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Dreaming of a Peaceful Coexistence, by Sankar Chatterjee

24/12/2020

 
On a Christmas Eve, David, an American citizen was visiting the Mount Herzl in Jerusalem, the site of Israel’s national cemetery of Jewish faith. Flowering trees shadowing the graves of past heroes were in full bloom. A gentle breeze was blowing to add to the serenity of the place. During the tour, David noticed several groups of young men and women in military uniform spread out throughout the complex. Carrying their weapons on their shoulders, they were listening to their leaders at various memorial sites.

David learned that they were recent high school graduates who just joined the armed forces under the country’s mandatory draft system. They were brought in there to pay respect to the past heroes as well as to motivate them for their future sacrifices, if demanded. After a few hours of visiting notable graves, David went to the place’s café to get a bottle of water. While in line, he observed that a female graduate in uniform and in front of him was struggling to untangle her pink side pocketbook that got wrapped around her carry on machine-gun. He also noticed that the color of her pocketbook not only matched her thinly applied pink lipstick, but also to a pink gemstone attached to a gold ring she was wearing on one of her fingers. David wondered “What a unique coexistence of disparate objects on a human being!” The moment lingered on his mind.

David paid for the water bottle and grabbed a seat at a corner table. He took out his smart-phone to check the day’s global news. And that’s when he came across to a “Breaking News”. The US, his own country, without any consultation with the UN, the international organization, declared unilaterally the city of Jerusalem as the capital of Israel (even though, the embassies of all countries reside in the port city of Tel Aviv). Jerusalem itself exists in the middle of a regional political volcano, being claimed by both faiths of Judaism and Islam. For last seventy years, the UN has been attempting to create two neighboring nations with the city being shared by both countries due to its historic religious importance to both faiths. But no success has been achieved yet. Now the political commentators were forecasting about renewed violent protests in the region shattering last few years’ dormant peace.

However, David was already beginning to feel more optimistic about the future of this region. It had been true that since Israel’s creation, this entire region has been mired in religious and political conflicts. But he was already living in that fleeting moment he had just experienced: a peaceful co-existence of a lethal machine-gun, a pink pocketbook, pink lipstick, and a matching pink gem-stone on a gold ring.

“May be the lasting peace will come to this region with peaceful coexistence of its citizens from various religious faiths, after all,” he murmured.

New Year Dress, by Phyllis Souza

24/12/2020

 
Like raindrops down a glass, the New Year dress slipped over her shoulders.

Daisy grew more excited as it caressed her breasts and waist and brushed against her hips.

She admired herself in a full-length mirror. Oh, how I adore blue.

Yes, tonight, Daisy felt free. She decided not to wear anything other than the dress.

She laughed, and she twirled.

The doorbell rang.

"Coming."

One last look before Daisy rushed to answer the call.

"You look fantastic in that dress." Jack handed her a corsage.

"Thank you. Would you like to pin it on?"

His eyes widened. "Would I ever."

"Be careful not to stick me."

"You smell of scented wild lemons." Jack inhaled.

With a flirtatious smile, "It's called 'Blood Orange.'"

*

Beneath a large banner: 1982

Daisy and Jack stood hand in hand in front of an arch of black and silver balloons.

A camera flashed; Lila saw stars.

The photographer said, "You'll get your pictures in about a week."

Jack turned and told Daisy, "Tonight is going to be fun."

They danced on the floor of the Yacht Club and drank glasses of champagne at the bar.

At midnight, partygoers threw confetti; the bartender yelled, "Happy New Year!"

Daisy and Jack kissed.

*

When the photo arrived, Daisy's jaw dropped when she saw the picture.

The phone rang. It was from Jack. "Hey babe, I got the picture." He laughed. "Can I come over?"

"Shut up!" Daisy slammed down the receiver.

The flash of the camera had cut through the fabric of her dress. It captured every intimate detail.

Chasing the Legend, by Deborah Shrimplin

19/12/2020

 
"Captain, we're approaching the coordinates. ETA, five minutes." Hans, the navigator reports.

"Prepare for jump. Low altitude jump." Sven, the pilot commands. He pulls back the throttle and begins the descent to the correct altitude.

"This is it, Harv. Finally. After years of research, we'll prove I'm right." Johan beams with satisfaction as he cinches his chute.

"Johan, you've been chasing the legend for decades. No one will believe you until you bring some samples home. But, you've got to return home." Harv says in reverence to Johan's belief.

"I've been preparing for this all my life. The plan is foolproof. Get yourself ready." Johan replies.

******

Johan and Harv land in the vast, blinding ocean of pure snow. The ice age of the last two hundred years has obliterated any visible trace of the tunnel's entrance. No one knows if the latest warming trend has melted enough snow and ice for Johan to reach the entrance.

Using his detector and surveyor equipment, Johan finds the metal entrance five feet under the snow and ice pack. They begin to dig.

While digging, Johan remembers listening to his grandfather recite an age-old legend. A tunnel and storerooms had been built to withstand a millennium of natural and man-made disasters. Its contents had been set aside for the future of man's survival. But, few people actually believe that hundreds of years ago someone had thought of the idea. Johan is one of the believers.

Johan feels intense excitement when the tunnel's entry door is finally revealed. They don their oxygen masks, pry open the door and point their flashlights down the long, pitch-black tunnel.

"It's down this tunnel and through several more doors. Then, we'll find the storerooms. This is exactly what our research discovered. We're doing good." Johan said.

When they reach the last door, Johan turns to Harv.
"This is it. Pray they have all survived."

Johan forces the door open and gasps in amazement. The room is bone dry and not one container is out of alignment on the shelves. All the annotations on the containers are in perfect condition.

Harv marvels at the genius of the 21st Century scientists. Their work and collections have survived.

After surveying dozens of shelves, Johan says, "Thank God. The seeds have survived and so will we."
​

A Christmas Dream, by Jim Bartlett

18/12/2020

 
Thermometer slid in under her tongue, hot cup of coffee in her hand, Clair lumbers into her office, dark except the answering machine’s orange blinking light and a wall clock taunting her for sleeping in late.

She waves it off. It’s Christmas day, for Pete’s sake. She presses play, then takes a look at the thermometer. 98 – it’s about time. For the last couple of days she’s been fighting a 102 fever, her side burning with pain, her sleep filled with strange dreams. Last night was the craziest, with Santa appearing at her doorstep. But when she greeted him, she saw Comet limping just behind. She checked his leg, wrapped it in gauze, and rubbed his head, and he seemed good to go. Santa, as he left, said she’d not been forgotten.

