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The Clothesline, by Kim Favors

27/11/2020

 
Feisty was the one thing about Jenna that almost everyone agreed on.

From her teens when she first met Tom at a dance, to their life in the same rural Oregon town, Jenna was known for being stubborn.

Even with children and grandkids, the word “no” was often her response to anything new. Including “no” to selling and moving.

“You could visit your grandchildren without that drive,” her daughter suggested. “No! I’m staying put,” Jenna replied.

Her most puzzling rejection was the “yes” to a new washing machine but “no” to a clothes dryer. Even the grandkids couldn’t persuade her.

“Grandma, you could stop hanging laundry. Your back wouldn’t hurt.”

“No!” she said.

Laundry days came with a ritual. Jenna would tie back her long greying hair and don comfy clothes. She’d hang the wash, get a book and coffee, and settle into a couch on the porch.

For hours.

During summer, Tom might find her still outside upon returning from his plumbing-electrical store.

And when autumn’s chill descended early, she sometimes left the laundry out overnight.

She would shoo away offers of help, saying only, “This is my Heaven on Earth. Leave me be.”

It would become her standard response through all the seasons.

Then came the late-summer evening Jenna’s Heaven and Earth collided: Tom found her unconscious on the outdoor couch.

The Portland hospital doctors were baffled by her coma.

Tom eventually left her bedside. “She would want me to check the house.”

The first thing he saw was the now dusty laundry, still hanging.

Tom eased himself onto the outdoor couch and began his to-do list. Sleep overcame him.

He awakened to crickets and frogs announcing nightfall. As evening’s shade drew over the yard, breezes sent the laundry swirling. Jasmine hinted of romance.

That night Tom dreamed of his and Jenna’s first dance — and kiss.

The next day, it was the birds’ early morning chorus serenading the sun that sent him outdoors. Wobbling atop the clothesline were two orioles. Smiling at their antics, Tom found the couch and relaxed. The laundry could wait.

A midday shower lined wires with raindrops, which danced off in a seemingly choreographed ballet. A visual meditation.

Tom was beginning to understand why Jenna so cherished her wash days.

And what he needed to do.

Three days later, the laundry still hanging, Tom returned to the hospital.

With a cushion from her couch, he propped up Jenna’s head, placing a laptop beside her.

“The clothesline. It’s waiting for you,” he whispered, starting a video and boosting the volume.

Crickets and frogs, birds, raindrops and breezes, towels dancing — it was as if the clothesline and yard were alive in Jenna’s hospital room.

“Mr. Stoddard,” Tom shook his head but the nurse’s voice persisted. “We need to move your wife. You can finish showing her the video after.”

There was a sudden twitch. Had Jenna responded?

Then from her lips came the most joyous sound Tom had ever heard.

“No!"

Chocolate Cake, by Mary Wallace

27/11/2020

 
The scent of childhood woke him. Memories of a kitchen and laughter and two wide eyed children, gazing through an oven door willing a chocolate cake to cook. He lay still, remembering what the world had smelled like, before the stench of everyday life had tainted it.

Hunkering down in the unprotected alley behind the bakery had been a mistake. There had been nothing in the bins to assuage his hunger and unfamiliar sounds had disturbed him. Today he would move back towards the beach where the smell of the sea could disguise past memories.

The streets, the beach and the queue at the soup kitchen were his life now. There was no room for bakery smells or regrets. That small child waiting for chocolate cake was lost in the passing of time; drowned in alcoholic fumes and forgotten in the repetitiveness of everyday survival.

He wiped a corner of his eye with a dirty hand and made his way towards the beach. The salty air cleared his head.

The bakery had been a mistake.

Three Nails, by Doug Bartlett

27/11/2020

 
Marcus, a skilled craftsman, had no idea what he was doing. Oh, he knew what he was making. He was toiling as a blacksmith, a skill level below his abilities. His economic situation caused him to take on any work he could which would enable him to put food on the table for his family,

Yes, he knew what he was making but he had no idea of the ramifications. Using the tongs, he took the eight -inch piece of iron out of the flames and began hammering it to a point on one end. He would make two more, identical to the first. You see, they come in sets of three.

He knows these will be used to cause excruciating torture and finally death. So why does he do it? Remember, he has a family to feed.

These three simple nails would be used to attach a man who is called Jesus to a cross. Marcus doesn’t know Jesus and has never seen a crucifixion, but for some unknown reason he wants to be there and see his handiwork being used.

Marcus had no idea what to expect. This crucifixion would be like no other. As soon as Jesus took his last breath while nailed to the cross, darkness fell over the entire land during the middle of the day.The Roman Centurion had performed hundreds of crucifixions and had never seen that happen before. He could feel in his bones that something very different and special was about to happen which would cause him to proclaim Jesus the son of God.

Then things got really wild as an earthquake happened causing the burial stones that were placed in front of the graves to split open. This allowed those that had been buried inside and returned to life to come out.

Later, Marcus found out the curtain in the Jewish temple that separated the Holy Place from the Holy of Holies was torn from top to bottom symbolizing the separation between God and man was now removed. He knew that the curtain was as thick as the width of his hand.Two horses attached to the curtain pulling in opposite directions wouldn’t be able to tear it apart. And yet tear it did. From top, where no man could reach, to bottom.

None of this made any sense… unless Jesus really was the Son of God.

Then it hit him like a ton of bricks. He realized he was partially responsible for killing the Son of God because it was his nails that kept Jesus on that cross.

He fell into a deep depression for months. Finally Tobias, a follower of Jesus met with him.

“Marcus, Jesus is all powerful.Your nails couldn’t keep Jesus on that cross. No Marcus, it wasn’t your nails that kept Jesus on that cross. It was your sins…. and mine too. Jesus died voluntarily on that cross to re-establish mankind's relationship with God, one by one, lf they so desire.”

