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The Loser, by Candace Arthuria Williams

26/11/2021

 
His Mom turned off the alarm at 6:18. Twelve minutes later, it would have awakened Charlie. Marsha nuked hot water for her coffee and clicked on the morning Bible Study. Great. The Prodigal Son. Charlie had been living a riotous life pretty much since graduation. That was eight years ago. He wanted to be an anesthesiologist—except he didn’t like school. Joyce, his childhood sweetheart-turned-fiancée aspired to study at Le Cordon Bleu. Instead, she took up Nursing, securing a per diem job at PortaCare.

Marsha put the third load in the wash. Even the dryer buzzer couldn’t wake him. Today was Charlie's birthday, so he deserved to sleep in. He would resume his job search tomorrow. Playing cards and hopping bars were wearing him out. Joyce too. Since COVID, everything had changed. She reassessed her future and considered greener pastures. Maybe London. Charlie’s father and sister had flown the coop years ago. Marsha had chosen to remain in the states and be a good Catholic wife to a husband who wasn’t there and an overindulgent Mom to her ne’er-do-well son.

Around noon, Charlie texted his dinner request. Joyce glanced at her phone. Calamari Carbonara at Lorenzo e Fauci. Sure Charlie. She was on her second shift. So she replied with a reasonable alternative. Meatballs and Spaghetti—Casa Gratis di Madre. Charlie didn’t get it, but he replied “Okay.” It was the most effort he had expended that day.

At 9:59 p.m., Joyce arrived with the cake. Tiramisu from the best Italian bakery she had been able to find on her break. Like that slouch really deserved it. He wasn’t looking so much like that cute boy from school who had swept her off her feet. Charlie helped his Mom with the dishes and awaited her sweet kiss on his forehead. Marsha smiled. He really was a good boy.

Another six years went by. One night his mother went to sleep and never woke up. At long last, rest for the weary. A couple of weeks later, Charlie relocated to London, where he mooched and sponged just as though he had never left home.

Joyce finally made it to Versailles. There was little or no contact for years— until the news was broadcast around the world. U.S. Ambassador Charles P. Moore the second has died. At forty-two, Charlie was an orphan. He made plans to reconnect with his soulmate. Joyce’s reply was curt. Sorry for your loss, but my husband doesn’t allow me to date. My children wouldn’t like it much either.

The estate included Intellectual Property that was of no particular interest to Charlie’s sister. So he published his father’s manuscript under Charles P. Moore the third. The literary world would never notice the subtle difference. Or care. It was a best seller on both continents. Charlie couldn’t wait to see his name with all those numbers etched in the annals of the Library of Congress.

He was an instant international success. His mother would have been so proud.

Light Work, by Dee Lorraine

26/11/2021

 
Friday, November 12, 2021.

Gloria received her first whole paycheck in months, with back payments included. Her employer had fallen behind in paying staff because of the pandemic. Finally, he had caught up.

The delay had stretched her resources beyond their limit, but Gloria didn’t complain. She liked the job. It was light work, and her boss was a good guy.

Gloria knew once she got the check, it would cover everything.

She cashed her check at the bank, put the money in her wallet, and the wallet in her purse.

As Gloria left the bank, a masked man ran by, snatched her purse, and took off like a rocket.

At first, Gloria panicked. Her money was gone! Then she took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and prayed.

"God is in control. Maybe that guy needed it more than I did," Gloria thought. "God knows what He’s doing. Jesus said to forgive 70 times seven."

“I forgive you, Mister Masked Man,” she announced.

Gloria called her five faithful friends: Mary, Bill, Adrian, Lynn, and Doug. They pitched in enough money to pay her past due and current rent and court costs, to stop the eviction.

“No need to repay it. We're blessed to have it to give,” said Gloria's friends.

Her elderly neighbor Gordon gave her the $100 grocery store gift card he had received as an incentive for getting his COVID-19 vaccine. Then he invited her to his apartment for Thanksgiving dinner with his wife, children, and grandchildren.

“Always room for one more,” Gordon said.

Gloria was grateful and ecstatic. She’d be able to stay in her apartment for Thanksgiving and Christmas, enjoy a family dinner gathering, and buy groceries until next payday.

Monday, November 15.

Gloria’s landlord accepted the money and dismissed her eviction proceeding.

But Gloria didn’t have anything left to pay the $490 past due on her power bill.

Tuesday, November 16.

The power was scheduled for cutoff by 5 p.m.

Gloria had candles, matches, and a flashlight ready for her return home from work Tuesday night. She opened the door, prepared for darkness.

There was light.

Wednesday. Thursday. Friday. Saturday. Sunday. Monday.

Light continued.

Tuesday, November 23. The eighth day.

There was light.

Gloria left for work.

When she returned home, she saw a note from the power company taped on her door.
​

Dear Customer: The administration and employees at Eastern Star Power & Light wish you the brightest holiday season ever. An anonymous donor has paid your debt in full.