Weird.

“Nothin’ but a kidney infection,” Doc Graham told her, prescribing a round of antibiotics. “You need to drink more water and quit holdin’ on to your pee.”

Phsst. Let him try driving two-lane backroads for hours, nothing but prairie bushes offering any hope of relief.

The message is from Molly Slayton, or Chumani as she’s called on the Rez because of her dewdrop eyes. She apologizes for phoning on Christmas, but hopes Dr. Clair can see Ellie, her daughter’s palomino.

She shakes her head. If only it could be as easy for the horse as it was for her kidney. Ellie stopped eating the other day, and best Clair could figure was that there was either an obstruction, or, worse, a tumor. Though she’s been a rural South Dakota vet for 20 years, a good chunk of her payments come in the form of fresh eggs, milk, or offers to fix her fence. Out on the Rez, it can be any of the above, but mostly, and best of all, it’s usually a heartfelt hug.

Unfortunately, with that sort of “cash flow,” she hasn’t been able to afford a portable ultrasound machine. So today she’ll have to trailer Ellie up to Mission where Dr. Mitchell can get a peek with his machine.

Deciding she’d better have some breakfast first – eggs, of course – she heads for the kitchen, but stops at the front room. There, on her coffee table, sits a small brightly decorated tree. And just to its side is a rather large wrapped present.

Kneeling down, she peels back the paper to reveal a box labeled:
Mindway M8 Elite Portable Ultrasound Machine.

The gift tag only says, “From Santa.”


* * *

Dakotah crosses the tribal hall, his footsteps creaking on the ancient wooden floor, finally making his way to a smiling Red Cloud, who waits at the back.

“You did it,” Red Cloud says.

“Yes. I dressed in the Santa suit, and knocked at Dr. Clair’s door. But she was more asleep than awake and began putting a bandage on Koda, my dog, calling him ‘Comet.’ So, I ignored her and took in the tree and present.”

“Yes...I just heard that Ellie will be fine.”

She Who Serves Humanity, by Sankar Chatterjee

18/12/2020

 
Past January, in a trip through various ancient Indian cities, American Lucy Stuart was traveling by bus from New Delhi, country’s current capital to the ancient city of Agra to explore the world renowned Taj Mahal complex. In a rest area, she got acquainted with a fellow traveler Mary Smith, a millennial Dutch youth. After exchanging pleasantries, Lucy learned that besides English, Mary also spoke fluent Chinese. After graduating from the university in Amsterdam, Mary landed a job with a multinational organization, subsequently migrating to Shanghai. This was the time when the celebration of a Lunar New Year just started in China. Like her fellow Chinese colleagues, Mary was also allowed to take a week off. Instead of going back to home to visit her family, she had decided to explore this part of Asia.

Next day, in a coincidence, Lucy again met Mary, both of them being signed up with the same group tour company to guide them through the complex. Over next few days the duo bonded more while exploring the historic magnificent temples and palaces spread over the city. They also began hearing news coming out of China about a new virus causing flu-like symptoms and in some cases mortality. Not surprisingly, international traveling, a byproduct of globalization was beginning to ferry out this new virus across the international borders. Mary remembered hearing a hush-hush rumor about the emergence of this new virus at her workplace. Soon the sight of Chinese travelers wearing face-masks became ubiquitous in various tourist sites.

After leaving Agra, Lucy headed toward picturesque fort-city of Jaipur in Rajasthan. To her astonishment, she bumped into Mary again there. She mentioned to Lucy that the situation in China had taken a worst turn. Her employer had extended her vacation for additional few more weeks in order to disrupt the spread of the virus among working people. Thus, Mary decided to travel some more followed by a trip to Amsterdam to visit her family.

From Rajasthan, Lucy flew to Yangon, Myanmar. One morning, while scanning the news in the internet, she came across to a report about an open letter in the British medical journal Lancet. There was a desperate appeal for help to the international community from the exhausted doctors, nurses, and associated volunteers from the city of Wuhan in China, the hardest hit city by the virus. Two days letter, Lucy while still in Myanmar, received a message from Mary. Instead of going back to her motherland, she went back to Wuhan to volunteer in helping the citizens of her newly adopted country. An attached photo showed her encased in a protective gear, while volunteering to fit a breathing mask to a severely ill patient.

Lucy felt a kind of reassurance in humanity, irrespective of the dark political climate that was overshadowing her own country.

A Turkey Named Harold, by Phyllis Souza

18/12/2020

 
Harold flew out of a giant oak. His feet hit the ground, three toes forward and one back. Like a Spartan with a red plume, he raised his head and showed off his vermillion dome. He flapped his wings and propelled himself forward.

He gobbled as he pranced across the field.

Kids bussed to grade school gazed out of their windows looking for Harold. The local football team's mascot dressed up like a turkey and strutted in front of the stands. Excited fans shouted, "Go, Harold, Go!"

Everyone loved Harold. Except for Olaf.

Olaf drooled for a turkey. Only one problem: he couldn't afford one. If he could catch Harold, he'd invite Wessel to his one-room shack on the edge of town for Christmas dinner.

Wessel drank wine, picked up cigarette butts off the ground, and scrambled through garbage bins behind restaurants.

With a gunny sack slung over his back, Olaf crept onto the harvested field before dawn. He looked this way and that way, searching for Harold.

He sat on his haunches behind a tree. Drawing a bottle of wine out of his tattered jacket, he took a swig. With a grimy hand, he wiped his twisted mouth.

When Harold appeared with the sun, Olaf quietly got to his feet, and carrying an open bag, he protruded his lips and made like a turkey.

Harold eyed Olaf. Tail feathers splayed and talons stretched, a reminder of who ruled the range. Like a bull in a pen, Harold scratched the dirt.

"I'll catch you," Olaf yelled. He dropped the bag. Drunk and confused, with outstretched arms, he stumbled and crisscrossed the lot.

*

On Christmas day, Olaf and Wessel sat on a park bench.

"No turkey this year," Olaf said. "But we still have this." He held up a bottle of Thunderbird.

"Yep," Wessel reached for the wine.