Herman, by Phyllis Souza

27/11/2020

 
Herman pulled his 1960 black limousine next to the curb in front of a two-story home. He'd bought the car cheap a few days earlier from Max, the mortician.

"We're here." He glanced at his wife, Alice. "Invited for dinner so soon after your sister's husband just up and died. Strange." He belched. "Damn, soda I drank at that Amoco station is trying to come."

"Jack was a stupid old man. It was his time to go." She picked at her teeth with a fingernail. "I need a toothpick." Alice pressed the latch on the glove compartment. "Maybe something in there I can use."

The chamber door dropped exposing, a crucifix, holy water, and casket crank. "Get rid of this stuff. Gives me the creeps."

"I'm not getting rid of it... could come in handy. Never know when I'll need it." He laughed.

"Very funny," Alice smirked.

Her tongue, on a mission, dug around the edges of her teeth.

"Let me take a look." He reached for her mouth.

Alice slapped his hand, "Get away from me."

She lifted the clasp on her handbag, found a round wooden toothpick, and popped it between her teeth. "That feels better."

Alice drew down the visor, "Give me your hankie. I smeared my lipstick."

Leaning to one side, Herman reached into his back pocket. Gas bubbles searched for an exit and found one.

"That's disgusting! What a stench." She rolled down the window.

The front door of the house swung open. Margaret, Alice's sister, shouted, "Don't sit there all day."

Margaret had set a mahogany table with china, sterling silver, cut glass, and white linen napkins in the dining room. The smell of roast beef in the oven filled the air.

"I'm starving. Where do I sit?" Herman scratched the stubble on his chin.

"At the head of the table." Margaret pulled out a chair.

Herman plopped, grabbed a fork, and bellowed, "Bring on the food!"

"First, let's make a toast. I've got some raspberry brandy." Margaret smiled. "Excuse me. I'll go and get it."

Alice sat in a chair at the edge of the table next to Herman.

Margaret carrying a tray with the brandy, strolled back into the room,

"Herman, yours is a double shot." She handed him the snifter.

"Alice, this is yours. Shall we make a toast," She raised her glass. "To a long life."

After scarfing his food, Herman picked up a linen napkin. He wiped his mouth and then blew his nose into the cloth.

Margaret looked at Alice. Alice looked at Margaret.

Herman groaned and pushed away from the table. He wrapped his arms around his stomach, gargled, and rolled out of his seat. He thudded onto the floor.

"Alice, pull the limo into the driveway while I grab a blanket," Margaret said. "Don't hang about. The deed is done. My friend Max, the mortician, will be waiting."

Self Preservation, by Sankar Chatterjee

27/11/2020

 
Dr. Padma Bhargav, a Stanford-educated brilliant Indian computer engineer returned to her motherland and settled in Nodia, a new technology hub near the capital New Delhi. This morning, she picked up a copy of the capital’s daily newspaper “The Statesman” en route to company’s café for her first round of morning coffee. She arrived early today to check out the latest output from a project on biased computer intelligence she had been working on for past several months. In the US, Dr. Bhargav motivated and led a group of software engineers developing a unique app that found wide application on a popular social media site. Globally, this particular app became widely popular amongst foreign Diasporas living in European and American subcontinents. Instead of international dialing, the immigrants now can connect with their loved ones in their countries of origin via this app on that particular social media site.

However, lately Dr. Bhargav had been learning about the unfortunate turn of events this app created within her own country. Post colonial India emerged as a regional technology-based economic powerhouse in a very short period of time. Then globalization appeared in horizon, bringing foreign investments and expertise as well as the wealth inequality, now plaguing the western nations.

Dr. Bhargav read the headlines quickly and then turned the front-page over. Right there on the second page, there was a full-page ad titled “Together, We Will Defeat False Information” from the parent company of the social media site. With several millions users out of a population of more than one billion, that particular messaging app had evolved into a lethal instrument in propagating fake information, deliberate character assassination especially involving child-kidnapping and rape, religious bigotry, and political propaganda.

Recently, several investigative journalists from a non-profit organization tracked down at least two dozen cases of mob-lynching of suspected child snatchers, based on fake commentaries and gruesome pictures of photo-shopped mutilated bodies. Another group found evidence of similar cases of mob-lynching involving suspected rapists. But the toll had been heavy involving religious strife. The centuries-old friction between two main religious groups of the country now finds new fronts on the computer-screens, gets twisted, and propagated through false information via this messaging app resulting in deadly riots in different parts of the country.

The ad in the newspaper went on to offer tips how to spot false information, check out the origin, and then re-check from another source about its accuracy. It also suggested checking out the information on the sender, while putting forward a profound reminder “Receiving the same information again and again does not make it true.” But for Dr. Bhargav, the “Devil” might be already out of bottle, given the country’s language, cultural, and religious diversity and economic disparity. She finished her coffee and rushed towards her lab, murmuring “May be the future robots with superior artificial intelligence would indeed be smarter than human beings to distinguish between self-preservation vs. self-destruction.”

The Next Adventure, by Bruce Levine

27/11/2020

 
Janice and James had fully settled into their new home. No longer did they have to think about where a basic store was located or how to get there. James would even boast that he now knew twenty-seven different ways to get anywhere. A boast Janice ignored benevolently, but she knew that no matter how lost James got he’d, somehow, manage to find his way home. It gave her a sense of security since, as she admitted, knowing the direction they were going, whether north, south, east or west, was not her strongest attribute.

Janice had many attributes and James relied heavily on her opinion, other than which way to turn or what road to take. He often kidded her about the neon sign on the living room wall (metaphorical though it may be) saying Janice Is Always Right.

Now their days took on a sense of normalcy. When they weren’t involved with the every-day aspects of life they explored new towns and areas, widening not only their knowledge, but discovering new things outside their basic comfort zone. Of course new places to eat was always high on the list, especially for James, but fun stores and shops and surprising locales and landscapes was a never-ending pleasure. A river, for example, with intense rapids running through Main Street in one town was a cause for many pictures.

