Blog Posts

A Goldfish in a Bowl, by Bruce Levine

2/1/2019

“I have a goldfish memory,” she commented.

“What?”

“A goldfish goes around and around in a bowl and each time thinks it’s a new time.”

“It is.”

“But they don’t know that.”

“I didn’t think that goldfish think…”

“It’s actually very cruel.

“What?”

“Goldfish in a bowl. They should be in a tank.”

“Why?”

“Then they can swim up and down and in and out of castles and all sorts of things.”

“Oh.”

“True. Just swimming around and around in circles is cruel.”

“Okay.”

“I had a tank filled with all sorts of fish – I named them all… One was flash because he darted all over the place very fast… And another was berry because he was very red…”

I looked at her.

“And they can get sick and if one gets sick they all get sick and you have to give them antibiotics…”

“I can see you trying to get fish in a tank to take their antibiotic pills.”

Her turn to give me a look.

“It’s powder or liquid… They eat it…”

“Oh… How do you know they eat it?”

“They eat it,” she repeated disdainfully.

“What if one gets more than the other?”

Another “look”.

I don’t think I’ll ever look at a goldfish in a bowl the same way
again.

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...”

One Billboard Past Mobile, Alabama, by Morgan Brennan

30/11/2018

Hal Peters shuffled along the old Telegraph road. He’d travelled many a mile and was dog tired and hungry, but his shoes, well, they felt real good. A perfect fit and genuine calfskin leather brogues wouldn’t you know. They made a comforting crunch on the broken ground. The dead guy he’d pulled them off of back in Mobile wouldn’t have missed them. No, not one bit. It had always been sneakers with Hal, but he could get used to these. Yes sir, they had status and solidity, unlike the ground before him. He had to criss-cross the road’s yawning cracks and its melted tarmac, but that was ok. He was alive.

Hal was a coal miner, and on the day, he’d been a mile below God’s good earth, digging out a new seam for the Man. Hal and his crew were down shaft 235, deepest of the deep, when it happened. At first there were tremors then violet earth shakes. The alarms sent them running for the elevators. Only he was quicker than most. When he got up top there was nothing but him and the blasted fields and the shells of burnt out buildings. It was like a Californian wildfire had come a-calling from the west. In fact, there was not even the call of a bird or drone of a plane, just dead bodies and shoes.
He’d heard weeks ago that the rhetoric had gotten serious. They’d cut diplomatic ties. Then, an incident off the South China Sea. He’d not taken much notice. Let them get on with it. They’ll sort it out. Then someone pressed a button.

He stumbled on. The sky was a toxic soup of yellow and red mushroom shaped clouds. Above them, a devil’s symphony orchestra crashed out thunderous chords. Only, down on the ground, there were no partners left to take up that last dance. No sir, excepting Hal, nothing whole was standing. Not one other person, nor one tree, nor one building, except, except for a lone and crazily twisted billboard. It had somehow survived the blast wave, but its familiar slogan had been distorted. Some letters were covered by a black ash. Hal could just about make out the rest against the scorched stars n stripes background. Ma e America eat Again. He shuffled on past, he was still hungry, but yeah, the shoes would do him fine.

Another Man, by Mark Joseph Kevlock

30/11/2018

The two best friends stood side by side, leaning their forearms atop the brick wall. They didn't do anything else.

"We can't both be in love with her," Peterson said.

"Yet, we are," Dupont said.

"How do we decide?" Peterson said.

"Maybe we don't," Dupont said.

Neither teen paid mind to anything before them. This conversation would decide the rest of their lives.

"Neither of us will step aside," Dupont said.

"And she's told us already that she won't choose between us," Peterson said.

"We might both lose her," Dupont said. "Or we could both keep her."

"Two men can't share one woman," Peterson said.

Dupont leaned harder upon the wall. "Are you sure?"

"What are you suggesting?" Peterson said.

"That we place jealousy and ownership aside," Dupont said.