And Harold, he marched in a one bird Christmas parade across the field.
​

Santa and his Helper, by Susan Fairfax Reid

18/12/2020

 
Dear Santa,

Covid 19 has caused bad things to happen to my friends this year. 'Cause of this, I want you to skip my house and take things to them.

Susie and her mother need a home. They live in a homeless shelter cause her mom isn't a waitress anymore. The restaurant closed, so people wouldn't get sick. Susie says she's scared 'cause people in the shelter bug her mom for money and get mean when she says no.

Bobby and his parents need oil for their furnace. Bobby's father lost his job at the newspaper months ago. Now, he can't afford oil. They heat their house by boiling water on a stove and turning on the oven. Firefighters told us in school that this is a bad thing to do. It could cause a fire. I'm scared Bobby's house is going to burn down, and they're all going to die.

Mikey needs water for baths and to drink. His dad lost his job at a gas station. It didn't have enough customers, 'cause so many people are working from home now. Because his dad couldn't pay the water bill, the city turned off the water. I don't want him and his dad to smell or dehydrate 'cause they don't have water.

Debbie needs a bed, warm covers, and furniture. Her mom is a writer who has lost jobs cause newspapers aren't buying as many of her stories as they used to. When they moved here, her mom couldn't afford to move their furniture or buy her a bed. So, Debbie sleeps in a sleeping bag her mom bought at a thrift shop.

Joey needs food. His parents own a gift shop, but people are afraid to go outside to shop. They don't want to catch that virus. His mom and dad put in for government help because most of their sales are in the shop, not on the internet. They haven't gotten any help. So each week they go to a neighborhood church. They get two bags of food there. It's not enough, Joey told me. He says his stomach growls so much at night, he has trouble sleeping.

Stacie's mom needs a home phone. It was disconnected because she couldn't pay her bill. She got government help to keep her flower shop open. But many people aren't buying flowers. That's cause most of her customers are people in weddings or people sending flowers to dead people. The government says only so many people can go to weddings and funerals, my mom told me. Suppose Stacie or her mom gets real sick with the virus. How can they call a doctor?

Georgie needs a computer and internet, so he can attend virtual school. He is way behind the rest of us because his parents can't afford a computer or internet service, even though his father has a job.

Santa, don't worry about toys. I'm earning money helping Mom. And, I can buy toys for my friends.

Love,

Mary

The Blank Canvas, by Linda Hibbin

18/12/2020

 
For Sale. Blank canvas. £20. An advert, Joe saw, just by chance, as he passed the corner shop.
He scurried to the address on the card.
‘Come about the canvas,’ he shouted into the intercom.
The door unlocked. He stepped inside.
‘Leave the cash. Just take it.’ A pale shape hung over the handrail above him.
A black binbag leaned against the wall.
He left £20 on the bottom stair, started to unwrap the package.
‘Look at it outside. Go!’ The guy sounded agitated. Joe did not argue. It was a bargain.
‘And no returns!’ He looked up in time to see the upstairs window slam shut. Strange.

The blank canvas sat on the easel. Joe stroked the surface. Rough, thickly woven flax tightly stretched. Way outside his price range.
Inspiration blossomed on the white surface. He knew what to paint. A view enjoyed when walking the dog.
Leaden clouds, tinged with Prussian blue, above the viscous sea. Gulls mere flicks of white. A pale line smudged with cobalt across the distant horizon. Somewhere it was a fine day.
Closer, thick, creamy brushstrokes merged greys, translucent greens, iridescent blues, creating waves tipped with flecks of titanium. The foam tumbled on damp ochre, seeped into dry sand of Naples yellow. Wet shingle chattered as the sea pushed it up the beach then dragged it back. Pebbles, rainbow colours glittered with quartz. Sensuous brushstrokes caressed and blended.
Days passed.
Joe painted, dripping sweat, hands trembling, drained of energy.
He scarcely recognised the pale haggard face in the bathroom mirror. Nightmares awoke him. The compulsion to paint overwhelmed body and soul.
Where inspiration had blossomed, doubt began to blur his vision. The brush resisted; paint lost lustre. Suicidal thoughts chittered at the back of his mind.
Until the night staggering from the room, lucidity hit with a vengeance as he saw, reflected in the mirror, the canvas.
Blank.
​

Oh Potter, by Barbara Wheatley

18/12/2020

 
Grateful for safe return of jug.  All the way from Cheshire.
See you’ve painted it neon yellow, even changed the hand-on-hip handle. Like an umbilical cord now. You clever, mad potter! Hot off the wheel. Impressive.
Love your wax seal. Knew it was you.
Fond memories of the tea party, shared lashings of custard from that milk jug. You hired the ice-cream van after all!
You drinking again, at The Rabbit Hole?
So much cardboard and box for such little pottery. Bundled up in my apron, tablecloth, all that bubble wrap and miles of string,
Oh, Potter! Nearly dropped it. Nearly smashed it. Swiss Army knife fell out. One too many parties. Desert island with jug next. Will take knife, safe there, worry not.
Shame your mother’s Baltic bracelet broke. Have spilled amber beads as requested. Need some to trade with. The insects have now been set free. As requested.
Must dash – I’ll be late
Alice
PS. Took your advice, ditched the hairband
​

Avid Rhonda, by Miya Yamanouchi

18/12/2020

 
Rhonda examined herself in the mirror and applied more red. Which perfume? Red Door’ll do it. She sprayed a few squirts on her neck and tits and faced her reflection again. She wasn’t bad. She wasn’t good, but she wasn’t bad. Least she wasn’t arrogant like that girl in her poetry class. Motivated and enthusiastic and so bloody pretty. And it’d be kinda bearable if she wasn’t so smart too. But she was. She’d only started writing a few months back and she’d already been published in lots’a different places. Rhonda’d been trying to write for decades. Rhonda got back at her by ignoring her poems and praising others whose work was shit. Teach her to be smug and pretty.

Maybe he’ll like more lippy.

She added another layer of Revlon and moved onto mascara. She didn’t have long lashes but she made do with what she had. Least she knew about books. You couldn’t fault her on that. Ask Rhonda about any book and she’ll have read it at least twice and probably met the author at a workshop. Well not met, just sat-in on a talk by them. Maybe she mighta said something to one of them once. Like hello or thanks or see ya. Usually Rhonda didn’t speak, she just listened to them talk about their writing processes and fantasised about one day writing something too.