A Day of Giving, by Jim Bartlett

26/11/2021

 
“How was your meal?” asks Tom, smiling.

“The fries were soggy, the burger only half-cooked, and there was no fizz in my drink. I couldn’t eat’um. Gimme my money back.”

“I’m so sorry. I’ll check with the manager.” As Tom turns he notices that other than a single catsup-drenched fry, both the woman’s plate and cup are empty.

He sighs. This week, with the new cook still struggling, it seems all he’s done is give refunds. But like Tom, the guy needs his job.

With that, he simply can’t hit the till, so he instead scoops the last few bills and sorry bit of change from his tip jar. Shrugging, he returns to the woman’s table. “I hope this makes up for your experience.”

With a huff, mostly for show, she grabs the money and shoots out the door.

When Tom’s “real” job cut back hours, he had to find a second one to make ends meet. Though the pay was horrid, Burger Barn was the only job that fit his hours.

It’s not until an hour and a half past his shift’s end that he’s able to finally hang up his apron. Beaten down, he slips out the door, crossing the parking lot to the Safeway. He still needs something for Thanksgiving, so he picks up a small turkey breast and a can of green beans.

Maybe next year they’ll have a real Thanksgiving.

“$14.37,” says the checker.

It’s then he remembers giving away his tip money. Which had been meant for Thanksgiving dinner. He slides in his debit card, but the nasty beep of “Denied” confirms his fears: his account is just as empty as his wallet.

“Sorry.” With the weight of everyone’s eyes upon him, he heads out for the bus stop.

When the 9:05 finally arrives at 9:50, it’s standing room only, leaving him to squeeze his way into a spot in the middle aisle for the long ride home.

“Home” for now is a shoddy apartment building on the east side. Besides meeting his budget, it was the only place with a ground floor unit, something he needs for Celia. As he nears the apartment, he remembers to be thankful that tomorrow will not be another like today. Thanksgiving is one of his few days off.


He opens to the door to the excited shout of “Daddy” as Celia rolls her wheelchair over for a hug. He winks at Mrs. Danner, who stands smiling in the kitchenette.

“Lucky man, you.”

“I get paid Friday, so I’ll pay you—“

“Nonsense. I should be paying you to stay with this angel.” Pointing at the counter, she says, “I guess a group of folks at the Safeway saw what you went through tonight. Practically crying, they dropped off a turkey, mashed potatoes, and some rolls. But...here’s the really good news – the foundation called. They’re going to fund Celia’s operation. This little girl might be walking by spring.” Moving closer, she joins their hug. “Happy Thanksgiving, my friends.” ​

The Bedroom Aftermath, by Jeremy Leariwala

26/11/2021

 
Morris woke up feeling rejuvenated after siesta. The whole house was really quiet, eliminating the worry of staying scantily dressed.

“I’m tired of your acts! It is time you told me EVERYTHING!” Jane exploded when Morris walked into their living room. Her bloodshot eyes revealed the magnitude of anguish she must have suffered, while he enjoyed his rest.

He froze in his tracks. Jane stormed out of the room and disappeared into the bedroom.

“Honey, what is the problem? I don’t understand.”

No response.

He followed her. He found her standing by her dressing table looking out the window, sobbing and shaking.

“Would you mind telling me what this is all about?” Morris boomed.

Jane spun, sharply, on her heels and her eyes threatened to blow up. Her lips trembled, barely completing words.

“I’ve suspected many things for long! I’ve watched your steps, and I feel like the time to face the truth is NOW!”

“So?”

“You no longer touch me. There is no longer an iota of love between the two of us-all because of that witch in a mini-skirt!”

“WHAT?”

“YES! Don’t deny it! You are having an affair with Raisy.” She dropped the bomb-shell.

It stung, like a red-hot pin going through his heart. Two decades of an introvert’s faithfulness was wounded; set on fire when he least imagined it. His anger started boiling bit by bit…

“See! You can’t utter a word for yourself, because it is the truth!”

“You’re accusing me of an affair? With our own neighbour?”

“Our neighbour MY FOOT!” Jane blasted shaking a finger. “Why doesn’t she stop by our gate like you do every other day at her place? Ehe?”

That was it. Morris turned and stomped off. He yanked the garage’s door and went inside. He grabbed one of the sharpest machetes...

Still enraged, he half-ran towards the family coffee garden about seventy meters away. The sun simmered on a bright cloudless sky and the birds played, unconcerned, on the fruit trees all around.

PUFF! HUFF!

WHACK! WHACK!

Morris went into a psychic chopping spree. He cut off branches, one coffee bush after another, swinging arms like a robot. From every pore of his skin, sweat streams poured before soaking into his vest and khaki shorts.

Thirty minutes later, all their bushes were stripped off branches; a task that ordinarily consumed one and half hours of careful pruning.