"It wouldn't be fair to either of us," Peterson said. "We both deserve a love of our own to share our lives."

"Except that she is that love for both of us."

Peterson grew quiet. Dupont did, too.

"It's taking friendship a bit too far," Peterson said.

Both friends nodded. Both made their plans.

"What would she say?" Peterson said.

"We could ask," Dupont said.

"She's made me happy," Peterson said, "ever since we met."

"Me, too," Dupont said. "She's very special."

"And I think," Peterson said, "that she does love us equally."

"It's impossible," Dupont said. "We both want her too much."

Peterson shut his eyes. "If a safe were falling this instant upon my head, would you save me, my friend?"

"Sure," Dupont said.

"And I'd save you," Peterson said.

"That's good to know."

"Maybe we each love different aspects of her," Peterson said. "Which parts do you love?"

"All of her," Dupont said.

"Me, too," Peterson said.

The afternoon went on.

"If this were a science fiction story," Dupont said, "we could combine ourselves into one person."

Peterson nodded. "Or split her in two."

"We're stuck with reality," Dupont said.

"It would seem so," Peterson said.

"We may both live to be a hundred," Dupont said.

"Only if she does, too," Peterson said.

They both nodded.

"We'll never make the three of us work," Peterson said.

"No matter how hard we try," Dupont said, "it's bound to be unequal."

"Like a parent with a favorite child," Peterson said. "They just can't help it."

Both friends stood up away from the wall.

"We'll have to be enemies, then," Peterson said.

"And lose everything between us," Dupont said.

"And fight to the death, emotionally at least, for our love," Peterson said.

"There's no other way," Dupont said.

The two teens shook hands for the last time. Each held back a tear.

"Love shouldn't be compromised, ever."

"I agree," Peterson said.

As they turned to part, they saw her walking by, arm in arm with another man. They both went back and stood, side by side, leaning their forearms atop the brick wall.

"Friendship is the most important thing in life," they each said at the same time.

The Barbies We'd Like to See, by David Croll

28/11/2018

Recognizing that people come in all shapes and sizes, Mattel created new shapes for Barbie. The new design was received with much acclaim, including the cover of Time magazine. But did Mattel go far enough? I propose that the company did not. Here are my suggestions to bring the tired old toy company into the 21st century.

A small but powerful group, The Tea Party deserves a Barbie of its own. Introducing The Kelly Doll. If you think the old catch phrase of Barbie, “Let’s go shopping,” was vapid, wait till you hear what comes out of the mouth of this one. And tap on it. It’s as hollow as a chocolate Easter bunny.

In honor of all the gains women have made through the years, there is the CMO Mom. She broke through the glass ceiling, and she’ll break your heart. The CMO Mom has it all, two adorable children, a much younger second husband, and an even younger stud assistant. The CMO Mom comes with your choice of a bottle of scotch or a box of wine.

Every girl dreams of looking like Barbie, and so does every doll. And this one does. Looking just like the original Barbie but with the help of cosmetic surgery. Introducing Plastic Surgery Barbie. With the help of well-placed plastic, you will be asking who was her surgeon. Price: $10,000.

She’s smart, she’s beautiful, and she works for you. At least that’s what her re-election commercial claims. Senator Barbie at your service. Accessories include thousands of lobbyists and a suitcase of untraceable cash.

Mattel introduced a Barbie with cancer before, but nothing like this one. Meet The Breast Cancer Barbie. Your child can decide if insurance will cover her treatment, and if Barbie should have a mastectomy or keep her breasts and possibly lose her life. A great teaching moment for your child. The Breast Cancer Barbie comes with a scalpel.

It’s important to teach your kids that beauty won’t last forever. They might look beautiful at 6 but wait until they hit double digits. It’s all downhill after that. Or is it? Introducing Botox Barbie, and not wanting to appear sexist, Botox Ken. Teach your child that with the help of a paralyzing poison, beauty can last forever. Each doll comes with an injection of Botox, suitable for all the 6-years old out there.