Mascara was fine.

Now heels. Where were her favourite heels? Well not necessarily favourite, just her only pair. Red and high and they’d match her theme tonight. There they were. She was ready for him.

Five to.

She snaps a selfie and puts it on Facebook. ‘Date tonight #feelingnervous’. Seconds later her friend from Book Club, not the Monday night one, the Thursday afternoon one, replies. ‘Who’s the lucky man Rhon?’
Rhonda types back. ‘Russian. Need I say more?’ She turns on the TV and selects the fireplace theme she’d pre-installed. Music? Bit ‘a Chet Baker’ll do nice. Yep, mood’s right now.

7pm.

She strides toward the unopened brown paper package in the middle of the table. The number of stamps on it tells of its journey. Tears it open. Oh, champagne. She nearly forgot the bloody champagne. Her stilettos tap-tap across the hardwood floor. Those floors are French Oakwood, y’know.

Chandon’ll do it.

She grabs two flute glasses and the bottle, brings them to the table and pops the lid. She fills the left one real carefully and the right one even more so. Strikes a match and lights the Love Luck candle she bought from the hippie shop yesterday. She dims the lights. House looks moonlit. She’s sick with nerves.

Deep breath, Rhon.

She fondles the package. ‘White Nights and Other Stories’ by Fyodor Dostoyevsky. She pulls it out slowly, sniffs it, then lays it down beside her. Raises both glasses, and clinks them together.

7:10.

Her nostrils flare.

She brings the book up to within an inch of her face, and starts licking up the front cover.

Their Niche, by Bruce Levine

17/12/2020

 
Even though it seemed that Janice and James had settled into a state of normalcy in their recently relocated area, and though Janice still always wondered what James was planning for their next “adventure”, they both realized that they had definitely found their “niche”. They’d explored the area and its surrounds enough to recognize those places and towns that would become a part of their regular path and those that they would only return to when there was something that an area contained that was unavailable elsewhere. And then there were places where one of them said “Well, we don’t have to come here again…”

Their list of “regular” service facilities, (such as the car dealership where they could get the oil changed, etcetera, or a printing store) as well as all of the usual stores one needs for basic daily life was now well established. But it was for the ever increasing list of restaurants, to James, the devout Foodist, that pleased him best. They, of course, loved the fancy restaurants and luxuriated in the repast at those. But not all were fancy. In fact one, in particular, was self-serve (one ordered at a counter then picked up the meal on a tray), but it had a special ambience that they both loved and the food was GREAT!

They’d found, and frequented, the more general requirements of life, such as the post office and library, and no longer thought about where to go for most of their daily, and not-so-daily needs.

They’d found their niche and now James was cogitating expanding their horizons with a few short trips in new directions and even some further away. Janice noted, one evening after discussing the fact, that James got lost in thought and she knew that they’d be off somewhere new again in the not too distant future.

Have a Mary Christmas , by Doug Bartlett

15/12/2020

 
God decided to send his son to Earth. He could have done that in a myriad of ways.

His son could have arrived as a full-grown adult. He didn’t. He was born a baby like the rest of us.

He could have come through a royal family and raised in a palace. He didn’t.
He was raised by a peasant family, surrounded by common people like most of us.

He could have come with political power. He didn’t. His homeland was controlled by an oppressive, foreign government.

But who could be entrusted to care for and raise the very son of God?

God could have selected anyone in the entire world but He chose Mary. Why would God choose her? Mary was a poor, uneducated, peasant girl that was born and raised in an unimpressive, back country village.


Perhaps her greatest characteristic was her servant’s heart.She did not let the fact of being chosen by God himself go to her head. It did not puff her up with pride.

Mary knew this path she was agreeing to would not be without hardships.

This time of year is a good time to reflect and examine our own hearts.
May we , like Mary, have a true spirit of humility and be willing to be a servant to others.

That’s the way to have a Mary Christmas.

A Grown-Up Breakfast, by Heather Robinson

12/12/2020

 
​He must tutor her even now, he thought, as he twirled a long fork over the blue flame. The fork tines tenuously held a large chunk of cheddar cheese.

“Come here, Kathleen, and watch me melt the cheese. Someday, I will ask you to do it for me when I’m old and shaky. It’s a skill that must be practiced to get it right.”

“You’ll never be old, Daddy!” announced the freckled girl in corduroy overalls as she hopped over and stared at her father’s deft fingers.

“You see, Kathleen, if you don’t twirl it quickly enough, the melted cheese will fall and mess the stove, and you will lose its deliciousness.”

Kathleen nodded with big eyes.

“It’s also not safe to rotate it only in one direction. You must be prepared to retreat and twist it the opposite way too. If you don’t, it may fall. That, my sweet, is not unlike life.”

“I see, Daddy.”

“Now, look at this. Isn’t that a sumptuous soft morsel?” he asked, setting the melting pool on a thick tranche of buttered toast. The plate already held some sliced tomatoes and crisp bacon. He brought the dish to the oak table; then began to cut pieces of each ingredient and lay them on the toast. Kathleen eyed her now lukewarm oatmeal with regret. Her father observed this.

“Kathleen, are you ready for a grown-up breakfast?”

“Daddy, I’m only 5.”

“That is the perfect age to have your first adult breakfast. Let me cut a piece for you.”

He delicately sliced a portion that included all the necessary elements and handed it to her. She nibbled tentatively, then enthusiastically.

“It’s so good, Daddy!”

“That’s my girl!” he replied.

Ravens vs. a Peregrine Falcon, by Susan Fairfax Reid

11/12/2020

 
I hurried to my window to find out what was causing the racket outside. It was a competition involving two types of birds: ravens and a peregrine falcon.

The ravens outnumbered the falcon, 6 to 1.

The six ravens were hysterical, frantically flying from limb to limb in a big old tree in a graveyard and making shrill alarm calls at the tops of their lungs.

What caused this racket was the arrival of a mysterious bird perched on a limb near the top of a tree, the ravens' home. The noise was enough to scare the dead out of their graves.

One of the ravens flew to a limb about a foot from the white-throated bird and looked straight into its fierce black eyes. "What are you?" the black and purple raven asked. "We've never seen anybody like you." The golden-beaked bird said nothing.