***

On the patio later that evening...

“I was afraid you would harm yourself, the way you cut those branches.” Jane confessed dabbing his blistered palm using a cotton wool dripping with disinfectant.

AUCH!

Other wounds, especially those on his legs, inflicted by falling branches, were long cleaned-n- drying. All his muscles complained at the slightest movement.

Jane finally rose to her feet.

“Can I get you more coffee? There is some more in the kettle.” Would she ever wait for the answer?

“Yes darling, more coffee please...”

Father’s Day, by David Milner

26/11/2021

 
Your hair in that loose bun, like always, a fallen strand on the dark wool of your collar. From a specific distance I see you. My memory swirls like a difficult wind. I should be Leonardo DiCaprio in a cashmere overcoat come to sweep you off your booted heels. You are wearing boots. Keep my hair on, as my mother often tells me. You hate her, remember?

I could write a letter, well the one I’m always composing, only you will chuck it in the bin, unread, unloved. Maybe you will wrinkle your nose, like you do, and shred it between your slender fingers.

Ada Lovelace Park. Hey, they went and renamed it, in all their received wisdom. An online campaign. You must have thrown your agitated hat into that ether…

Ada Lovelace Park. The children should be here with me.

I’m attending the groups, up and running again, with other men in chains or might as well be, huh? One of them said the woman grieves during the relationship, while the man doesn’t even realise, then it’s too late, bro… the idiot grieves long after the horse has bolted. So, we are The Lost Fathers, saddled up again, Hoo-ha! seeking justice, that’s what we tell each other. Or is it emotional rescue? As we struggle through the quagmire of regret, guilt. Grown men missing out on the Tooth Fairy and the Easter Bunny. Still paying through the nose, read ‘em and weep. One guy hired a private detective, I think it was his cousin or something. Supposed to keep things in the room, you know? Did I tell you this already? Does it matter?

Here I am. Watching you. Like the old song. What a joke. My mother doesn’t know.

And of course, he is taller than me. How so much like you to meet at the bandstand. Ochre coloured leaves underfoot.

Another strand falls and… if he… If he should tuck it behind your ear….
​

When I've Finished This Chapter, by Tom Baldwin

26/11/2021

 
I suppose most people’s lives have been changed by a book at some point. Mine was changed forever by Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice, and I haven’t even read it.

The trouble started on Phil’s birthday. He’d always enjoyed reading before we were married, so when I found a new book by his favourite author I bought it for him. He thanked me warmly and said he would look forward to reading it.

That night he sat up in bed reading until nearly 3.0 am. I kept asking him to put the light off, but all he said was, ‘When I’ve finished this chapter, Kath.’ I didn’t know it then, but those words would return to haunt me.

The following evening he was tired after his late night, so I suggested he went to bed early. ‘Good idea,’ he yawned. When I followed a few minutes later, Phil was fast asleep with his book lying open. I gently removed it, but to my surprise he woke and took it from me.

‘I must finish this chapter,’ he murmured. This time I managed to fall asleep, and had no idea when he did.

As the months went by we spent less and less time talking, and every time I saw him he was devouring yet another book from his ever-growing collection. He often forgot to cook when it was his turn, so I had to. And now money was tight because he’d been sacked for reading instead of working.

When I came home from work I’d ask him how his day had been, or what was for dinner, and I’d always get the same answer: ‘When I’ve finished this chapter.’ He wasn’t even answering my questions now.

I tried talking to him, increasingly angrily, about his non-stop reading, and each time he would agree he had a problem and promise to change, but the next day he’d be lost in a book again.

It was pouring with rain the night it happened. I’d come home late from work soaked, tired and hungry, to find Phil in the armchair reading Pride and Prejudice. To my surprise, he stood up and gave me a welcome-home kiss, the first in weeks.

‘Kath, darling,’ he said, ‘I bought another bookshelf today. Could you help me put it up after dinner? I’m cooking tonight.’

I nodded wearily and went upstairs to change into dry clothes. When I came down he was back in the armchair, reading again. I asked him, possibly a little sharply, what was for dinner.

‘When I’ve finished this chapter.’

I raised the heavy new bookshelf ….

Of course, I deeply regret what I did, and I’m relieved Phil has recovered and says he has forgiven me. I accept my punishment and will serve my time quietly. I can put up with the locked doors and lousy food, but why did they have to refine my punishment so sadistically by making me work every day in the prison library?

The Note, by Alex Blaine

26/11/2021

 
Life passed me by the other day. It was full of old dogs' children and watermelon wine, rolling in the air on the summer evenings. We'd take snaps and get out of line. But winter came too fast, freezing my dreams, like this old photograph. I found your note too late. If you had only said something, if only I'd known, we could have run away together. But you picked a beautiful hill to die on, where the sun sets overlooking the river at our old make-out tree. I found out after you'd gone I was with child. He looks like you. He has your eyes, your mischievous grin.