Foster the young Republican in your child. Teach him or her the beauty of the free market system with Hostile Takeover Ken. Watch him in action as he moves from one corporation to another, downsizing them like locusts in a wheat field. If your child doesn’t cry, then he is truly an American.

We will explore and exploit the human condition to help make Mattel the company you would be proud to be a part of.

Ghostly Fortunato, by Shawn Fukuda

25/11/2018

Inspired by Edgar Allan Poe’s 'The Cask of Amontillado'

Montresor reads the card, “The 9th edition of the Diccionario Castellano Enciclopédico, published in 1891 Paris by Garnier Hermanos, Libreros-Editores reads that Medea is the daughter of Hecate while King Aeëtes, her father, isn’t mentioned at all. Now, it’s 2018, and Wikipedia reads that Medea is the daughter of King Aeëtes of Colchis, and the granddaughter of Helios, the sun god. My, your priorities have changed, haven’t they? By the way, you were right; it’s been great fun traveling the secret passageways of ancient, fortified structures. I’m so glad you enjoyed the wedding banquet. Thank you for the lovely gift. I’ll always cherish it.”

Needless to say, Montresor is familiar with the author, but that’s the least of his worries as he begins to doubt whether or not he’s ever been truly respected, admired, beloved. He knows for a fact he suffers from melancholy. Immediately, he senses he’s being observed, which makes him terribly uncomfortable; however, when it occurs to him that Fortunato might be judging him, he’s vexed, “How dare he! Who does he think he is?” Montresor avoids catching a glimpse of his reflection in the kettle as he takes his afternoon tea. Instead, he hides in his bedroom closet with the lights off and the door locked. “If only I could bury myself behind the wall!” he mutters, “I’d find that Fortunato and I’d strangle the life out of him once and for all!” In a flash, he jumps out and heads off with a sledgehammer to the catacomb where he buried alive the object of his envy. Montresor doesn’t feel guilt or remorse. He’s shameless, hence, he’s remains the same. Believe it or not, this invigorates him! So, as he bashes down the wall, brick by brick, he admits that if Fortunato really had insulted him, Montresor would’ve presented his evidence instead of merely mocking him.

Montresor is empowered by his irreverence for everything and everyone else. He holds himself in the highest esteem, which is why it pains him to his very core when others refuse to be enchanted by him. Well, imagine Montresor’s shock when he finds Fortunato’s chained skeleton shooting him the bird! Montresor yanks out Fortunato’s remains, throws them on the ground, stomps on them while cursing Fortunato, quickly admitting his sadistic crime for anyone within earshot to hear, including Detective Sherry who’s been surveilling Montresor for this cold case, in addition to other felonies and misdemeanors. Long story short, Montresor promised to appear in court and then absconded.

The Wall, by Don Tassone

24/11/2018

There it stood, 30 feet tall, made of concrete and steel. It stretched in both directions as far as the eye could see. It was gray, of course, the color of despair.

They built it to keep the “bad guys” out. At least that’s what they said. But the real message was clear: we don’t want any of you here. You’re not welcome here.

At first, a few tried to scale it, but it was no use. It was a well designed wall. No one got through.

Soon, they stopped trying. But in the process, they stopped wanting to get to the other side—or to leave their homeland at all.

Unable to find a better life elsewhere, they began building a new society, with their own scientists, industrialists and artists. In time, they became a great society, and people from all over the world came there to live, work and trade.

Except the people who had built the wall. They were content to keep the new overachievers out and focus on themselves.

For a while, they continued to prosper. But as their population aged and shrank, they needed workers, and they put out a call for help.

But the people of the world ignored them. Most didn’t want to have anything to do with a society which puts itself first and builds a wall to keep others out except when it needs them.

The sons and daughters of those who had built the wall began to feel trapped by it, and they tore it down. But it was too late. They had become ostracized, even as they had ostracized others.