The ravens continued in their frenzied mode, flying and jumping from limb to leafless limb, calling alarms, while making sure they stayed close to each other, in a loosely formed huddle.

"Man, why aren't you talking to us?" another asked. "Why are you in our tree? This is our home and our playing field."

The bird's white chest was spotted with cocoa spots that matched its feathers. Perched regally on the tree limb, he remained silent.

Outraged at the bird's behaviour, the ravens' leader flew straight to the mystery bird, the sunlight making its wings look silver.
"Man, you're in our territory," he said. "If you can't tell us what you are or why you're here, we're going to have to ask you to fly away."

A brave blue jay delivered the news to the ravens' leader. "That's a peregrine falcon," said Blue. "It kills and eats other birds."

The leader rushed to make a flight call, leading the other five to safety in a nearby neighborhood abundant with the invigorating smell of pine trees and lawns rich with fallen brown acorns and black walnuts in bright green and brown shells.

The falcon was either being kind or was not up for the killing play.

Blue didn't tell the ravens the falcon was homeless, having been displaced by the restoration of its home in a historic water tower and its family's flying field around it.

Since that day, neighborhood humans have reported sightings of this territorial bird searching other neighborhoods for a place for his family.

The ravens are back in their old tree, flying from it to nearby trees to socialize and get food. Their alarm calls are gone, replaced by flight calls and calls to play games by tossing objects in the air and catching them in flight.

I'm not a referee, but I'd call the ravens the winners in this event.

Gas Money For Grams, by Jim Bartlett

11/12/2020

 
“Would you like your receipt, Mr. Johnson?”

“No thanks, uh...” The man pushes his glasses up to better see Melanie’s nametag. “...Melanie.”

“Thanks for shopping at Riteway Market.”

Sighing, she watches the man leave – he’s only the third customer since noon – while her fingers rub the little badge. As the story goes, she was named after a 70s folksinger who Grams watched perform at Woodstock.

After her parents died, it was Grams who raised her, and Grams loved every minute. Melanie smiles reminiscing all the nights spent in tie-dyed t-shirts singing “Kumbaya.” Grams was the best. Is the best.

The thought causes her to tap her jeans’ back pocket, a double-triple check that her three folded twenties are still there – gas money, or at least most of it, for next week’s trip to Grams’. If she’s lucky, Mr. Dracon, the store manager, will be handing out a twenty-five dollar Christmas bonus like last year.

The squeak of Mr. Findley’s cart, one of her favorite customers, arriving at her checkstand tears her from her reverie. For the first three years she worked here he always came arm in arm with his wife, but when she became ill last year, that came to a sad end, along with the dance in his step. Today he seems more distant than ever, the effort of placing a can of Folger’s coffee, a dozen eggs, a discounted loaf of bread, and two Banquet TV dinners as if each weighs a hundred pounds.

“Is today Wednesday?” he asks, pulling his wallet.

“No, Mr. Findley. It’s only Monday.”

His head drops and he begins returning the items to his cart. “Guess I’ll have to come back...my Social Security comes Wednesday.” He turns, but Mrs. Cranston, one of Melanie’s least favorite customers – a middle-aged woman who wears as much attitude as makeup – stands behind him.

For a moment, Melanie can’t breathe, her heart aches. But as Mr. Findley and Mrs. Cranston stand in a stare-off, something stirs within, and her hand slips into her pocket, pulling her long-saved gas money. Without a second thought, she tosses the folded bills just behind the shaken old man.

“Mr. Findley...I think you dropped something.”

He turns and looks down, his face going pale as he sees the money. “That can’t be mine.”

“Well...it fell out of your pocket.”

“Oh, my.” Shaking, he picks up the twenties and once again empties his cart onto the conveyor, all the while peering upward as though the ceiling might rain more treasures.

“Thanks, Mr. Findley,” she says, handing him his bag.

She turns to see Mrs. Cranston, impatient as ever, glaring from behind the card-reader, and quickly rings her up. Yet, as she hands her the receipt and thanks her, she catches just a hint of a smile.

Taking her groceries, Mrs. Cranston rounds the register’s end, but then stops. “I think you dropped something, dear,” she says, before continuing toward the door.

Looking down, Melanie sees a small wad of twenties at her feet. ​

Play Golf, by Phyllis Souza

11/12/2020

 
A golf tournament at Elk Horn

On the first fairway, Gina wearing pink pants, showing a butt wider than any bunker, pressed a tee into the ground. She glanced at Hank, her assigned partner, behind her, dressed in a well-fitting country club golf shirt.

Thirty or more spectators stood on the sidelines.

Bent knees, hands wrapped on the grip of a driver, Gina extended her arms. She wiggled her backside, eyes focused on the T in the word Titleist. Keep your head down. Don't take your eyes off the ball. She slowly pulled back.

Ten seconds passed. A pair of bluebirds cut through two giants elms. As if in suspended animation, with a driver in the air, Gina froze.

"Hit the damn ball," an onlooker called out.

Gina snapped out of it. She swung. The ball sputtered and rolled—six feet. Laughter exploded.

Her face reddened. I should have stayed home.

"Don't worry. They're rude," Hank said, and then teed off.
His ball flew.

Gina’s turn. She swung and missed. After a couple of more tries, “Shit!”

Finally, she hit the ball. It rolled a few feet more.

Kicking the ground and more than a little frustrated, she slowly made it to the green.

"Sorry, I’m such a lousy player. This is hard." With the back of her hand, she wiped her forehead.

"You're trying too hard.” Hank laughed. “Relax, this is supposed to be fun."

"If you say so, but it's not easy."

Hole after hole, the same story. Gina swung. Hank waited.

That is until they reached number six—a refreshment station.

"Let's get something to drink." Hank gestured toward a washtub filled with ice.

Reaching into the container, he pulled out a couple of bottles of water and handed one to Gina.

“Thanks, I need this.”

They strolled to a refreshment stand. Jello Shooters: cherry, orange, lemon, and lime lined up on the counter.

Gina picked up a plastic shot glass. Like a hole in one, she gulped.
"Hmmm, this is good."

Then another, another, and another.

"Hey, take it easy." Hank narrowed his brows.

"One more."

She tilted her head back and swallowed like an eagle. "Okay, I'm ready."

Gina rolled her shoulders, dangled her arm at her side, and widened her smile. Fortified, she marched to the next fairway— a water hole.

