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Fresh Pine Scent, by John M. Carlson

24/12/2018

Colin’s late mother would have hated the artificial Christmas tree in her old living room. “Real trees have character!” she’d always said. “Fake trees always have that fake-looking perfection. And a fake tree never has a fresh pine scent!”

As Colin looked at the new artificial tree he’d just unboxed, he had to admit she had a point. This tree did look a little too perfect. The only scent this tree had was a plastic smell. Probably some chemical leeching out that wasn’t good for one to breathe.

At the same time, though, this fake tree was cleaner than a real tree. He wouldn’t be vacuuming up needles for the next six months. And it was certainly more sanitary, which appealed to a germaphobe like Colin. No telling what might have happened to a real tree as it was growing on the Christmas tree farm. Birds might have relieved themselves on it. Filthy rats might have crawled over it.

This artificial tree came from a nice, clean, sanitary factory. It had seen no birds. It had seen no rats.

Unless they had rats in the factory warehouse...

And what about the people working in the factory? Had someone perhaps sneezed uncontrollably on the tree as it went past on the assembly line? Had the tree been grabbed by someone who hadn’t properly washed his or her hands after going to the bathroom? Had the tree--

With these thoughts, Colin headed to the kitchen, and grabbed a can of disinfecting spray. He took it back to the living room, and carefully started spraying his artificial tree. It might not be sanitary out of the box, but this spray would fix that.

As he worked, he became conscious of a pine tree scent. Like a real Christmas tree. What on earth? He looked down at the can of disinfectant spray. The label said: “New! Mountain Pine Scent.” He smiled. So much for artificial trees never having a fresh pine scent!

My Life, by Bruce Levine

23/12/2018

I wondered about my life. What was I doing? Where was I going? It was a puzzlement and I had no answers. I’d been places; I’d done things – but what did they amount to? I wasn’t alone, but that didn’t matter. My life seemed sustained as if by a wooden hanger. Nothing surrounding me had any relevance. Only the ticking of the clock told me that my life was passing by and yet the days, months and years added no sense of fulfillment.

I searched my memory for those golden moments that are supposed to signal turning points in one’s life and found none.

I didn’t ask for much. I wasn’t hoping or looking for stardom or any special place in the sun. I knew my place as a trusted, faithful companion. One to be counted on. One to be looked upon as a true friend.

Friends come and go and yet I’ve remained constant. That alone should give me some satisfaction. But it doesn’t.

And so I look at my life and I calmly resign myself. An average life. Not unique. Not outstanding. But true to my calling. True to the life of a corduroy jacket.

Keeping it Real, by Don Tassone

22/12/2018

Mickey Stanley belted out the last line of his band’s most famous song, “Portland Forever.” The crowd screamed it out with him, holding up lighters, their fists in the air.

He might be as old as the older ones in the crowd and old enough to be the father of the younger ones, but Mickey still had it.

“Good night!” he shouted as the crowd roared for an encore.

Mickey had been the lead singer for Oregon for more than 30 years. The band had toured extensively in the 80s and 90s, and Mickey had made a fortune.

In his 40s, he started producing music for others. In his early 50s, he was surprised when Oregon’s songs began to enjoy a resurgence.

Now the band was back together and on the road again, promoting a new album. They’d just finished a series of West Coast concerts and landed in Portland. A driver was waiting at the airport to pick Mickey up.

On his way home, he looked out the window and smiled as he thought about the size of the crowd at the concert at Stanford the night before, how much he enjoyed partying with college students afterwards and how favorable the media reviews were that morning.

The limo pulled into his driveway, and the driver got out and pulled Mickey’s suitcase out of the trunk.

“I can take it from here,” he said, handing him a fifty.

Mickey’s wife, Patti, appeared at the front door.

“Welcome home,” she said, smiling.

He wheeled his bag up the front walk and gave her a kiss.

“I missed you,” he said, embracing her.

“I missed you too,” she said.

It was dinnertime, and Patti had made them hot dogs and french fries. As they sat down at the kitchen table, she filled their glasses with cold water from a plastic pitcher.

“So tell me about the tour,” she said.

He had just begun to tell her about the size of the crowds when the phone rang.

“Do you mind if I get that?” she asked.

“No, go ahead.”

Mickey squirted ketchup on his plate, picked up a french fry and dipped it in.

“Sorry,” said Patti a few minutes later. “That was Jane. She just got home from the hospital.”

“How’s she doing?”

“Pretty good,” she said. “I baked some cookies for her today. I’ll bring them over after dinner.”

“That’s nice."

“By the way,” she said, “it’s garbage night.”

“Oh, yeah.”

“And it’s supposed to rain tomorrow afternoon, and the grass is about a foot high. Do you think you could cut it in the morning?”

“Sure.”