Generations later, the descendants of the wall builders once again became a part of the world, not because ugly memories had faded but because they themselves at last remembered who they were.

The Preacher's Daughter Learns Poker, by Ronald Larsen

20/11/2018

Lorraine was a preacher's daughter from a small farming town in Iowa. She'd been insulated from some of the 'seamier' things in life--dancing, liquor, gambling, pre-marital sex.

When she grew up and could leave home, she moved to Des Moines to work as a hairdresser and met me--former delinquent, former sailor, currently a mechanic. She discovered that she liked stingers--the creme de menthe was unlike anything she'd ever tasted. The pre-marital sex thing was next to go.

Now, we had some friends over and she was learning to play poker--one of the last remnants of innocence down the tubes.

George was rather condescending to this newbie. She didn't say anything, but I could see she was getting a bit nettled. About an hour into the game, I bet a dollar on a pair of kings and the next two players folded. As he casually tossed in a five dollar raise, George said, "Now that's what you do when you have a good hand."

Lorraine said sweetly, "Joe, two pairs are good, right?" Without waiting for an answer, she pushed a ten-dollar chip into the pot.

"Yes hon," I replied disgustedly as I threw my kings away.

I could see by the big grin on George's face as he raised another ten that he expected to pull in a decent pot with trips or a straight and Lorraine was going to learn a hard poker lesson. Satisfied, George sat back and took a big swig of beer.

She called his raise and showed her two pair--two red aces and two black aces.

George choked, turned red-faced and snorted beer out his nose.

Lorraine just smiled sweetly, raked in the pot and dealt the next hand.

The Escape, by Jim Bartlett

19/11/2018

Ahead she sees the first thin ribbons of sunlight breaking through the overhead branches and leaves, and it sparks hope that her trek through the dark forest might be finally coming to an end. Both her pace and heart quicken as the trail takes her up and down, weaves this way and that, each step heightening her expectation that the thicket will give way to a grassy plain, a rich valley, or maybe the vastness of the sea. But it’s not until she crests the ragged last ridge does the canopy of trees open up, exposing a sky so blue it steals away her breath, gives rise to goosebumps along her arm. She stops at the summit, turning her head into a slight breeze that carries a hint of ocean salt.

For a moment she almost can hear the waves, crashing against rocks and sand in a ritual that has carried forth since the dawn of time. But out of the corner of her eye something else calls her attention, and she turns back. On the far horizon a single white cloud forms the backdrop to an ancient castle sitting atop an emerald green knoll. Each of its many towers boasts a flag, their colors brilliant, their emblems mysterious and yet inviting. The drawbridge is down, cutting a thick gray line across the inky black moat.

She again catches her breath. From deep inside a feeling, a familiar one at that, churns, and she knows something is about to happen. The trees behind her, the sky above, even the wind, settle in the silence of anticipation.

Then, the gate, a set of iron bars with sharp arrow tips at the top, begins to rise, the creak of its chains echoing across the canyon. A rider—a knight, his polished armor aglow in the midday sun--emerges, his horse a glossy back, its mane long and wild. The breath she held she finally releases in a gasp, as the horse and rider make their way across the bridge, a slow clump-clump of the horse’s hooves against the wood.

Yet, even with such a magnificent sight, another sound, this one far off in the distance, latches onto her ear. She turns, thinking at first it might be the long-horns of the neighboring kingdom, trumpeting in announcement of an approaching parade of horses ridden by knights in gray. She closes her eyes, imagining their gloved hands, how they hold their lances high, for their intent is to challenge the knight.

But, no, the sound is more distinct. A repetitive beeping. Persistent. Annoying. Her shoulders slump, her head drops, for it is only then she realizes her phone, set to go off at the end of her lunch, is performing its task.

With a heavy sigh, she marks her page, folds the book closed, and makes her way back to her desk.