She wasn't sure which club was best. So… she reached into her golf bag and just grabbed one. What the hell, who cares anyway?

Moseying to the pond’s edge, Gina, with a lopsided visor shielding her vision, swung.

The ball flew upward, over, and had landed on dry land.

Gina leaped for joy. And all it took was a few Volka Jello Shots.

Wealth Will Set You Free, by Sankar Chatterjee

11/12/2020

 
Prof. Sheila Jacobs of Harvard, a brilliant biologist, came to her laboratory before the sunrise. She was eager to know the outcome of an experiment, done by one of her doctoral students previous evening. Waiting for the student’s arrival, she glanced at the prestigious gold medal awarded to her by an international scientific society. Her breakthrough discovery involved precisely editing a DNA molecule of a human body by a pair of biological tweezers. During that effort, she’d come to realize that in wrong hands the fundamental technique could be utilized to manipulate human characteristics. In fact, based on her published research communications, a foreign scientist was already able to manipulate the genetic material that differentiated the gender in an unborn baby. Deep down, the thought would occasionally make her feeling nervous for her own discovery.

Her phone rang. On the other end, it was Prof. Jennifer Gooden, her long-time collaborator from Stanford. Sounded melancholic, Prof. Gooden intimated that previous night she had lost her only son Max to an overdose of a street drug. A brilliant student throughout his academic carrier, Max, after graduation, joined the lucrative financial world of Wall Street. With fame and fortune, also came to Max’s life, long hours of working as well as the stress of meeting the profit margins. And that’s when Max found the dark side of his profession in late-night parties with alcohols and drugs. Prof. Jacobs consoled Prof. Gooden, though she knew words were meaningless to a grieving mother who had lost her only child to an overdose. Prof. Jacobs promised Prof. Gooden that she would fly to California to attend the funeral.

Prof. Jacobs hung up the phone with a heavy heart. She glanced at her medal again. Suddenly, her old fear resurfaced. A monumental “drug crisis” had taken over the country. Citizens from all levels of social statures had been getting addicted to these readily available street drugs. With knowledge widely available from social media, a few entrepreneurs found a few rogue scientists to tweak the old medicines into these street drugs in clandestine facilities. Even some big-name companies entered the playfield. Due to globalization as well as availability of cheap labor, batches made overseas had been showing up on the streets of western hemisphere. Due to their poor quality, many of the sold samples were getting contaminated with impurities with deadly consequences. In fact, the local authority of her own city traced in a street sample a compound, being used to tranquilize the big animals in South-East Asia.

Prof. Jacobs began to ponder “How could a scientist measure the welfare to harm ratio to the society from a discovery beforehand?” On her computer screen, a headline flashed “Without acknowledging its direct role in the drug-crisis, WellCare, a leader in addictive pain medicine, paid a fine of millions of dollars to the federal authority. Additionally, the deal also kept its founders, world-renowned billionaire philanthropists, out of jail for the rest of their lives.”

Dentistry, by Miya Yamanouchi

11/12/2020

 
In the lamp by the window, she checks him for cuts, rashes and sores. He is already leaking desire.

‘Sorry babe.’ He smells of peaches and aftershave and salon shampoo.

‘So forty-five, that will be $380.’

He opens his wallet and she notices a photo. Him about ten kilos ago with a few less lines, a botoxed-up brunette and two toothy girls in floral, all beauties with big hair.

Leaving him to shower, she takes his credit card downstairs. Reception processes the booking and pours him a drink.

***

Less than thirty seconds. Definitely not her record. The bedside table timer says 41 minutes to go.

‘So whaddya do when you’re not doing this babe?’

‘I—am a third year pharmacy student, actually.’

‘So brains and beauty, ah?’

‘Seemingly so. And you?’

‘Sales, babe, sales. —So why’d ya do this then?’

Their palms slow-dance with each other as they talk.

‘Would it shock you that I happen to like being paid for something most women are expected to give away for free? —To vultures on dating apps that never return calls?’

‘Yeah, nah, I mean no disrespect—it’s just, you’re such a pretty girl and switched on too. You don’t need to be doing this typa work.’

He leaves her hand to start drawing half circles on her right thigh. The room is silent. Nothing else exists.

‘Well, let me ask you, why do you do this?’

‘Oh this’s just like the dentist babe. Just another service, ya’know?’

‘But it’s not for me?’ She raises her eyebrows.

‘What’s that babe?’

‘You said it’s like going to the dentist. So am I not just like a dentist then?’

He takes a sip of his whisky. ‘What’s your star sign babe?’

‘Aries.’

‘Ooh, Aries, go-getter, feisty babe.’

‘How did you know?’

‘My wife’s Aries.’ His face lights up momentarily. Just momentarily.

‘She must be fun then.’

‘She used to be— I mean she still is—it’s different now but.’

He takes her hand and presses his mouth softly against it for the longest time, like he’s reading her skin with his lips.

‘After we had the kids, it was like— she just stopped seeing me, ya’know? I mean we have sex on my birthday, but that’s it.’

He carefully removes the condom heavy with matrimonial frustration, vigilant not to spill a drop, and places it next to the tissue box. ‘And I can’t wank in the house—not with my daughters in the next god damn room, that’s fuckin sick, ya’know.’

He smooths his hand over her shoulder and slides it slowly down her arm.

The visuals on the TV have changed to a woman subject to insertion of a coke bottle into a less frequented orifice.

‘Mind turning that off, babe?’

She leaps up and presses power off, the colourful scene vanishing to black.

Returning to his side, she nuzzles up, enjoying his warmth. He kisses her forehead. She thinks of nothing.

‘So you like this job, ah?’

She doesn’t answer.