“Now, what were you saying about the tour?”

Derek the Great, by Susan Carpenter

19/12/2018

Voted most likely to be a school shooter, Crowfoot Mall rat, Derek packed his high school-shyness deep in the tickle trunk of memory to attend U of C. He’s launched another identity like the latest app. Derek 2.0! He’s a Pscyh student and Dungeon & Dragons Dungeon Master weaving tales for his players. He’s interactive and user-friendly.

But Belle must remember the acne-scarred, loner, pre-alpha version of Derek because her sour-pickle gaze follows him as he takes a seat spitting distance down the row in lecture. She’s still blonde, smooth as vanilla frozen yogurt, a flavor to please everyone. Why does she condescend to attend a Social Anxiety lecture? Cue eyerolling and gum snapping sans her usual entourage.

Hairy-eared, bespectacled Dr. Lieberman intones, “Let’s refer to our notes on Jane Chamberlin’s article referencing Dr. Wilcox’s study. Hands up if you worry what others think.” Hands flutter skyward. “If you avoid speaking in class.” Derek raises his. “Have had trouble making friends in this new environment.” Belle’s French-manicured hand shoots up, a flashing beacon for shipwrecked sailors.

“Good, you’re human.” Laughter, hands drop. “Let’s talk nature versus nurture and how anxiety has kept us alive as a species in these scary times.”

Derek taps away on his Mac. Belle hunts and pecks on her Surface laptop. Lecture over. Derek slips his Mac into his backpack, slings it over his shoulder, rises to file out. Throat cleared behind him.

“Derek, right?”

He turns. She flicks her wispy bangs from her face. She’s dipped the bottom of her bob in pink and it matches her Chinook-chapped cheeks. “I didn’t get all the notes. Not as fast a typist, I guess. Can I borrow yours?”

His heart in his mouth, like he’s chewing on the sun. Coughs. “Sure.”

“Guess I owe you.”

“You can buy me a tea. $0.50 goes to United Way today.” He’s grown cojones, even as his hand shakes holding the door for her.

“I did NOT picture you as a tea guy.” Belle and her perfume lead the way down labyrinthine corridors to the food court.

Derek waves to Eric, or Eldak the Black Guard. Eric gives two thumbs up so hard he might’ve sprained them. His tray hoisted, he jogs over. Derek turns his back on Eldak and finds a cozy table for he and Belle.

“My goddess.” Eric puts his tray down and bends at the waist.

“You know him?” Derek asks.

“Stats. He borrows my homework.”

Derek can’t breathe. Wants to smite Eldak with his Battleaxe. The walls close in, any moment the floor will open, and blackness will suck him down into the Infinite Layers of the Abyss.

“He calls me Resting-beyatch-face.”

“And she calls me Nerd-eric the Lesser.”

Derek fades nearly away, his powers drained as a wall rises between him and them. He conjures Liebermen’s CBT spell. Breathe, replace negative thoughts with realistic ones. Exposure.

“I guarantee you a better name if you join us for D&D,” Derek the Great says.

Nine Lives of a Fiver, by Ceinwen E Cariad Haydon

17/12/2018

One Friday, a fresh fiver surfaces in a miner’s pay packet. After tea, it’s split for a pint in the Working Men’s Club. At last orders, the barmaid gives it in change for the Deputy’s tenner. Next day, his lass pays for funeral flowers; the florist reduces the price from guineas to pounds. The dead man’s a collier, one of their own.

The florist’s young brother likes a night at the dogs. He follows his fancy and bets on a hound, hands his fiver over, lucre destined for loss. The bookie’s lust for ladies is very well known and on late summer nights he pays for delights. His fiver goes far, gets him kisses, on top.

The tart with a heart handles money more wisely. Five quid feeds her bairns every day for a week, though the need to go and hustle makes her widow’s eyes weep. The canny grocer, likes her, gives her extra cheese. In truth he’d like to wed her, take her off the streets. Sadly, he knows the local worthies would beat a retreat and boycott his business by voting with their feet.

The cook from the Big House comes to purchase for her boss, and the fiver goes back with her, to the coffers of the rich. Her Master owns the colliery, lock, stock and barrel and pays the miners’ pittances for shifts of dangerous toil. At Sunday service, the owner ostentatiously donates, places his worn fiver on the brass collection plate.

Next month, Master’s share price has plunged right down, so he docks his men’s wages by a mere half-a-crown. He thinks they won’t notice, or kick up a fuss, ‘After all, it’s loose change to workers like us.’ The loss ripples outwards, into every home, except for the Big House where Master eats prime steak alone.

No money for ale to quench a pitman’s thirst. No flowers to mark another death; a man killed by coal dust who suffered his last breath. No betting nor whoring, no food for hungry bairns, the struggling grocer’s takings slide perilously down.