When it's time I want to be put here on this hill by our old tree. I can just make out our names; you carved them back in the first spring. I look to the sky as this is the last time I'll do so. The stars are as beautiful as they were the first time.
​

The Backstory, by Pamela Kennedy

19/11/2021

 
"NOW SHE TELLS ME! Marcus has just been diagnosed with autism and Sissy needs to work to pay for mounting medical bills. I don't hate kids, but Marcus is truly a handful under the best of circumstances," Dabney grumbled under his breath. He was hot under the collar. He'd do anything for Sissy...well almost anything...but did it have to be this? He went out with the guys last night and his head was now paying for it. "Emergencies never happen at my convenience," he growled.

"Stop, Marcus! STOP! Stop banging your freakin' truck against the table! Stop your temper tantrum!"

Dabney grabbed a gyrating and screaming Marcus and with a firm grip, vigorously shook the child until he realized that Marcus was no longer wailing…..His head no longer supported itself.

"Marcus? MARCUS! Oh! What have I done?"

Dabney gently tucked Marcus into his bed along with his teddy bear and then quickly exited his sister's apartment to join the void of the world.

***
He knew what day it was and needed no reminders. Was Marcus sleeping peacefully leaving behind his tormented world? How could he ever have had a clue as to what nature's cruelty had imposed upon him. Marcus was too young to realize that Sissy had no life of her own as her life had become all about him. Dabney was hoping against all odds that Sissy was able to bury the past and move on. Soon the past will be over. But for a few more moments, Dabney clung on to it remembering the happy years before Marcus came into their lives, when he and Sissy were not only siblings but fun loving friends...when life was enjoyment in and of itself. He had had enough days of being on the run and whisking out of his thoughts that awful moment. Dabney observed the two officers exiting the squad car and as they were crossing the street…

***

Sissy stood outside the crematorium wondering what to do with Dabney's ashes. It's been almost two decades since he fled leaving little Marcus's lifeless body alone in her apartment.

Dabney's note described his life on the lam as one hardship after another with only brief moments of joy. For Sissy, a once beloved brother will forever be a murderer and a coward. By choosing suicide over facing a jury, there would be no legal justice for Marcus.

Passing by a dumpster, Sissy paused wondering whether Dabney's ashes truly deserved a more respectful burial place than that receptacle. "Do they?", she asked herself before she chose to..

Checkout, by Steven Holding

19/11/2021

 
The symphony of the self-service is an intricate audio collage of ambient beeps. Maggie sighs, stealing sneaky peeks into the wire baskets of strangers as lonesome Friday night consumers hurriedly stuff their goods into crackling plastic bags that are already in danger of splitting. Microwave meals for one jostle for space in-between duos of scented loo roll and bogof four packs of dented lager as the single loaf of sliced white refuses to scan once again.
The strained faces are left with little choice but to ignore one another as Maggie’s turn to purchase finally arrives. Stepping up she shudders at the sight of the blurred touch screen, smeared with the grease of the previous user’s sticky mitts, her own outstretched digit trembling as it initiates her retail experience.
She rolls the bottle of own brand whisky past the flickering glow of the lasers red eye, depositing it with a thump on the shelf to her left, blinking as the monitor suddenly flashes a menacing sentence in blazing orange capitals.
APPROVAL REQUIRED.
Well, thinks Maggie, hasn’t that always been the case?
A slight tap upon the shoulder and Maggie spins, nose to nose with a frowning male, fresh-faced enough to be her offspring. A laminated plastic badge upon the youth’s lapel proudly boasts the legend ASSISTANT MANAGER; the shoulders of his mud-coloured uniform lightly garnished with a Christmassy sprinkle of dandruff.
The young man gives Maggie the once over with a beady eye. Apparently satisfied she is of an appropriate age, he slips past her, approaching the machine with a confident strut. A flurry of fingers taps out a complex code, authorising the transaction. Job done he is about to retreat when he glimpses the rest of Maggie’s shopping.
Six blue cardboard packets, all identical, are lurking at the very bottom of her carrier.
“Sorry Madam,” he says, gesturing towards the tiny rectangular boxes, “Company policy, but I am afraid you can only buy those one at a time…”
Maggie swallows, miniature beads of salty sweat springing into existence upon her creased brow.
“Oh, I see. Sorry.”
He leans in, scooping up five of the boxes, then disappears down an aisle.
Only one remains.
As Maggie pays, feeding notes and loose change into the greedy machine, she slowly calculates the number of shops she will pass during her slow journey home.
It should be enough.
Shuffling through pneumatic doors, the high street heaves with cackling gangs of drinkers, all en route to the next watering hole. Glass shatters somewhere in the distance, making Maggie flinch.
“Someone’s on a mission!”
The statement is punctuated with a throaty exclamation mark of a laugh. Maggie’s expression shifts, instant recognition bringing a grin to her lips, as familiar fleshy tattooed arms swamp her.
“Girlfriend, say ya ain’t busy! We gotta a lotta catching up to do!”
“That… That’d be great” whispers Maggie, wondering if angels ever realise what they are.
“Let’s head to mine for a drink… Ya can finish ya shopping another ​

Con Artist from Purgatory, by Greg Vander-Haeghen

19/11/2021

 
I am Herbert H. Haskins and I am unequivocally dead. Ripped-to-shreds dead as an amateur con artist trying to sham a truck load of bananas from an agitated Bolivian Gorilla.