In addition to loving to get lost James loved studying maps. He would often suggest a trip in a given direction, only knowing the basics and then hoping for the best.

So far things had gone well.

Janice enjoyed the adventures, as James called them, but always wondered what James was planning next.

What's PC? by Al Watt

20/11/2020

 
I take pride in researching background facts to maintain credibility in a story. I even go to the extent of getting the local beat bobbies to help me with questions on police procedure. I love the puzzled look on the faces of passers-by at the juxtaposition of me taking notes while the police “help me with my inquiries.”
The last time I reached out to the long arm of the law, it was vis-à-vis a P.C. matter. As in; what was the P.C. [politically correct] way to refer to a woman P.C. [police constable.] The male cops were a little too vague about it, so when a new beat cop of the female persuasion started patrolling I asked her for guidance and she told me that it was P.C. [politically correct] to refer to her as a P.C. [police constable] and NOT a WPC! I caught myself smiling, as while she was telling me this, she didn’t look like she would take any prisoners.

Fake Trees, by Angela Carlton

20/11/2020

 
The four girls who work together go out West and take pictures in cowboy hats underneath Rembrandt smiles. The next trip, they may go to the mountains and take pictures as the Tennessee wind kisses their cheeks. They always smile, but one girl is missing, isn’t she?? For she holds the secret about the girl with the rusty, brown hair, and eyes so dark they look black. It is the lie of all lies, the wicked truth about the rusty girl, behind those closed doors with her husband’s best friend.

It’s the story that could crack a man wide open like an egg, wrecking lives, all those fragile hearts pounding-pounding so the missing girl sits silently. She sits silently and stews while the others smile and pose again for the camera, clueless, unaware, not having to feel a damn thing. The missing girl may sit-sit-sit for another year or maybe a month or an hour until she cannot sit a minute longer so she stands.

She stands up until she finds herself in front of the sad, square box of a house with the faded, fake trees by the door that look pitiful, cheap. She stands until that door swings upon and the words push up, rise from her throat and out, spilling out, in harsh waves to the one man who will get sucked beneath them and drown, but she will find him. Somehow, the missing girl finds him. Her hand touches his, and she reaches him before he can go under and sink.

When a Nation Forgets, by Sankar Chatterjee

20/11/2020

 
Ms. Beth Williams, a doctoral student in social studies from Princeton was attending an international conference in New Orleans, situated next to the mighty Mississippi River in Louisiana. Her thesis subject dealt on factors affecting race-relations and evolution of right-wing extremism. As she listened to various distinguished speakers from different parts of the world, it became quite clear to her that indeed the hatred and discrimination had been spreading faster throughout the world. In a coincidence, the news from an economic summit in New York revealed that three richest billionaires in the US now own more wealth than the poorest 50% of citizenry (amounting to 170 million).

At the end of a busy conference day, Beth decided to take a stroll through the historic neighborhoods of the city. That’s when a thought started to haunt her “How much of current economic inequality might be contributing to all these hatred and extremism worldwide?” Unbeknownst to her, soon she arrived at a section where past slave-trading used to take place. A museum had been erected on the very spot where the actual auction used to take place. Beth sat on a bench, directly opposite to the building and noticed a sculpture representing a family of several African-Americans, the plaque beneath read “Emancipation Monument”. But, what surprised her most was that everyone in the sculpture was merrily well-dressed in western-style, while a length of a chain lying near their feet. She knew that before the country’s civil war to abolish slavery, this town’s own economy depended heavily on slave labor. She did a quick search on her smart phone to find an official narrative “…..the monument depicts a family, members embracing after emancipation while the chain representing slavery lies at their feet.”

And that’s when she noticed Ms. Tanisha Abrams, a middle-aged African-American woman. Ms. Abrams was sitting on the other end of the bench and was totally lost in her thought looking at the same sculpture. They exchanged pleasantries. Beth learned that Ms. Abrams had studied southern history of the country in college. Nowadays she led historic-themed tours for the visitors in the city. Beth inquired about the sculpture.

Ms. Abrams, a direct descendant of first-generation West African slaves shook her head, while her eyes moistened. The sculpture was supposed to be a testament to the depiction of arriving slaves chained around their bodies, with shackled feet and wrists. After all, it was supposed to be a memorial for the evilness of slavery. But the political bigotry of the city officials ran deep. They did not want visitors to look into the dark past of the city. Finally, a compromise was made with the current design by a professor of the local arts school that would fit the official narratives.

Ms. Abrams then asked Beth whether she’d ever read a poem by poet Maya Angelou that included the line: “We were stolen, sold and bought together from the African continent.”

Sarah's Commute, by Susan Fairfax Reid

20/11/2020

 
"How's your commute going today," the message on Sarah's smart phone asks?

"What commute," she laughs?

But, of course, she commutes from job to job in her apartment and in her apartment building.

Her first commute today was made half asleep and puffy-faced in bedroom slippers and pajamas from her bed to her one- cup coffee maker. It's safer and less time-consuming than taking a cab, if one is available, to Dunkin', Starbucks, or McDonald's.

Then, Sarah travels to the dining room chair to read morning newspapers. This commute is less risky than going into the back yard garden to read newspapers. There, the heart- palpitating thought of breathing aerosols from others will stop her from dropping her mask to drink her coffee.

Awake now, she saunters to the refrigerator for food instead of hoofing it to the grocery store where people won't stay out of her six-foot space in the store or on the sidewalk.

She eats her breakfast in the dining room: fresh fruit, plain yogurt, and protein-enriched Special K. The meal, she hopes, will ward off Covid 19 more than a jelly doughnut, a bagel with cream cheese, or pancakes with syrup would.