Artificial Intelligence, by Sankar Chatterjee

18/11/2018

Early this year, Cathy and Mark, a millennial couple from New York finished a grueling several days hike on the ancient Inca Trail visiting the ruins at Machu Picchu in Peru. On completion, they would decide to spend a few days in Cusco, the ancient capital of the Inca civilization. Cusco was conquered by the Spanish Conquistadors who had imported European culture and Christianity in the area. Accordingly, ornate churches and buildings from Spanish-era co-exist with nearby ruins from original Inca-era. In addition, remnants of original Inca culture, for example unique food items and exquisite handicrafts could still be found at different locations of the city.

One evening, the couple was trying out a local delicacy called “cuy” (a whole grilled guinea-pig) in a street-corner restaurant, when the burly owner stopped by to exchange pleasantries. He explained to the pair that the advanced Inca civilization was the culmination of several others previous civilizations. He suggested them to visit the local archeological museum that housed various period-specific artifacts, excavated from different parts of the country.

Next morning, Cathy and Mark headed to the museum, itself built on a reconfigured original ceremonial court from Inca days. Exhibits were displayed covering the period from 1200 BCE to 1500 CE. The pair learned about several pre-Inca time-specific civilizations in the peninsula, for example Nasca, Mochica, Chancay, and Chimu. However, Mark’s biggest surprise came from viewing the paintings from relatively modern Huari period (800 – 1300 CE). It was as if the art form had made a giant leap displaying the first examples of modern-day cubism, popularized by Picasso. The painted human figures were fragmented and twisted, partial faces overlapped, and in the process a kind of complexity appeared.

On return to US, Mark, an arts enthusiast could not shake off those images from early cubism of Huari arts. He would decide to do a literature search on the history of the subject. Interestingly, the first reference popped up on his computer screen was a recent article in the Sunday magazine section of the nation’s leading newspaper. The author, an expert on Huari paintings speculated that with advancement of the civilization with newer inventions, chaos was also engulfing the society breaking apart prevailing normalcy. The artists wanted to capture the emerging fragmentations within the society.

Two days ago, sitting in his living-room, Mark was watching, on his flat-screen TV, the live shot of devastating fire raging in the western part of the country with hundred deaths and thousand missing, already. He shouted to Cathy, busy in preparing evening meal in kitchen, “Fire’s destroying the West.” Cathy, not being able to hear properly shouted back: “What?” Mark raised his voice: “Fire, fire! The West is burning.”

Suddenly, the entire neighborhood got surrounded by siren-screaming fire engines, emergency vehicles, police cars, and ambulances. Ricoh, the couple’s in-house smart-robot, a favorite to the millennial generation, announced from the corner of the room “I heard you shouting ‘fire’, so made all the necessary calls to the emergency authorities.”

Finding the Time, by Mark Jospeh Kevlock

16/11/2018

"No matter how many times you come back, you'll never get it exactly right."

Ethan West could not accept what his brother was telling him.

"Somewhere, sometime, somehow," Ethan said, "Doris and I are meant to live happily ever after. I'll keep searching until I find it."

Riley West sighed. He reloaded the gun. And he shot his brother dead.

Ethan's oversoul spoke to him in the Great Beyond, using not-words to express not-feelings.

"Where to next?" Ethan replied.

The year was 1875. Doris was a schoolteacher. They fell in love. She died one winter from pneumonia.

Why Ethan remembered each of his past lives he could not say. Another man might've been driven mad by the accumulated grief inherent in such knowledge. Ethan grew only more determined.

Doris had been his mother, his daughter, his sister. But more often than not, she played the part of lover. In every instance, tragedy struck.

Somewhere in Ethan West's brain, God had installed a time machine. Merely through concentration, Ethan could travel right back to his brother in the present. He did so again.

"Fate is sending you a message, Ethan. It was not meant to be."

"Again," Ethan commanded.

Riley shot him in the heart.