Immediately following this horrific incident, my soul levitated from my body leaving behind the flesh that was still screaming for mercy.

Floating…I encountered an iridescent light accompanied by a peppy voice saying, “Purgatory in two hours.”

That peppy voice materialized as a thirtyish, friendly, red-haired woman who chatted me up about both “Purg” and her own emerging music career. She explained: “Purgatory is a lively place, and I personally suggest you explore the Contract Department and also inquire about our ‘Purgatory-to-Heaven Work Program.’”

Fast forward six months, Alice and I were relating exceptionally well, having lunch each day. Distracted, I was neglecting my duties as the Purgatory gardener and this wasn’t the time to flake out the week before the Agricultural Inspectors were going to pay a Yearly visit.

Pondering my conundrum, I decided that my only recourse to stay in good standing here in Purgatory was to get a one-day pass to visit Hell. Yes, Hell. H as in Hottest.

My desperate plan was to go there to barter for their magic fruit and vegetable seeds that can grow a complete garden in one day. Indeed, Hell uses those magic seeds because “sin is a great nutrient.”

The trip was instantaneous through a special portal. Upon arrival, we met in their chilly Agricultural Room with a fiftyish-looking cowboy named Jeremiah.
He raved about the magic seeds. Not wasting time, I offered him a truck load of Purgatory’s coveted rotten fruits and vegetables—because “indecision isn’t good for produce.” In exchange, of course, for the magic seeds. Jeremiah’s eyes twinkled as I brought the produce that was sent to Hell.

I was shocked to see Alice sitting in the waiting room, head in her lap, sobbing loudly. I immediately went over to her.

“What’s wrong, Alice? I hate to see you this way….”
“I’ve been framed,” said Alice.” The Devil, she explained, was being vindictive. She had repulsed his many sexual advances. “The scary tail, the burnt-egg smell, the weird skin color—I didn’t want that anywhere near me!”

Alice was put on house arrest in a dormitory in Hell.
I felt guilty thinking it, but, selfishly, I saw myself working on Hell’s Garden crew, being with her. How could a relationship under those circumstances possibly fail?

So, I signed a contract to work in Hell for eternity as a gardening supervisor.

The lawyers got us off because we acted out of goodness by repulsing the Devil—who can’t punish us. It’s a loophole in the Division of Dominions over sinners, “hot places” and archangels. There are lots of loopholes in actuality and the Devil has eternity to discover them.

Alice and I married, of course, and are living in the always-exciting Creative District of Purgatory, known for its writers, artists, musicians like Alice, and others of a romantic bent.
​

Target Man, by Gordon Lawrie

12/11/2021

 
I've been a target for the bullies all my life. At almost 2 metres tall and built in proportion, I'm that big guy that's blocking your view of the stage, the one that you seem to be dodging first one way then the other to get around. Most of all, though, I'm that big bad monster that everybody wants to see get given his comeuppance.
 
From my earliest days at school, I was the one that everyone went after. People used to throw things at me, or call me names, then run away before I could do anything back. Not that I wanted to do anything back, because Mummy taught me not to rise to the bait but to turn the other cheek instead. More importantly, if I hit anyone back, I'd get into more trouble from the teachers because... I'd be seen as the big guy throwing my weight about.
 
Around that time, there were a couple of gangs in my local neighbourhood, the Phillies and the Izzies. You had to be in one or the other or else they'd both go after you. I was in the Phillies, and one day the two gangs agreed to meet for their weekly gang fight. At least that's what I thought would happen, because that's what normally happened. But then the two leaders got their heads together and decided it would be more fun to see what would happen if wee Davie of the Izzies took on... Guess Who? By that stage everyone in both gangs had worked out that I was a big pussycat and wouldn't harm a fly. But could I be riled into doing something to protect the honour of the Phillies?
 
So suddenly I found myself all on my own facing wee Davie, armed only with a baseball bat that I'd no intention whatsoever of using. I was just hoping to use my long reach to keep him away, perhaps take his own baseball bat off him. But then he did two things that threw me. First: no baseball bat, only a catapult and a collection of stones. Second: he was stark naked! I mean, what was I to do?
 