Dropping the dishes in the sink, Sarah treks back to the dining table looking for online magazines to publish her stories. After hours of searching and submitting stories, she commutes back to the coffee maker to brew her second cup.

She looks down and at the kitchen trash can overflowing with wadded paper towels. She's soaped her hands and dried them on abrasive paper towels so many times, her skin looks like what you'd see on a rotisserie chicken.

The trash has to go to the trash room near the elevator IMMEDIATELY, she decides. Before she goes, Sarah breaks into a sweat, fearing, her neighbors may get into her six-foot space without masks as they leave their apartments or wait for the elevator

Before she goes, though, Sarah has to empty the shopping cart that she fills with trash and shuttles to the trash room. It's full of clean clothes, smelling of fresh air, the fragrance put in the detergent.

So, she shuffles to the shopping cart, empties the clothes on the bed, sorts, folds, and puts them away. This is safer than folding in the laundry room where you can't social distance and some people aren't wearing masks. Can you believe that?

Sarah loads the cart with plastic bags of trash. It's ready for the drive, but she isn't. She has to dress, put on goggles, plastic gloves, and a mask. She takes three deep breaths in anticipation of the risky trip.

Sarah has Cupitol Tunnel Syndrome in her left arm. It flashes a caution light of moderate pain, telling her not to drive the cart. She starts hyperventilating, thinking about the commute. Her mind, like a red light, flashes "don't proceed."

So instead, she emails her friends. Staying in touch with people is important during the pandemic, experts say. Sarah happily agrees.
​

A Single Tree, by Deborah Shrimplin

20/11/2020

 
Charlie heard the prison gate close behind him. The eight years of wrongful imprisonment were over. The Innocent Project had taken on his case and won. He was going home.

Charlie looked across the street. His widower father, Daniel, was waiting for him in his battered, old car. It pained Charlie to see his father's face painted with lines drawn by years of grief and hardship. His hair was gray, his eyes moist with tears and shoulders hunched from years of hard labor on a factory assembly line.

Daniel slowly opened the driver's door, swung out his legs and pushed his weary body up to a standing position. Ignoring the barbed wire atop the chainlink fence behind his son, he walked across the street and embraced his son with the love only a father understands.

"Charlie, my son, it's time to come home. Let's go home."

Eight months later, Charlie received the settlement from his wrongful imprisonment lawsuit and bought a small house deep in the woods at 369 Whispering Pine Lane. He began his on-line bachelor degree in sociology. His father moved in with him, kept busy in the workshop and helped maintain the house.

Winter arrived early that year. Rainstorms became a daily affair. The drenching rain created deep mud puddles, slippery pathways and swollen creeks. Severe winds tore at the magnificent old trees surrounding the house. The father and son spent the wintry evenings watching their favorite television programs and movies.

One day in February, the "Daily Times" newspaper reported:

"Last night, two thousand people were without power due to a tree falling on power lines and a house at 369 Whispering Pine Lane. Occupants of the house did not survive."

Question of Character, by Krystyna Fedosejevs

20/11/2020

 
A hooded head sprung into view as the creaking window of a park entrance booth opened. “Sure you want to stay tonight?” the attendant snickered. “Character-building weather.”

Bryn nodded ‘yes’ and paid the overnight fee.

“What’s that sound?” I spluttered, preparing supper at our picnic table.

“Wildlife,” grinned Bryn. “Need to toughen up if you want to get through the night.”

Ground fog crept into our creekside tent site. Other campers were hunkered down rows away.

“Didn’t that park guy look creepy to you?” I asked, watching bats flit across the orangey sunset.

Bryn laughed. “You say that about every stranger.”

“What did he mean by ‘character-building’?”

We sat around the glowing campfire, holding mugs of hot beverage. Last sparks spiralled into the frosty air. We slipped into the tent.

Sleep taunted with surreal images. At one point startling me to awaken and scream. Turning to snuggle against Bryn, I found he wasn’t there.

Daylight roused us from confinement. We proceeded to exit the park when the same attendant caught our attention.

“You folks were okay last night? Couple of families bolted out early. Frightened by a strange animal roaming about.”

“A bear?” Bryn asked. “I’m sure one was sniffing our tent. I got up to scare it off but couldn’t see it.”

We travelled a fair distance before stopping for gasoline. As we started driving away, a man at the station grabbed a bag by an outdoor garbage receptacle.

“Hey mister, didn’t you forget something?” he yelled, running after us.

In his hand, a Sasquatch head-cover.

‘The Cuban Rooster Hop’ – A CIA secret operation, by Robert Plumlee

13/11/2020

 
We were flying four thousand feet over the Florida Straights when

We were flying four thousand feet over the Florida Straights when Rojas suddenly called out.

"They got us!"

Slightly off our right-wing, two U.S. Air Force F-86 Saber jets from Homestead Air Force Base came sneaking up from behind us. They came alongside. One of the Saber jets pulled closer to our left-wing and signaled Rojas to drop the landing gear.

Rojas looked at the Saber pilot, grinned, and then gave the F-86 pilot the one-finger salute.
 Rojas turned to me.

"Maintain this heading and altitude. I'll deal with this guy".


Rojas reached into his pocket and pulled out a nice fat marijuana joint. He held it up as an offering to the Saber pilot.

The jet pilot smiled, shook his head negatively. He again motioned for Rojas to drop the landing gear. Rojas, give the F-86 pilot a proper salute, and then again the one-finger salute, but did not give me the order to lower the landing gear. We continued onward toward the Florida coast and Marathon Key.

The ADF radio needle suddenly swung around, pointing toward "Swan Island."

The code song 'Moon over Miami' played in my headphones, signaling the coast was clear to enter the AIDZ- ‘Aircraft Identification Defense Zone’. The F-86 pilot received the same coded message. He gave Rojas a thumbs up, then a friendly salute - banked hard left, turning away, disappearing into the wild blue.