Yet somehow, on Sunday, another fiver’s found, to show the Master’s godliness, to the people of his town.

Cake-Pops, by Dan A. Cardoza

15/12/2018

She was born on a creamy Tuesday full of grace with a big O angel lip yawn. Sharing the widest of smiles, in what was to become her typical Tiffney Cake-Pop style.

Her childhood rarely sprinkled with ubiquitous luck, let alone grace, yet she made each day her own sugar coated surprise, in spite.

Her dearly loved grandmother Elizabeth taught her the alchemy of baking. At an early age, Tiff made marvelous butter cream cakes full of sweet lemon and light for her imaginary Queen Liz named Grammy, and scones so plain, even a Brit might delight. But in her amalgamation of all things yummy and decadent, it was the revered Cake-Pop that enticed her imagination. From the very start, everyone raved of her gift of the bake.

If Cake-Pop’s were an Olympic event, no doubt she would have been standing tall for the National Anthem, with a Cake-Pop shaped Gold medal dangling from her neck.

Yes, Tiff was in love with her life and of course her beloved Cake-Pops that she made for every occasion, including her grandmothers royal departure, to her most final of destinations. Her grief was short lived, as instructed by Queen Liz, with only one bitter-sweet residue of sadness. It was then when Tiffney made a difficult choice to never revisit grandmother’s kitchen again. It had all to do with, or nothing at all, with Grumpy Grandpa Nicholas, in his faded denim overalls. Wrongly everyone assumed that over the years, his silence and grouse was the result of his assigned dark-chocolate Cake-Pops, subsumed of course in their distinct black sprinkled tops.

And as goes time and baking, with each new Cake-Pop, tick then tock, she made a new friend, as her unbounded love continued its warm oven glow.

In the center of her life, she would create summer Cake-Pops of Water-Melon tops, with black currant seeds afloat all swimming in red. And too she would bake Pineapple Cake-Pops for all her valued welcomings, and include the best gild of gold exploiting her pallet of candied hues. Even Tiff’s Lemon-Raspberry-Cream Pop, stood atop her very own wedding cake. And all her children, so well rounded, were never without her yummy yellow hug-pops.

***

It’s been twenty-five years and not one cake-pop day passes that love is not arranged, at the base of her Cake-Pop grave. Often displayed, are frequent Cake-Pop bouquets, at times garnished in roses all chrism pink, and mums, not to mention green baby tears.

And In the open bird mouths of springs, you may find the blooms of the eye catching Hydrangea, and Billy Button’s dressed in their best dressed-up vests. Our Tuesday’s Child would not have it any other way.

As fall was her special time of year, she would have enjoyed baking gratitude, yet in her passing she shared the lace of her Amaryllis, as well as her Cake-Pop forget-me-not, all woven in blue garlands.

Every winter invisible White Roses lay, near her grave, in the frosty cake-pop snow.

The Continuum Of A Civilization, by Sankar Chatterjee

14/12/2018

Professor Mario Botti of the University of Bologna, an expert in analysis of ancient objects, had been leading an international research effort. The research object was the ancient mummy of a little child, unearthed during an excavation in Egypt, far away from the royal pyramids. Various research groups shared samples from one tiny thread of the embalming cloth to run experiments in their areas of expertise utilizing modern high caliber scientific instruments.

This afternoon, his research team convened a team meeting to discuss latest developments. The members would report to him that they had definitely identified eight different chemicals in that shred. They were the similar ones found in various other analyzed mummies of the royal pharaohs. From past several years of international effort, it had now been well-established that the Egyptian pharaohs unified and ruled their kingdom starting 3100 BCE. The initiation of the mummification process began as a ritual, in the belief of preparing the royal body for its journey in afterlife.

Prof. Botti’s cell-phone rang. At other end, Prof. James Barrett of Harvard, an expert in radioactive-carbon dating process, had a new result. His team concluded that this particular mummification had occurred definitely around 3700-3600 BCE. Prof. Botti then shared their result. Based on combined data, both professors would conclude that this mummified-child would extend the practice at least 500 years back from existing knowledge. In other words, the practice was already in place among prevailing civilizations, when the pharaohs appeared in the scene.

But the mystery deepened next day. Prof. Max Otto from the University of Cologne, an expert in medical sciences, would report that his team had identified an antibacterial chemical, previously unreported from analysis of the royal mummies. But, this material could only come from a special resin, utilized in embalming process. However, there had been no historical evidence of the availability of that particular resin in the area where this child-mummy was excavated. Historical texts would place the availability of the material in places where modern lands of Israel and Palestinian Authority exist today.