Wee Davie didn't hang around. He took aim with his catapult and clocked me straight in the head with the first stone, a cheap shot. Instinctively, I knew what to do: fall down and pretend I was dead. Davie was so busy celebrating with his pals, and the gangs were so busy fighting anyway (as expected) that nobody noticed me get up and slink off. Contrary to rumours, nobody "cut my head off" – Davie didn't even have a knife with him! (Check it out.)
 
But as for me, I had to disappear. The shame of being brought down by wee Davie was too great. I changed my appearance by shaving my head, and moved to a new town. And I changed my name, although I kept the first couple of letters for old time's sake.

20/4, by S.R Malone

12/11/2021

 
Alexei’s retinas burned. Except they weren’t because they were no longer even there.

Two lenses, reconstituted from a Japanese camera factory now rested in his sockets, flesh glacially knitting around them.

It felt as if an army of ants now marched along his central nervous system. The tingling was unbearable.

Unbearable, yet strangely addictive.

“Can you focus?” said the doctor, Alexei’s vision independently zooming in on her gaunt features. She raised a brow, silently, yet impatiently, reinforcing her question.

“I…can.”

He suddenly glimpsed the frames of his retired glasses on the overhanging table by his thigh, and he extended his mouth into a dry smile.

Everything was clear again, rough shapes now defined and brought into astounding, sharp focus. Every wrinkle on the doctor’s blue rubber gloves, every droplet of blood dissipating in the water dish where her tired implements lay.

Alexei welled up. He felt he might have cried, if that were even at all still possible.

Everything We ever Dreamed Of, by Michael Roberts

12/11/2021

 
Of course we knew it was coming.
If you’d asked me two years ago, even a year ago, the answer might have been different.
Looking back at those days, before everything, is like looking at a closed store.
All the things you want are there, but you can’t get at them.
Back then Allie and I lived in that house, the one with the roof that everyone commented on, the one with the red metal.
We’d stopped trying to explain that it wasn’t our idea to have the roof; it’d come with the house.
There was a history to it that stretched out way before we ever took possession of the house, before we’d even thought of moving here.
We were the Andersons.
Before us was the Franks and before that some other couple, some other family which, according to the neighbour, my wife looks like that wife, the one before the one before us.
And probably so on back to the day that the first white guy arrived in his covered wagon and planted his little stick that said this was his land from now on.
This was in “The Old Days”, before a subdivision went up on the west side of the road, when there was the backyard, the fence, the road and then …..nothing, other than old farm fields that were reverting to meadow and patches of woods.
Now there were God knows how many houses there.
Rows and rows of the same five designs randomly sprinkled through ten square blocks.
“Meridian Hills”.
Catchy if meaningless name, I guess.
But it provided fodder for my stories.
I liked standing in the “Office”, a cubby-hole at the end of the hall between the two bedrooms, and looking out over the backyard, the road and the houses beyond.
You could watch people as they soundlessly went about their lives.
The fat guy with the thing for Bloody Marys before dinner, then Scotch after everyone else had gone to bed.
The handsome guy in the Spanish Revival with the green shingles that I was sure was having a thing with his teenage daughter, unless I was mis-reading the body language.
The girl in the upstairs bedroom of the Santa Fe Ranch-house who was looking back at us the way I was looking at them.
Both of us in this moment in our lives, hers near the beginning of it; me middle-aged.
She fascinated me most of all.
I gave her a name and a history.
Molly, short for Margaret, which she hated.
Good at Math, not so great at English.
Had her eye on a girl in the next grade up but wasn’t sure if it was a crush or not.
The next week I noticed the curtains were down, so her house was either being reno-ed or they were moving.
Sure enough , three weeks later there was a different girl in that window.
I called her Moira, to go with her red hair.

When She Was a Girl, by Angela Carlton

12/11/2021

 
When she was a girl, her world was shaky. Her father had left them and the mother, well, she needed those meds to keep her brain clear. Instead, the mother shoved them down the drain and listened to the gurgle of the disposal. It seemed to match the hush sounds, all those whispers in her ears.

When she was a girl, she searched for love the way you’d search for tulips, daisies, or roses in a lush garden, choosing carefully hoping the beauty, richness, and vibrant colors would last.

When she was a girl, one day a boy spoke to her and brought her the roses pink and white like the ones that matched the print on her bedroom wall while her mother ranted, cried, and s-c-r-e-a-m-e-d. The mother shoved those beautiful petals down the drain too. The gurgling sound was the backdrop, that ferocious noise in her messy head.

When she was a girl, time passed terribly slow until she grew. She grew with the seasons. She grew with the sunlight, fresh water, and the wind. Her limbs seemed to branch out like thick, glorious vines gaining strength and forming into something solid as she rose up, up, and UP.

Yes, she rose onward toward that massive, cloudless sky.

Birthday Days, by Barbara Wheatley

5/11/2021

 
Today it’s somebody’s birthday.