As soon as they had appeared, the two Saber Jets disappeared.

The words "Moon over Miami shine on my love tonight" echoed in my headphones. The coast was now clear, and we could continue toward Marathon Key. In the distance, beyond the cotton-like clouds, I could see the faint evening lights of Marathon Key, Florida.

Rojas leaned back in his seat and fired up the joint he had offered the Saber pilot. He offered it to me. I took it and inhaled a deep drag from the sweet weed.

"You got it,” Rojas said. “Now take us home.".

I corrected our heading and set a new course for Marathon Key. Then I took another drag from the Marijuana joint. I handed the joint back to Rojas. He took a deep-deep, drag. He was sound asleep when we arrived at Marathon.

Soon, that night, we were having a couple of beers at Jack Carr’s Resort Hotel on Marathon Key. Another mission completed successfully. Tomorrow will be another day. Another mission; another memory - and another marijuana joint.

Cat’s Ass Trophy, by Al Watt

13/11/2020

 
A bike thief will play the long game when they want your bike. They’ll use a bike or a car for a quick getaway and set your alarm off several nights in a row so’s your neighbours’ll bitch at you to not turn it on.
At first I thought it might be the cover blowing but there was no wind. After three nights of it, I hunkered down in my mates car with a video recorder aimed at my bike and a tyre iron as an equaliser.
The screaming alarm woke me, and I flicked the headlights switch but there wasn’t anything to see. I leapt out but couldn’t hear any kind of engine making a rapid exit.
Checking the video, I saw a blurry shape streak out from under the cover and disappear over a wall. I rewound it to just before the headlights and played it in slo-mo. Most of it was fuzzy, but there was a perfect still of a cat’s tail end pausing briefly at the top of the wall. I printed off a copy of the picture for my album and captioned it Cat’s Ass Trophy.

Unfinished Art, by Susan Fairfax Reid

13/11/2020

 
My Aunt Anne had something in common with famous writers, musicians, and artists. She pursued her art until her death and left an unfinished work.

It was an oil painting of bloodroots, the white petaled flowers with yellow centers that grow wildly in the woods and bloom early in the spring in patches of sunlight.

Cupped in large green leaves, the unusual wildflower
unwraps its layers in the morning and rewraps them at night. It was a favorite decoration in Aunt Anne's home. In a brandy snifter
filled with water, the flower looked like a decoration on a table at a candled wedding reception.

A poet may have been stirred to write a poem about the flower's birth in a shady area, comparing it to a loving relationship that blooms in a drug-infested area where other liaisons die.

A musician may have been encouraged to compose exciting song lyrics about meeting an alluring, and possibly dangerous, new lover wandering through the woods in a sheer, flowing ivory dress and a headband of flowers circling her long blond hair.

In her younger days, Aunt Anne hiked through the woods in boots, navy slacks, a red sweater, and red plaid flannel shirt with her boxer dog Bitzy, searching for the early bloomers. She wore gloves because handling bloodroots sometimes causes a rash similar to poison ivy.

Venturing into the woods could be dangerous for another reason. Stray dogs run wildly through the area. Aunt Anne carried a stick made of a fallen tree branch to ward them off as she trekked around the oak, poplar, and red maple trees. The tall trees stood like erect Marine Guards, protecting their inhabitants: plants, animals, and snakes.

As she grew older and needed a cane, Aunt Anne sent her daughter Anne Louise into the woods to collect the wildflowers.

Anne Louise shivered at the thought of going where the snakes slither, hiss, and play dead, but she gritted her teeth, put on boots, a trench coat, and gloves and gathered the bloodroots that captivated her mother.

Aunt Anne died at 88, leaving the still life incomplete. ”I was going to finish it, put stems and flowers on it, said Anne Louise, who is an artist. "But I decided to leave it in my room, as is." In its unfinished state, "Bloodroots" lets its viewers determine what Aunt Anne was trying to convey: beauty and danger, calmness, or something deeper.

Aunt Anne's still life joins other unfinished works, including "Answered Prayers," by Truman Capote, and the 10th symphony by Ludwig van Beethoven.

Purple Rain, by Andy Houstoun

13/11/2020

 
A pound coin clatters down the slot. I scroll through the song choices of the old jukebox, and punch in 624. A seven inch of Prince's 'Purple Rain' moves into position. The tonearm slides across and there's a crackle as the needle settles into the grooves. A melancholy guitar chord erupts from the speakers into the hushed pub. The familiar steady rhythm and haunting vocals begin, stirring my gut.
I'm in The Angel, a pub Siobhán and I frequented in the early nineties. Tonight though, the heavy snow's left it empty. It's a lonely place to spend my thirtieth birthday. I go back to my seat, undo the top button of my shirt, remove my Anglican clerical collar and place it on the table. I'm twenty again.
The place hasn't changed. It still has the same decor: oak beams, lead windows, black walls with torn posters of The Charlatans and The Stone Roses, the smell of ale and stale cigarettes. I glance at the door and imagine Siobhán walking in. It's been eight years since I've seen her.
As 'Purple Rain' plays on, I take out a photo of her. There's a white fold line across the middle of the picture but it's the only one I have. It's from her student house in Leeds. Her eyes, wild and dark, stare back. Her skin is unblemished with naturally pink cheeks. Blonde, cropped hair hangs long at the front, blunt cut to her jaw-line on one side. I place the photo on the table next to my dog collar.
Out the window, snowflakes tumble in ever-changing courses. Fleeting shapes fall and disintegrate on the glass before my eyes can catch them, and I'm lost in memories of her again.
***
Sitting outside the tent, a short distance from here, under the cloudless blue sky, we took in the endless moors and breathed the sweet summer air.
'Purple Rain' came on the battered stereo that I had brought along. Siobhán pulled me to my feet and we danced, close. She looked into my eyes. "When you hear this song, think of me."
I wanted to ask her to marry me, but I was scared she'd turn me down. Instead, I asked, "Do you think we'll still be together when we're in our thirties?”
"Maybe," she smiled, amused at my question.
And then, to ensure we didn't lose contact, I came up with this ridiculous idea: "Let's meet back here on my thirtieth birthday, no matter what. At midnight.”
"Okay." She smiled again.
***
A glance at my watch tells me it's ten past twelve. I place my collar and photo in my pocket and step outside into the cold night air. There's no sign of anyone. It's stopped snowing and the wind has died down. I pull my coat collar tight around my neck and look towards the hills where Siobhán and I camped. A warm tear rolls down my cold face.