This resurrection proved different in its circumstances. Ethan did not meet Doris until they were both in their fifties and he was hired to kill her. Only morbid curiosity prevented his immediate departure.

She rented an apartment high in the clouds, this Doris. The year was 2063. Doris had become a crusading reporter. Many contracts stood upon her life. Ethan accepted the most lucrative. He took Doris to lunch.

"I believe it was destiny for us to meet."

Doris stared at him and said nothing.

"I have a gun pointed at you beneath the table."

Doris grinned. "I think I love you," she said.

Ethan grew startled. "How? Why? We just met!"

"No, we didn't," Doris said.

"You mean?..."

"I remember," Doris said. "All of our failed attempts. I remember falling in love with you all over time."

"Have you been... searching?"

Doris nodded.

"And in your head..."

"...a time machine," Doris concluded.

"Then this is it! This is the right lifetime. This is the moment we get it right!"

The high-rise began to shake.

"I don't care if it's an alien invasion," Ethan said. "We'll never be parted again."

It wasn't an earthquake. Not a small one, anyway. It was the end of the world.

"Not now!" Ethan said. "It isn't fair!"

"Wait," Doris said. "We can still escape. We can go anywhere, anytime..."

"But where?" Ethan said. "Where can we go to be happy?"

There was only one house in all the world. There were only two people. Ethan and Doris were their names. No one else yet existed. Not even Adam and Eve. The world was still a garden. Problems hadn't been invented yet. That suited the lovers just fine.

On Ruby Lips, by Steve O'Brien

16/11/2018

Though the sun blazed as he drove along the winding country lanes that led from the city where he worked, he was oblivious to the beauty and warmth spread before him. Instead, his eyes were drawn to the deep shadows cast by the scuttling clouds, his thoughts mired in the dark landscapes of lost valleys. He was thinking of people. People in conflict or people in anguish; the only people he knew. Yet, her husband had shown a kindness hadn’t he? By phoning with the news.

In the waiting area his tired eyes skimmed his police division’s latest crime reports, brought to occupy his mind; each one unconsciously adding to his personal bag of pain.
A bell rang somewhere. A tea trolley rattled into the ward; a shiny, incongruous machine led by a drab assistant. He reckoned her last thoughts of love were surely aeons ago.
Shown to the room he sat quietly by her bed, his heart keeping pace with the monitor's bleep. At first he could find only sadness in her eyes that tracked his own, but soon a pale, feeble smile appeared.
The ageing detective took her cool, soft hand and squeezed it and held it tightly against his cheek, then pressed his mouth gently on hers and held it there. He rose and walked unsteadily away, left only with a precious, faded photograph of a pretty girl on a distant summer's day who had just been kissed on ruby lips.

Faith, by Marjan Sierhuis

13/11/2018

While sitting across from the medical doctor specializing in high risk obstetrics, the married couple tightly clasp hands as they focus on her every word.

“Although, your autoimmune disorder appears to be in remission Vanessa, your attempts to become pregnant may place you and the fetus at an increased risk for obstetrical complications. So I suggest that you and your husband wait until I can conduct some more tests.”

“We have waited long enough,” Vanessa says softly, as she turns towards her husband and tries to interpret his facial expression. “I am forty years old, and after several miscarriages I am willing to take the risk.”

***
Thirty seven weeks later as clouds drift across a dark sky, Michael remains awake. He waits in solitude by his wife’s bedside. His tired eyes fill with unshed tears as a symphony of sounds creep into the room and intrude upon his conflicted emotions.

As he stretches his arm across white hospital sheets, he takes a deep breath and tenderly covers his wife’s cold hand with his. For the first time in his life he says a prayer. He watches his wife’s still form and waits for a response. He is not greedy. Perhaps a flickering movement from eyelashes that brush her pale cheeks, a sudden motion from her fingertips, or a tongue that travels over dry lips.