Moonshine, by Kerri Baker

11/12/2020

 
“Moonshine,”grinned Zuzu. He held the empty jar in the air, so that he could collect the moonlight. Their Uncle Billy was the sweetest and most charming recovering alcoholic who ever lived. He once told Zuzu, how much he missed his moonshine, but he’d promised the Nuns and their mother, that he would never drink again. “Maybe Saint Peter will have a bottle waiting for me at the pearly gates,’ he joked.
Zuzu decided he would take it upon himself to get the moonshine for their Uncle Billy.
So every night he would take out the jar and collect his own moonshine. It seemed to do the job and Uncle Billy never touched another drop of alcohol.
Zuzu’s feet were always bare and muddy. On hot summer nights, they would sneak down to the pond at the bottom of their garden and listen to the frogs. Alone now, she looked up at the moon as she walked back to the house. The jar pressed tightly between her shaking hands. She was desperate to be back inside with Zuzu. The door to the house stood open. Her home felt full of strangers now. They were all praying, or crying. They looked up when she entered, but they couldn’t see her. Without Zuzu by her side, she was invisible.
Her mother had not left her bed in days and all the king’s horses and all the king’s men, could never put her Daddy back together again. She wanted all the people to go back to their own homes. Sister Clare explained that people used to always keep their loved ones in the house before the funeral. A ‘viewing’ is what Sister Clare called it. So that people could say goodbye.
She slipped into the room where Zuzu lay for the viewing. She noticed that the window was open. She thought that Uncle Billy might have opened it, so that Zuzu could hear the frogs down by the pond.
Muddy footprints staining the wooden floor. Uncle Billy had convinced her mother to bury Zuzu with bare feet. Sister Clare had told her mother that there was no dress code in heaven.
She glanced in at Zuzu. Ignoring the coldness of his tiny body, she tucked the jar beneath his arm. As she moved away, something else caught her eye. She held her breath. The jar was not empty. She looked again, sure of it now. There was something in there. It fluttered and floated like a fragile dancer, captured in the candlelight. The frogs serenaded Zuzu. Hypnotised, she stared into the jar. Filled with awe and wonder, the grief left her for a moment.
She was aware that Uncle Billy was now standing in the doorway. He was looking at the muddy foot prints. Then he looked up at Zuzu. His bloodshot eyes, wider now. She knew by the silly look on his face, that he too could see what was in the jar. Their eyes met. Uncle Billy wept.
“ Moonshine,” she grinned.

In Just a Few Moments...., by Sheila Elliott

5/12/2020

 
Dog-park –
A car door closes with the sound of failed fireworks, but loud enough to draw my glance its way, to where a window blurs the image of a back-seated dog, panting, its owner's lips twisted in a frown, grim-faced. In a gasp of emissions, they're gone, but it's then that my trailing eyes notice someone still trying.
Everywhere, at any time of the day, somewhere in the world, someone is still trying. Trying all sorts of things. Trying to make things work. Repeating and repeating formulas, solutions, approaches. One way now, another way, next, but always trying.
There, right now, is another person trying. I watch how they hold a tangle of cords like they were carriage reins, how they raise them slowly, like a fisherman uncertain of their catch, trying to understand, holding them at arm's length from the place where they stand beside heavy, canvas, hammock folds, limp and swollen as a peapod ready for harvest. Suddenly, a sound trills above the park. Yes, it is happy, but, no, it's not music. It's an unseeen child, I believe, whose peals of unrestrained glee are rising from deep within the hammock, in teasing delight.
And I hear that laughter over here, inside this car, where now, I also see two dogs and, oh, now, a third, galloping, their canine jaws agape, racing along the dog park's worn, bone-like paths, their pacing sounds silenced by distance, until the moment -- I know it occurs but cannot see it---when the soft padding of fingers of those humans I overlooked, pull back the collar latch on three separate leashes. Their clicking sounds, too hushed for my ears, are released. The dogs take off driven by their ancestral search for scent, for freedom, for the chase. Each animal breaks, cantors, then morphs into a muscle-driven gallop, rising momentarily in a leap, challenging the temporality of freedom.

Humanity Flows Through It, by Sankar Chatterjee

5/12/2020

 
Blinding sandstorms from the hot summer season had arrived early this year. As dusk approached, a few generator-powered lights would begin to illuminate the inside of a white tent, marked “Women’s Hospital”. The tent belonged to the international medical-aid organization “Doctors without Borders”. This tent along with several others was erected on the no-man’s-land between the borders of Syria and Turkey in the Middle East Asia. A catastrophic humanitarian crisis had evolved in the region due to an internal civil war between the politically marginalized citizens and the powerful ones in Syria, backed by the federal government in conjunction with powerful military. Over past few years, millions of fleeing refugees migrated to Turkey. The world took notice without enforcing any preventative measure. Thus, the bloodshed continued resulting in continuous flow of migration of the refugees.

This evening, while crossing the border, pregnant refugee Ms. Lalima Ali went into labor. She was carried into this tent-hospital and handed over to two volunteer pediatricians: Ms. Priya Bose, MD from India and Ms. Zeenat Amin, MD from Pakistan. Ironically, both their countries have been involved in continuous regional conflict since their independence from the colonial power more than three score years ago. Unfortunately for Ms. Ali, this was a difficult pregnancy, complicated by poverty and associated malnutrition, lack of proper pre-delivery healthcare, and constant fear of being captured and annihilated. Both Drs. Bose and Amin comforted Ms. Ali, while beginning the preparation for the delivery of a baby with the limited amount of resources available to them.

At the same time, inside a research lab in a biosphere near the Arctic Circle, scientists Beth Conn, PhD from the US and Maya Muskova, PhD from Russia were getting ready to initiate an experiment. Academically trained as biologists, both underwent rigorous training program to come aboard to carry on several biology experiments in extreme cold environment. The experiments were designed to gain knowledge for future human habitation in space. This day, the long painstaking experiment involved “in vitro fertilization” in cold temperature. Coincidentally, this was also the day when Ms. Louise Joy Brown in England would turn forty years old; she was the “first test tube baby” on earth.

The experiment took longer than expected due to the difficulty in doing experiments under extreme conditions. But from all indications, both scientists felt the experiment went as planned. Dr. Conn began the process of deep-freezing the sample to bring it back to the US, while Dr. Muskova raised the shutter of the window on her side of the biodome. Both took a glance at the distant horizon. A mesmerizing scene of the sun rising over the horizon bringing a new morning to that part of the earth came to their view.

At the same time, inside the refugee camp, a new-born crying baby clinging to her mother’s arms announced her arrival to the world. As the proud mother began to cry in joy, two exhausted doctors stood there silently, while enjoying this glorious moment.

The Christmas Tree Angel, by Doug Bartlett

5/12/2020

 
His eyes popped open and he rolled his rotund physique out of bed. He hurriedly brushed his beard and put on his clothes. He was in a hurry. There was a fast approaching deadline looming over his head.He had a perfect record. He had never missed a deadline and he wasn’t going to start now.He couldn’t get out the door fast enough before his wife stopped him and gave him the news that her mother was coming for a three month visit. He felt his heart sink and his blood pressure rise but he was able to put on a false smile and muster a “yes, dear”.