A Purloined Dream (During the Pandemic), by F. Spencer Loomis

13/11/2020

 
Oh! That new cashier loves to play authority figure at checkout during the pandemic. He acted like he was trying to find a reason to put his knee on my neck.
Where’s my friendly helpful cashier? It must be her day off. Oh! I see her! She’s there outside the store. I wonder?
What are you doing on your day off from the grocery store today? You’re always nice at checkout but the guy today was really gruff. Can’t stay away?
You want to help me get the groceries to my car? I can handle it with my cane. Why do you think I have a classic car? A 57 Ford? Well I had one a while ago. Why do you ask? You think I’m about your father’s age. How old do you think I am? You say you had a funny dream? Was it about me younger in a 57 Ford? Yes I played football in high school. You thought your dream was about your mother? She’s not that old. Let me ask you if the dream went this way. You were a senior in high school and in the dream you liked someone very much. In the dream you were on a date with that someone in a 57 Ford and he gave you his high school ring on that date as his pledge. It was at a drive in movie and back then you could stretch out on the front seat of that 57 Ford couch seat without seat belts and you talked to the boy while you laid you head in his lap.
He promised he would be true forever but he needed to be away for a while.
You told me once your father was away growing up one time in the grocery line because you said he was in Afghanistan. He never came back home did he? Your mom brought you up alone with his picture on a wall at home with your mom together. You’re now raising your two children without their father aren’t you? Your grandmother Nicole helps keeping them during this pandemic so your mom can work too. Actually the dream was about 1967. I can’t be that old? Thanks! Your dream was about your grandmother Nicky. I know you remember your grandfather and how she cared for him when he had dementia until he died. It wasn’t him. The boy that night was named Jim. A week after that date he was inducted, or drafted, into the army and he went to Vietnam. He never came back. Later your grandmother Nicky married your grandfather and she stayed with him till the end. You say I can’t be that old. Thanks for helping me put the case of waters in the back seat but I’ve got to go now. When you get home ask Nicky if she remembers a boy named Jim. She still has her 1967 Yearbook.

A Whole New World Order, by Sankar Chatterjee

13/11/2020

 
In fading glow of sunset, Dr. Vu Wang, the regional Director of the UN Aid agency was standing on the raised perimeter of a flooded rice-field marking the border of neighboring nations of Bangladesh and India. It had been raining for days, now there was a momentary lull. Across the field, she spotted a young girl, all alone. Without any hesitation, she crossed the flooded field and got close to the crying young girl. Apparently, she got separated from her family during migration.

A monumental human crisis had erupted in the region over past few years. Majority Islamic citizens of Bangladesh encouraged by central authority and military had begun an “ethnic cleansing” of minority Hindu citizens. Millions of people already escaped to neighboring India. Refugee camps had been bursting to seams. But more refugees were still coming. Along came the incessant rain of monsoon adding to misery. Dr. Wang consoled the crying child. She gave her name Krishna Paul.

On a flash, Dr. Wang’s memory of her youth visited her. She was born in Luang Prabang, Laos. In her early teenage years, the country got entangled in the politics of a cold war between two super-powers. Eventually the country was taken over by an ideology-based ruthless regime. Millions would disappear or be systematically massacred for their resistance. Finally fearing for lives, her family decided to flee to a neighboring country. Like Krishna, she would get separated in a moon-less night. An older couple took her under their wings. For next few years, they would move from country to country, finally getting asylum in the US, where the couple would adopt her legally. She flourished in academics in school and college, earning a doctorate degree in political science and eventually landing her current position. That night, Dr. Wang brought Krishna to her own tent. Next day, she handed her over to International Red Cross who flew her to Europe. Later a kind family in Sweden would adopt Krishna.

Recently, Dr. Wang was attending an UN-gala in Vienna honoring Ms. Saira Banu, a Saudi Arabian young woman. Three years ago, Ms. Banu, then a teenager bride had taken bullets in her head for standing against everyday violence imposed by her husband, a member of the royal family. Fortunately she survived. She was air-lifted to Germany where she had undergone extensive treatment and rehabilitation. Then she finished her education and started a global movement for women’s empowerment. To her delight, Dr. Wang noticed a new Krishna, full of self-confidence, was sitting in the front row with other dignitaries, representing her adopted country Sweden in this movement.

Dr. Wang came out of the auditorium, went to the balcony for some fresh air, and looked at the distant west. Across the Atlantic Ocean, the citizens of the US just selected a young lady, born to an Indian mother and a Jamaican father (both immigrants) as the first woman and non-Caucasian Vice President in the continent’s history.

86,400 by Doug Bartlett

13/11/2020

 
One day my teenage son came home from work miserable and in a very bad mood.

“What’s wrong with you? “ I asked.

“Some jerk cut me off in traffic this morning on my way to work and I couldn’t forget about it. It ruined my entire day. I kept thinking about him.”

“Listen son, if you woke up tomorrow and found you suddenly had $86,400 in your savings account and somebody unfairly took $10 from it would you spend the balance of $86,390 trying to get it back or would you just blow it off and deal with life with what you have?”

“Dad, if I had that much money I wouldn’t sweat the $10. “

“Exactly son. You may not have that much money but you have 86,400 seconds in a day. Just because someone ruins 10 of those seconds doesn’t mean you should let them ruin the rest of your day.”