It’s an anniversary. That comes the same day every year, further and further away from the actual day of birth. And for how many years; how many years are we given? Even when people die, their birthdays continue. And when children arrive, there are even more birthdays and even more people to celebrate with. Friends’ and families’ birthdays add to this until the calendar’s full.

I’ve had a few birthdays beyond The Big One. These kind are too many to count on fingers or have candles on a cake. But I can moreorless tell you which houses they were spent in.

House no.1, my childhood home, I had 35 birthdays in, not counting my 21st when I was away in America.

House 2 was my ‘stepping stone’. My husband-to-be-although-I-didn’t-know-it-at-the-time and I had our first date there.

In house 3, our first proper home together, I celebrated my son’s first birthday and my daughter’s first birthday and so on until I celebrated my 40th. My third child was just 4 months old; I was the same age as my mother was when she’d had me. We hired out a wine cellar at the same hotel as our wedding night.

We stayed in house 4 for seven years, but not long enough to celebrate any significant birthdays.

House 5 saw my son celebrate his 13th and me my 50th. I waited 50 years for my first ever music Festival. We wore wellies. We squelched in the mud like ecstatic Gloucestershire Old Spots. We splashed in puddles. I was finally fabulous at 50! To mark this I’d had grand ideas of a huge party in a sizeable garden. I wanted a Mad Hatter’s Tea Party, of course I did, complete with hats and costumes and tablecloth over a neverending table, and champagne and pots of tea and cream and scones.

“Mad Hatter?”

You might well ask. My son had entered, and won, a competition to ‘Alice In Wonderland’ at The Royal Opera House. His winning ticket got us to the ballet a few weeks after the ‘alternative’ play of the same name; I’d been chosen from the audience, to attend The Tea Party on stage, and wear a Mad Hat. And a jacket. So the idea was born.



Some are born Leos, some Aquarians, some in the Year of the Sheep or Goat or Dog. Milestones, all. Happy Birthdays sung in how many languages, to birthday girls and boys the world over.

Not all get gifts. Some just get cards. Not all get a card.

I didn’t get the neverending table. I didn’t get the party. I didn’t get tea and scones. But I did get a cake. The Mad Hatter’s hat, in 3D, complete with iced 10/6’ note. Everything comes at a price.

We are now in House 6.

Today it’s somebody’s birthday.
​

After the Bedtime Story, by Deborah Shrimplin

5/11/2021

 
Maggie's mom, Georgina, thinks she has an unusual six-year-old child. Maggie never fusses about going to bed. Perhaps it's because Georgina always reads a story to her, tucks the flowery quilt under her chin and gives her a warm goodnight kiss.

Georgina thinks tonight's story is not very creative. A little girl wanders off her parent's campsite into the deep, dark, misty woods. She comes across a stone cabin, knocks on the door, and an old woman lets her in. The old woman, Beatrice, and her tabby cat, Sophie, guide the girl back through the forest while reciting ancient forest legends. The girl's parents are upset with the child for wandering off the campsite but relieved to find her safe. They reward the old lady for being so kind. The End.

"Nice story. Now, sleep tight Maggie."

Maggie winks at her mom, turns over on her side and closes her eyes.

As Georgina shuts Maggie's bedroom door, she thinks she could write a better plot. Then, she completes her evening chores, writes in her diary and goes to bed.

The next morning, when Georgina enters Maggie's room, she stops and rubs her eyes. She shakes her head and stares at Maggie. A tabby cat is nestled against Maggie's shoulder.

"Maggie, wake-up! Where did that cat come from? I've never seen it before."

"Mommy, yes you have. This is Sophie. Beatrice gave her to me. Isn't she cute? Mommy, what story will you read to me tonight?

Begin Again, by David Milner

5/11/2021

 
It was raining. What a way to start the story. And Alison is wearing boots. Made of leather. Zipped and knee length over black tights, and whatever. In a skirt part polyester, part woollen, heraldic hemline inch above the knee. Horribly in love, she is; historically speaking, Alison this morning drinks a stronger cup of coffee than she’d normally have. Checks her appearance in a mirror, which happens to be hand-held and, inches by inches, if we’re counting... Clop of her heels follow her down the staircase she’s too occupied this morning to care about. Anything else? only that she is moving forward… towards something.

It is raining. Just the kind of weather to sell Double Glazing.

Or sell anything. From office space to land rights; stakes in your future; better pensions, for bigger bucks; next better tasting pizza topping.

Tottering on heels across the company car park it seems that Alison has brought the sunlight with her.

Let’s be clear, this is where she works. And often bends over backwards just to please herself.

I am smoking a cigarette.

“Enjoying that, David?”

“While I’ve been waiting for you.”

“And think that you know me, Mister Writer….?”

“Not clearly, Alison.”

“… ‘Bend over backwards just to please herself’?”

“Not one of my better lines, I avow.”

“You included it, anyway.”

“Didn’t have a better….”

“Forget it, David.”