Next day, the new results were presented in an international conference-call involving participating scientists and historians including the Egyptologists. Soon, it became clear to all that long before the appearance of the pharaohs in Egypt, a civilization with Pan-Egyptian identity involving shared cultural identities and customs had existed encompassing a huge swath of earth. That also raised the possibility of existence of a well-developed trade route for commerce and cultural exchange.

As the conference ended, Prof. Botti, like a skeptic contrarian, began to ponder “Are we scientists stretching our data to an extreme just to propagate a theory?” Suddenly, he remembered his past visit to a historic museum in Cusco in Peru. There first time he had learned how different identities and cultural practices of various Indian tribes of Nasca, Mochica, Chancay and Chimu in entire Peruvian peninsula through ages contributed to the evolution of advanced Inca civilization.

Everybody's As Tired As I Am, by Mark Joseph Kevlock

14/12/2018

Everybody's as tired as I am.

They decided to do away with sleep.

Thought we could get more done that way.

They couldn't just jump into the change, of course.

They had to experiment on a whole town, first.

Guess whose town got picked?

Marcie and Kendall and Reilly and me -- all awake for more than six days now.

Our bodies keep going. But what about our minds?

We've been taught meditation techniques that mimic all the natural rhythms of sleep.

But what about our dreams? Where do we put them, once they bubble up from our subconscious, anyway?

Dreams need to be lived, not suppressed.

The town keeps running, day and night.

Everyone has two jobs. And a lot of spare time, to boot. Industry has quadrupled. Efficiency, too.

There is no let-up.

I asked the other day, what percentage of us are allowed to go mad before the experiment is considered a failure?

I didn't get an answer.

Someone decides to give birth to an idea. Perhaps it's me. The idea is this: why don't we take over? They need to sleep, the rest of the world. We don't. It's as simple as that. They'll never keep up. I go around knocking on doors all across town. I explain my plan. People go along. Don't they always?

We get up a posse and head over to the next town to begin our takeover. The next town is experimental, too. What they're experimenting with is sleeping twenty hours a day and only being awake for four. Works for lions, doesn't it? We're all jealous as hell to see them snoozing away. The takeover would be way too easy. We move on to the next town.

This one is a city of geniuses. They've all been grouped together -- those with superior brain power, to see if they can save the world from the rest of us.

If that fails, the next town is the opposite: inferior brain power. Sometimes morons can solve problems the rest of us can't.

Well, we don't take over those places, either. Not worth it, in either case. I begin to wonder if there are any normal towns left on the planet. We come to one, at last. Not too much of this or too little of that. A beautiful place to settle down. Get some rest.

Then someone sees the sign:

Nuclear Testing Site.

We're all so tired, we just don't care.

The Face of Terror, by Jim Bartlett

11/12/2018

Just off the bow of the inflatable, the water begins to churn, an ominous swirl that seems to bubble up from the deep. Cliff cautiously looks over, one hand digging into the rubbery gunwale, the other swishing through the water trying to see what might be the source of the upwelling.

Jennifer, meanwhile, stays to her side, keeping her eyes on Cliff, knees folded up to her chin. “What?” she asks.

But before he can answer his hand is snatched, and he’s pulled over the side, letting go a bone-chilling high-pitched scream as he hits the water. A moment passes before his head bobs back up. “It’s a sea serpent. Giant teeth, I can’t break loose. Save yourself, save yourself,” he cries, his arms flailing.

Standing—the yellow rubber raft rocking with her sudden movement—Jennifer shakes her head and bends down to glare at Cliff. “This is borrrr-ing. Why does there always have to be some kind of monster in boy games?” she shouts, her face in a twist. With a long, loud huff, she dives off the raft and into the pool. She swims to the water’s edge, climbs out, and stomps over to the patio where Mom has lunch waiting.

Raphael's Message, by Jan Jorgensen

5/12/2018

He blew a smoke ring. Through it he saw a guy standing in the semi-dark living room; the dude looked like an overexposed picture.

“Allen.”

Allen started coughing.

“She couldn’t solve the problem of pain for her father, or for herself. Now it’s filling your lungs.”

Allen muttered, “Are we talking mom? Always in bed. Popping pills.”

“I’d like to invite you to see something.”

He saw a sequence of accidents. Jesus, the sheer number of them.

Finally, he overheard her talking in the shower – “Please let it be an accident.”

He saw her tiptoeing on the street, avoiding ice, only to topple sideways – heard this is it, saw her spirit rise, then overheard her thought, oh, someone cares, as she lay back down in her body.

The same guy in front of him walked up to her, and spoke, “When you’re ready, I’ll help you up.”

Then he moved on.

This time Allen saw that were no pills on the bedside table.

Suddenly he understood. All the physical pain was nothing compared to the hurt she carried in her heart.

The man was fading into brilliant light as he spoke, “She’s always praying for you to be free...”

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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.

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