Doctor's Orders, by Heather Robinson

6/11/2020

 
According to my doctor, I am in a very serious condition, but I’m not buying it. My temp was only a hundred and three this morning, and I drank a few glasses of ice water, and then it was down to 97. So there. And yes, because I know they are the most accurate, I used a mouth thermometer. Trying to catch me again, are you? I understand that one of my legs is lobster red (and it does hurt a bit), but I found one of Franny’s old powder compacts and dabbed that on and you can hardly tell. As for the throbbing, if you don’t think I know how to handle pain, you haven’t been paying attention. World War II, remember that? A few aspirins and some shots of vodka should do the trick. I’m looking outside, and it seems to be a perfect day to blow the leaves into the street, so I’ll be doing that. “Doctor’s Orders” be damned. ​

Carrying Any Banned Object? by Sankar Chatterjee

6/11/2020

 
Cathy Allen, a doctoral researcher was passing through the security check in the international airport in Lima, Peru. Her luggage took separate ride through the X-ray machine. While Cathy herself cleared the security hurdle with no incidence, she noticed her luggage were seating on the floor after traversing the scanning apparatus.

Two female officers came over, escorted her to a questioning area, and one of them threw the first salvo: “Are you carrying any banned object?” Dumbfounded, Cathy denied and explained that she was in the country to explore the famous Machu Picchu ruins. One of the officers went back, brought back both pieces of her luggage, and flew open to dump everything on a table. That’s when a white small statue appeared in the scene. One of the officers grabbed the statue and took it inside another room. Returning after half an hour, she announced that the identity of the material did not match to any forbidden chemical in their database!

Suddenly Cathy remembered. After finishing hiking on the ancient Inca Trail, she spent a few days exploring different Inca sites within the boundary of the Sacred Valley. One day, she ended up in the town of Maras known for its historic salineras (salt mines). High on a mountain slope, there were several thousands of tin pans that wonderfully glistened in bright sunlight. Each pan was a rectangular deep cut-out, dug right into the slope. There sat a natural spring at the top of the valley; its warm water, loaded with natural salt fed the pans with a steady stream of water.

Even in pre-Inca time, the civilization who had lived there developed a highly effective system to divert the downwards water into the pans. This was done by passing salted-water through numerous narrow channels created along the boundaries of the pans and controlling the amount of water that could get into a particular pan. As the water from a filled pan slowly evaporated from the heat of the sun-rays, the water became supersaturated and salt precipitated out as various shaped crystals. Remaining water in the pan was then allowed to dry naturally. Within a few days the keeper carefully scraped the dry salt from the sides and bottom and reopened the water-supply notch. Same practice has been continuing over past several centuries. Mineral samples from the site were being sold at local gift stores. From there, Cathy picked up that souvenir appearing more like an Inca God. She explained her account to the officers. To prove her point, Cathy even gently licked the statue.

Both Cathy and the officers heard her name being announced in the airport’s PA system, being the last passenger sought for a particular departing flight at that moment. Reluctantly, the officers allowed her to repack luggage, recollect the souvenir, and led her to the departing gate.

You Have to Ask the Question, Don’t You? by Roger Haydon

6/11/2020

 
It’s a pockmarked spherical crownlike thing, smaller than the wavelength of visible light, smaller than colour. Given the opportunity reproduces ad infinitum. Two times ad infinitum quickly becomes a very large number.

It stows away, flies all over the planet. If it could, it would be grateful to autocrats, dictators, incompetent politicians and non-believers. It would approve of air travel, especially economy class, the Cheltenham Festival and parties in the White House.
.
It shows no hint of gratitude, regret or apology. What do you expect from something so small, that it cares? It passes no known test that would define it as life. It is pure code, an instruction manual.

The instructions say: ‘Breathe me in then make lots more of me. Breathe out, take a plane, breathe out, go to a gig, breathe out, have a drink in a bar, breathe out, party all night, breathe out. I need life to give me my not-life.’ And we follow them.

What if we could see it creeping around, hanging in the air, looking for us? We could swerve to avoid it. We could hide behind trees, in under stairs cupboards, in locked attics until it gave up and went away and died of a broken heart all alone. The FBI would have kept it away from the President by shooting it and Special Branch would have protected the Prime Minister by telling it lies.

Instead, maybe we should be grateful to this not-life thing, smaller than colour, for showing us truths we have long overlooked, stripping away layers we have forgotten about, calling out the lies and the liars.
​

Sleep, by V. L. Draven

6/11/2020

 
I lay in the dark.  I try to sleep, but the welcome blackness fails to reach for me.  I know she is nearby.  But she is outside my grasp.  I wish I had not met her, that she had not become my lover.  It would have been better for both of us.  I look around the dim room.  She is hiding in the shadows.  She watches.  She hesitates.  She has nothing to fear from me.  I would never hurt her.  The pricking in my eyes signals the desire to slip into her embrace.  Yet we both know that is no longer possible.
I learned the truth years ago; she revealed it to me.  Sleep is not something we fall into.  She is a being that hunts us.  She lays in wait in every shadow, waiting upon our readiness for her.  Once we have been prepared by our desire for rest.  Once our eyes are closed and her presence cannot be detected, then she approaches.  She touches us, strokes our mind with her invisible fingers.  When we are helpless, she starts to feed. 
I was nearly dead, when I first saw her.  Laying in a drug induced stupor, foam dribbled from my mouth.  The needle was still in my arm.  Sleep was all I desired.  When I looked around the room, everything swam and swooned.  Yet, there she was.  She watched shyly, unsure, curious.  She approached me, ran her fingers down my face.  Unable to move, I looked up at her, tried to talk.  Her black eyes, her long dark hair.  I wanted her, to feel the warmth of her body against mine.  Somehow, I knew her seduction would end in my demise.  Yet I could not resist. 
Before the drugs wore off, Sleep had already left.  The desire for her had faded from my eyes, removed by her feeding on the buildup of tiredness that the drugs had induced.  I walked in the daylight, unsure of what I had experienced.  Yet that night, as I prepared for bed, she returned.  Unafraid, she sat on my blankets.  She stroked my forehead.  She kissed my lips.  And as I fell into her embrace again,  she filled my dreams with her fantasies.    
We became lovers.  She visited me each night; I slipped into unconsciousness in her arms, but when the morning came, I always woke alone.  
Months passed, but my dreams turned sour.  I woke in the night screaming.  She gazed upon me. Her form had turned pallid and pale; she was ill, sick from our association.  She could not remain.  She left, looking back as tears flowed down her face.  Her kind were never supposed to fraternize with the awakened. 
Now she haunts me.  Watches me from across the room.  I still want her, yet we both know that we cannot be together.  Never again will I feel the warmth of her embrace, only the pricking of eyes so heavy with the need for her, that I can barely keep them open.