She brushes past as though I wasn’t there. And bends over backwards. I thought, give Alison a gun to kill us all; but how many women go postal? Women in the Bible? How many? Good Shakespearean roles? Comparatively speaking? Behave.

Where would we be without women…? begin again.

Love Game, by Hervé Suys

5/11/2021

 
“Yessssss…. He has liked our selfie, but hasn’t commented yet.”
“HE? Is there a HE?”
“Ooooooh… this is so exciting.”
“Hallo, missy. Who’s the HE? Do I know him?”
“Uhm… what did you say? Didn’t quiet catch that”.
“If I know this HE-person.”
“I don’t think so. Someone I knew while studying.”
“A nurse as well?”
“No, something to do with foreign languages, if I recall correctly.”
“An old flame?”
“You might say that.”
“What happened?”
“Frankly, nothing much. He was about to graduate and we kinda lost contact. Way then there was no internet or cellphones and we didn’t exactly live in each other’s neigbourhood.”
“But now, there is. Internet, I mean.”
“Indeed.”
“And now you guys are having contact after… how many years?”
“Ssssst, I’m afraid to count, I start feeling like an old woman now.”
“Come on, tell me.”
“There is not much to tell. You know, I haven’t séén him back yet, just some chating.”
“Would you like to?”
“I don’t know. On his profile, I saw he has two kids, but appearantly is not in a relationship.”
“So, what are you waiting for?”
“Maybe I’m not…”
“That’s why you were so cheerful when he liked the selfie.”
“Hahahaha… come one, let’s do some warming up and then I’ll beat you on court.”
“Ok, but put off your cellphone till after the game – otherwise you’ll keep wacthing it till HE has commented.”

§§§
“Hey, ladies, the game is still on, I see.”
“Yes, missy isn’t really concentrated.”
“Hush… do you have to tell him?”
“Tell me what?”
“Nothing, darling, I was just kidding. Say, this is the third set and we ran out of water. Would you mind getting us two bottles in the clubhouse?”
“Sure.”
“Thanks, your a love.”
“I love you too, darling.”

§§§

“Geeh, that took you some time to fetch the water.”
“I know. There was an accident in the clubhouse. You remember the loose tile little Miss Safety – present here – made a least a dozen remarks about… well, some bloke stumbled over it. He fell and hit the ground. Badly, because he was heavily bleeding. The president’s wife even fainted seeing that amount of blood. So, we had some trouble with her as well.”
“Jeeez, I’ll have to assist. Quickly.”
“Don’t bother, we’ve called the ambulance. Listen, there they are.”
“Who was it?”
“Never seen the man and nobody seems to know him. How did the game end.”
“Miss Safety won.”
“….”
“What’s the matter?”
“HE sent a message – he’s coming to watch the game.”
“Who?”
“An old flame of hers.”
“Aha… That’s what all the secrecy was about. Show me, what does he look like?”
“Here’s a picture of him, couple of weeks old.”
“… uhm… I think I have some bad news. I’ve seen this man before… a couple of minutes ago.”
​

The Wine Cellar, by John M. Carlson

5/11/2021

 
“One thing I like about this house is that I can finally have a wine cellar!” Ted, my cousin, said, as he gave me a tour of the basement in the house he’d just bought. “They somehow seem so classy!”

I felt a bit shocked. I could remember Ted more inclined to drink cheap rotgut. Then again, I hadn’t seen him since he’d been in college fifteen years ago.

“It’s right over here! It used to be a pantry, back when people still canned tomatoes and pickles every year. But it will work for wine.” Ted took me over to a closed door. He unlocked the door with an old-fashioned key, which I thought looked perfect for a wine cellar full of old, dusty bottles. He turned on the single bulb light inside, and we entered the wine cellar.

I stood, staring. The shelves that once held jars of pickles and tomatoes were now filled with box after box after box of box wine.

Apparently, wine cellar or not, he hadn’t lost his taste for cheap wine.

A Dollar Short at the Dollar Store, by Alyce Clark

5/11/2021

 
I suppose I was like everybody else, going about my day- lost in my own thoughts. And, I shamefully admit, complaining a little about how expensive things are. On the one hand, grateful for the dollar store- and on the other, irritated that my budget suggested it was a good idea.

While waiting in line, that’s when I heard it. A gentle voice, slightly embarrassed, yet hopeful, asking “does anyone have a dollar?”

Total Silence.

I looked up to see a sweet looking elderly woman with white hair and a cashier patiently waiting. Suddenly, so many pairs of eyes stare at the floor as she looks around helplessly. I ache for her.

“Yes,” I heard myself answer, stepping out of line to hand her a dollar, wanting the awkward, uncomfortable silence to end. Wishing I had more than a dollar to give.

“God bless you,” she said closing out her purchase.

“He already has,” I realized thoughtfully.

    Longer
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    Longer Friday Flash Fiction Stories

    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.


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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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