the display of a silver necklace on the window of a jewelry shop. She stopped, got closer to the display, and took another investigative look. The necklace, a wonderfully crafted piece of jewelry was shining brilliantly, reflecting silver light. Ms. Zinsky was sure that she had seen a similar piece before and soon a memory engulfed her. She remembered her first entrance to Berlin from several decades ago. She was one of the female members of the first group of the Russian soldiers who entered Berlin after its fall in the Great Patriotic War (Second World War to allies). She was there when her comrades first entered into the bombed bunkers of the Third Reich. And on the way there, she had even scrawled some graffiti on the outer wall of the original Reichstag (parliament building), that still being on displayed today.

Ms. Zinsky sat on a bench on the sidewalk. She continued to reminisce from her days during the war. She was only sixteen, a teenager. Like many Soviet women from that era, she volunteered to take part in the war against an aggressor. After trained as a sniper, she was placed with the battalion marching towards this city. Just outskirt, they entered into the estate of a baron who already had fled with all his family members and the servants. As they were roaming inside the castle, she and her fellow women soldiers walked into the ladies’ quarters, filled with fancy dresses, expensive jewelries, and custom-made shoes. That night each woman soldier will put on her favorite fashion piece over their uniform before going to night’s rest. Ms. Zinsky now realized that she was wearing a silver necklace, similar to the one that being displayed on the store’s window. Next morning, following military’s protocol, they had to take off all of their newly found assets, before marching forward.

Now, she turned around to take another glance, when the post-war memories began to flood her. After victory, they all returned to the motherland. But the heroics of the male patriotism were glorified in subsequent historical documents with scant acknowledgement to female participation in the war. Returning women soldiers were not only shunned, but ridiculed for their low moral characters. She was lucky to get a higher education and resettle in life, while many of her female comrades perished in obscurity.

Ms. Zinsky got up from the bench and walked back to the jewelry story. She entered the store, bought the necklace, and requested the salesgirl to place it around her neck. Ms. Valeria Zinsky then looked herself in a full-length mirror and twirled while drowning in a new round of joy of victory.

Perfect, by Don Tassone

8/11/2019

Maddie was the prettiest baby her family and parents' friends had ever seen. Even strangers stopped and stared. With blond hair, big blue eyes and rosy cheeks, she looked like she belonged on the label of a baby food jar.

Her mother had lots of baby pictures taken at a local studio. The studio featured its photos of Maddie on its website. Her mother sent the link to all her friends.

Maddie grew up beautifully, the most popular girl in her class. But when she hit puberty, her looks began to change. She put on weight, and her slender face grew round. Her blond hair turned brown. She needed braces and glasses.

Some of her classmates began to make fun of her, but Maddie didn’t mind. She was a happy person and liked the way she looked.

Her mother, though, was disturbed by Maddie’s changing appearance.

“Don’t worry,” she said. “I can help you.”

“But I don’t need help, Mom.”

“You’ll thank me later,” her mother said.

She signed Maddie up with a modeling agency.

“I want you to turn her back into model material,” she told the lady at the agency.

They put Maddie on a strict diet and a rigorous exercise program. They swapped her glasses for contacts and her metal braces for clear plastic aligners. They bleached her teeth, waxed her face and dyed her hair.

Her mother was thrilled by the transformation.

“You’ll be a famous model one day,” she said.

At her first photo shoot under contract, the photographer made Maddie strike a variety of most unnatural poses. She felt uncomfortable, but she obliged and managed to smile, even though she felt like crying.

“Perfect,” the photographer said.

San Francisco Heart, by Ed N. White

5/11/2019

I froze my ass in San Francisco. I know that’s not how the song goes, but that’s what was happening. An unexpected blast of cold air blew in from the bay, dropping the temperatures way below average for this time of year. I was unprepared for this bringing only a light jacket with me from Florida. Just enough to cover my gun. The man I was looking for could be found on Friday nights at Kennedy’s, an Irish pub with an Indian restaurant attached. I guess anything is possible if you know where to look.
I drove my rental up Columbus Avenue and, after several tries, found a parking spot on a side street a block away. I rechecked my phone for his picture, then deleted it. It would be hard to miss a three-hundred-fifty-pound guy who wasn’t that tall.
He was in a corner with a much younger woman. They were arguing. Her beauty was stunning, made more so by her emotion. She raised a hand as if to slap him. He grabbed her wrist and twisted it, causing her pain. He released her, and she stepped back and headed my way, head down, probably crying. As she passed, her heat and scent touched every nerve.
I went to him and stood there, staring. He knew who I was and said, “Let’s go outside.” He nodded toward the door and waddled through the crowd with his fat ass rolling from side to side like ocean swells.
We sat in a new Tesla. “Nice car.”
He looked at me as if to say, ‘What did you expect.’ My dislike was growing exponentially.
“Who’s the woman?” I already knew the answer.
“That’s it. That’s why I hired you.”
“I told you I didn’t do women or children. You lied to me.”
“Everyone has a price.” I felt his smirk in the darkness.
“Double.”
“I’ll give you half now. Half when it’s done.”
“Cash.”
He reached under the seat and withdrew a zippered banker’s bag. Opened it, sounding like a band-aid being ripped off a hairy arm, and handed me two packs of C-notes. “Count it.”
“I trust you.”
“So, we're good?”
“Not quite.” I reached inside my jacket and pulled the gun stuffing it hard between his fat rolls that would snuff the noise like a silencer. His breath sucked in, and his eyes bugged out.
I leaned closer, “Listen carefully. "I have friends out here. They’ll keep watch. If anything happens to that woman, they will cut you into fish bait. Capeesh?"
He nodded. What else could he do?
I left him there, sitting in his own stain. I left San Francisco with my heart intact.