He was already feeling a tremendous amount of pressure due to the deadline and now this.

He walked to the workshop and noticed an eerie silence in the air. There should be activity, lots of activity, which would create much noise, but there was none.….and the reindeer, where were the reindeer? They must have gotten out during the night. The last time that happened it took weeks to locate them and caused havoc with meeting the deadline. Sometimes he wondered if all this was worth it.

He entered the workshop only to discover it was vacant. He went into his office and there was one lone elf sitting patiently with a long list in his hands.
“H0w may I help you?” Santa exasperatedly asked.
“I’m here to inform you that the elves have formed a union , they are on strike and they’ve elected me their president and wanted me to give you this list of grievances,” he stated as he handed the list over.
The elf left the office as Santa collapsed into his chair behind his desk. He put on his glasses,only to find the lenses were cracked. He began reading the list of what he considered frivolous complaints. The more he read the angrier he became. He got to the end of the list and couldn’t take any more. He was about to explode when an angel came into the office carrying a Christmas tree.
“Hey Chubby, where do you want me to put this tree?”

Now you know how the tradition of the angel on top of the Christmas tree came to be.

Silent Night, by Tracey Pearson

4/12/2020

 
1st of December, 2020, also the 1st week of Advent. Traditionally a time of waiting. 6.09pm Home from evening prayer, said alone, again. Well, when I say alone, I mean said with You, but other living souls absent. Choir stall mouse conspicuously present in pile of pellet-shaped droppings.

Mrs Johnson’s left-over lasagne taken out of Aga at 6.20pm. Perfectly heated. Absolutely heavenly, thank you Mrs J.

Nipped across to the church and strategically placed buckets, soup pans and other receptacles for the imminent downpour. Left a foil container of lasagne under the holly bush by the front door for Nate. Put thank you note in pocket. Smiled.

Calls left on answer phone, several from the treasurer urging frugality – immediately turned up the heating. Fed the cats, Obadiah and Mr Bingley, all the while enjoying the delicious image of heaping coals on mine enemies’ heads (treasurer included, he’d hate the waste).

7.20pm Turn on laptop. Yea, thou I walk through the valley of emails, I shall fear no evil. Inbox tally – a mere 256! God give me strength. Amen.

Emails finished a whole four minutes before the 10 o’clock news. Praise be, a new personal best. Two fingers of Macallan poured, married with two ice cubes.

Bath. Into bed. Eyes closed. Sweet peace. Thank you, Lord, for another day.

11.24pm Doorbell rings…and rings…and rings…

11.24pm and 30 seconds God, give me patience, if you give me strength, I may kill them.

It's Official, by Bruce Levine

4/12/2020

 
The days were ticking by. The turkey had set the perfect mood not only for the feast of the day, but the official beginning, or so it’s said, of the holiday season.

Janice and James celebrated the day, yet dreaded the day as well. Not because they didn’t like the holidays, but because they had already suffered the overload of Christmas movies and other manifestations which had begun in July rather than waiting for, what they felt, was the appropriate timeframe.

They loved Christmas! They loved the decorations, the lights and the festivity. This year, in their new home, in their new town, they anxiously looked forward to exploring and seeing the seasonal trappings.

James, a devout Foodist, celebrated any holiday which involved food and ignored any that didn’t. But both Janice and James liked the holidays to be appropriately defined within their season. Much like Memorial Day and Labor Day defined the summer season; they felt that Thanksgiving should define the beginning of the Christmas season and that it should end on New Year’s Day rather than lingering into March.

As Janice and James settled down to watch the latest installments of the mystery series they had borrowed from the library they reveled in the pleasure of the repast they’d just enjoyed and thoughts of the holiday season ahead.

Seasoned Greetings, by Sterling Warner

4/12/2020

 
Any other autumn, a thud on the roof signaled the forthcoming onslaught of derecho storms with typical wind gusts of 58 miles an hour. Yet, not even a slight breeze disturbed the night air. Moreover, it’d been weeks since people held pumpkin chunkin contests the day after all hallows eve, catapulting carved, burnt out jack-o-lanterns into vacant lots. Thus, the current resounding roof thuds made absolutely no sense.

Ten days after Thanksgiving, the entire town looked like a winter wonderland. Lights decorated almost every house in the city, some further enhanced with cheap, plastic nativity scenes or giant candy canes, Santa Clause, reindeer, and occasional elves. Still, long after Christmas lights had been turned off, providing people a visual reprieve, all too familiar thuds on random rooftops continued to assault everyone’s hearing.

A detective of sorts, I snuck out of the house to locate the source of aerial bombardment. To get a better view, I climb into my neighbor’s treehouse, got out my cell phone, and waited patiently for someone or something to film. After fighting off the ice-cold night air and the desire to cuddle in a warm feather bed, I eventually observed perpetrators of the audio annoyance.

Somehow, the Leman brothers had gotten ahold of the pumpkin chunkin catapult and were selectively tossing fruitcakes at homes whose residents had a reputation for regifting them year after year, rather than purchasing fresh, seasonal gifts for friends and loved ones. Oddly, I found their actions righteous and socially redeeming. (I hate fruitcake—as much as Lawrence Welk and his damn accordion music!). At best, fruitcakes make respectable door stops, but I still consider receiving one for the holidays a personal insult!

As I climbed down from the treehouse, I initially resolved to provide the Leman brothers with a new hit list of homes when I saw them come morning. That night, however, I began dreaming about caroling alone in the middle of a graveyard and concluded my deep sleep with a visitation from the Ghost of Christmas Mischief.

By the time I rolled out of bed, I had changed my mind. The hell with a hit list! I wanted to join the Leman brother’s crew the next evening—loading the launch bucket, pulling the wooden lever, and assailing neighborhood roofs with hard, stale, re-gifted fruitcakes.

Cheap thrills tend to be short lived. Oh, I did my part, and reveled in insulting stingy neighbors with aged fruit cake. Times change, of course, and come the New Year, so did we. Next Christmas, the Leman brothers and I intend to dress like three wise men, track December stars, and disperse fruitcake offerings at plastic nativity scenes.
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