The Last Place Champion, by Michael Talledes

6/11/2020

 
The referee stands straight and firm, centered between Dan’s 13-year-old daughter and her challenger, holding the wrist of each competitor at belt-level moments before revealing the winner. Family and spectators wait impatiently, nipping the cuticles from their fingers, murmuring amongst one another why they believe their child should be victorious. A hand is raised! Amanda’s opponent erupts with a shock of excitement as she is declared the unanimous victor. Shrieks of cheers escalade on the other end of the red and blue grid mat. Unphased by a first-round elimination, Amanda gives a bow of respect and handshake to her successor before exiting the grid and making her way to the trophy table, adjacent to the tri-level podium.

“Amanda!”

Dan stumbles to pursue his daughter as he scoops a pair of bulky salt-stained winter coats under his left armpit, while fastening the strap of Amanda’s Karate bag across his shoulder.

Extending her iPhone in arms reach of her face and accompanied holographic purple acrylic trophy—SNAP! With one hand and a few fingers effortlessly clicking on the screen of her phone, the tweet is posted for her 556 followers: #Champion2020!

Invading her frame of vision, Amanda abandons a burst of new photos as her father waddles with their belongings towards her in confusion.

“Amanda, what—what the heck happened out there?”

“What do you mean, Dad?”

An interruption of cheers from a nearby match elevates Dan’s frustration as he struggles to question his daughter.

“Sweetheart, you went through 6 months of grueling training for this championship. Your sparring was sloppy and I could tell by your face you were not hungry to win. Talk to me here.”

“I don’t know, Dad. Maybe it was just an off day.”

“I don’t’ think that’s it, Amanda… And what is that for?” Dan nods at the 12-inch trophy.

“It’s my participation trophy… Anyone that doesn’t place in the top three spots earns one.”

“But you lost… First round—that’s it. End of story.”

Biting her lower lip, Amanda avoids making eye contact with her father as her cheeks begin to flush.

“Look, sweetie, I’m sorry. You have to learn that sometimes in life you are going to fail, which is perfectly normal! But you don’t celebrate your failures, you learn from them. If you leave here today with that trophy, you are a champion of nothing. But if you walk away with an ambition to learn and an open mind to improve from your weaknesses, you’re that much closer to becoming a champion. And not just in Karate, but in life.”

A near minute of silence passes when Amanda resumes her attention on the notifications from her phone.

“Well?”

“Sorry, Dad. Some of my friends are just congratulating me on my so-called “failure”.”

Dan takes a seat on the 1st place slot of the podium as he watches his daughter text.

"Oh, how times have changed."
​

Different Shades of Yellow, by Teddy Kimathi

6/11/2020

 
As a child, I always wondered why sunflowers never get tired of following the sun’s direction. Every tilt and turn is so precise. The sun is like a general inspecting his soldiers.

“Why?” I asked my father.

“They are teaching you to follow rules,” he said.
I was tempted to ask him what rules, but I suspected he would tell me sunflowers never question; they just act, or find themselves acting.

A sunflower in a vase stands close to the corner of the kitchen, yet no single time have I ever seen it facing my wife as she breaks eggs for scrambling. In a kind of way, yolks glitter like the sun indoors.

They are more radiant than the amber dress I saw her wearing during autumn, three years ago. It had white dots all around it. She was the most beautiful thing I saw that day.

My skin could feel the heat as I walked towards her. I started a conversation with a stranger, later turning to a date. Wedding bells and rings later sealed our commitment.

Sometimes we argue even about things that don’t exist. She wins often without me noticing. I’m allergic to invisible things. “You are always bitter because you eat a lot of lemons,” she tells me. I wonder if that’s the reason she rarely kisses me. My tongue, I imagine, tastes like bile.

Long gone are the days we chased each other in the cornfield like children, and watching the sunset together. Scarecrows now are scattered everywhere, chasing crows and memories she wishes she would forget.

Photos, a tiny bed, and plastic balls were all burnt to ashes, weeks after our pet’s disappearance in the cornfield. Fire was the only way my wife thought could burn away all the memories of her faithful canine.

At times she stares at a matchbox, as though she wants to lit herself to flames, burning all the remnants of her memories. Apricot juice, her favorite, is all I can give her to sooth her mind. I just wish my kiss tasted like apricot.
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    Friday Flash Fiction is primarily a site for stories of 100 words or fewer, and our authors are expected to take on that challenge if they possibly can. Most stories of under 150 words can be trimmed and we do not accept submissions of 101-150 words.


    However, in response to demand, the FFF team constructed this forum for significantly longer stories of 151-500 words. Please send submissions for these using the Submissions Page.

    Stories to the 500 word thread will be posted as soon as we can mange.

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    ​Please note that we tend to post longer flash fiction exactly as we find it – wrong spacing, everything.

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