Mother, by Marjan Sierhuis

1/11/2019

I stand outside her hospital room, and I watch while she dozes in a chair by the window. Flickering beams of morning light filter through the window blinds and bounce off wisps of white hair.

It has only been a few weeks since my last visit, but I notice how frail she has become during my absence. The sheer futility of it all tugs at my heartstrings, and for a moment it renders me speechless. But I need to accept the inevitable: my mother is very ill.

She gradually opens her eyes and looks up at me with a puzzled expression on her face. Her knuckles turn white as she grips the armrests of her chair. I hesitate, and then I walk over. I smile, lean down, and I press my cheek against hers just as she did when I was a little girl, and I didn’t feel well.

“Hello mother,” I whisper in her ear. She tilts her head sideways, looks at me, and she begins to shiver. I wonder if she is cold so I take a wool shawl out of her bedside drawer, and I wrap it around her shoulders. I kiss her on the forehead and then look her in the eyes. I search for a sign of recognition.

She appears utterly helpless and alone as she sits in her chair. I wrap my arms around her, and I hold her close.

“Do I know you?”

My eyes sting with unshed tears. “Yes,” I say, and I immediately turn my head.

A Last Promise, by Stella Gaucher-Murovic

1/11/2019

The young man sits on a bench outside the funeral parlor and takes out a Player's. Ignites it with his old man's lighter, engraved with his initials. He's almost twenty-eight with a dad who hasn't made it to sixty.

This is the last day of the wake, his last smoke, his last promise to the man. He inhales deeply, savoring the acrid taste filling his mouth and throat. He exhales slowly, monitoring the smoke as it vanishes and converts to air. This last cigarette soothes him with its flavor of consolation.

He draws in the smoke and pictures it encasing his lungs, reluctant to leave. After his last puff, after pinching and flicking the butt, it's time for a last farewell.

His dad died a wretched death and the son saw this as a prophetic warning of his own demise. But this time would be different; a last pledge to his dad, not to be violated like a New Year's Resolution.

This time he has a guaranteed backup, sure not to miss. They called it 'Vaping'.

The Human Atrocity, by Sankar Chatterjee

1/11/2019

It was a foggy and chilly autumn dawn along the banks of the Danube River in Budapest (Hungary). Ms. Lena Volodya was strolling on the Pest side, separated from the Buda side by the river. The cruise ships that crisscross the river ferrying tourists to various European cities were faintly visible through the dense fog.

As she moved forward, she noticed multitudes of scattered worn-out shoes covered a part of the bank at a distant. Approaching further, she realized they were not real ones but part of a permanent sculpture. She took out her guide-book and opened the page mentioning this particular art. She learned that the local militiamen who were aligned with the Nazis in last World War would bring the rounded-up dissidents and members of the Jewish community to the bank. The victims would then line up facing the river, taking off their shoes. They will be chained together. Then only the two book-end ones would be shot to die instantly and falling into the water dragging along the rest, still alive but drowning eventually. The sculpture, appropriately titled “Shoes on the Danube Bank” was the brainchild of a local artist to confront this nation’s dark history.

Suddenly, the dense fog surrounding Ms. Volodya morphed into a dark cloud with flashes of burst of machine gun fires and heavy artilleries. Ms. Volodya began to drown into a deep memory of her own distant past. She was a military nurse in the Russian army in the same war. In final year, she was assigned to a front unit that was marching forward to liberate Europe from the grips of the Nazis. On arriving Hungary, they came under an intense bombing campaign. When the dust settled, her medical unit got a call to attend to a group of wounded soldiers who got trapped in a trench, just outside this city. As her nursing unit approached the location, all they saw a series of erect black military boots, as if to signal the location of the wounded. But soon the horror became apparent. Nazis were able to capture the group of Russian soldiers there. Before retreating, they machine-gunned the entire unit, severed their legs from the knees and placed inside individual boots. In harsh cold weather, each set then became like a wooden stake, standing freely and offering a macabre display of human atrocity.

As the sun began to rise, Ms. Volodya came back to her senses. She then heard a tune coming out of a passing double-decked ship. It was Late John Lennon’s “Imagine.”

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