He steals a glance at her chest and watches as it rises and falls with every breath. He strokes her cheek with the tip of his finger and carefully places a photo of a preemie in the palm of her hand. Leaning over, he gently rests his unshaven face against her soft skin and whispers in her ear.

Suddenly, something wet caresses the side of his face. He sighs as he looks up and watches a tear roll down Vanessa’s cheek. And he starts to her all about their baby girl, Faith.

Elixir, by Jim Bartlett

6/11/2018

There was a gentle tap at the door, almost as if a shameful whisper, and the boy watched as his grandfather rose from the comfort of his ancient recliner, leaving the crackling fire behind in order to answer the plea.
In the entryway, a haggard man, or what was left of him, his shoulders hunched, his eyes withdrawn, his clothes in tatters, stood in the dark and cold. Without a word, his grandfather waved the man in, and they made their way to the fire.
“Go now, lad,” he said to the boy. As he had a thousand times before.
The young boy slipped into his bedroom, leaving the door open just a crack. He watched as his grandfather helped the man sit on the hearth, offering him a warm cup of tea. Returning to his recliner, he lit up his pipe and began to rock, not a word said between them.
For a while, and for what seemed too long of a while to a boy his age, he spied upon the two as they sat staring into the fire. Then, his eyelids slowly gathering the weight of a long day of chores, they little by little faded to dark.
A cool breeze danced into his room, tickling his face in a taunt to awaken and join it in the waltz of the midnight moon. But it was the sound of voices near the front door that sprung him from his prone position on the floor to risk another look out at the men.
No longer at the fireplace, they stood together, hand in hand, near the opened door. The bedraggled man wore a fresh face, his smile rivaling the warmth of the fireplace. They said some farewells, and the man, a new man by all means in appearance, disappeared into the night.
How does this happen? The young lad had seen this time and again, and his curiosity bubbled over. He slipped back out into the front room, meeting his grandfather at the fire.
“They come in so tired, so weary and sick. How do you help them, Grandpa-pa? Do you put a potion in their tea?”
The old man smiled. “They are indeed worn, sick if you will. But I need not put any magic potions or powders in their tea.” He once again lit the pipe, then leaned back in his chair. “We all make mistakes along our path, my child. Thus to forgive and be forgiven are the elixirs of life. Too often we build our pride too high, hide ourselves in the shadows of our shame. Only when we can tear down this wall will the warmth of compassion shine down upon us. Only then do we feel the weight of life’s burdens lifted from our shoulders.”
He let his gaze meet the boy’s. “Forgive, and allow yourself to be forgiven.”

The Kite, by Neil Harris

2/11/2018

The boy looked maybe seven, a young seven. The man held aloft a spit-moist finger before setting off, the wind chasing him. It was their fourth attempt. The result was the same - the red and yellow stripes flapped to deceive before crashing down. The boys’ face turned from glee to glum once more, he bowed his head as the man trudged back to him, kite in hand.
‘One more go Joe, one more. This time it will fly buddy, betcha is does.’
Joe summoned his final reserves of belief and slowly nodded his head. He stood, patient, determined, hands clasped tightly over the plastic reel.
The open field was awash with hungry wasps, darting from scone to cake and weaving their way through furious hands. The hoard of picnickers watched as footballers played and ramblers rambled.
The man ran again, faster this time, almost falling. Joe held tight, feet anchored to the ground. He blinked as the sun caught his lifting gaze. Hope became joy as the beast finally soared. Joe remained rooted to the spot, his wide blue eyes consuming the sky.
‘I knew it! You did it Joe, you did it!’ The man lowered his triumphant arms before returning to the boy.
The line twitched and slackened. The kite began to fall, teasing at first before falling exhausted at the boy’s feet. It was over all too soon, but it didn’t matter to Joe. The man placed a soft hand on Joe’s shoulder.
‘Well done, buddy, well done.’
Joe smiled. It was a smile to lock away and treasure.
They walked away, hand in hand. The kite followed closely behind, bumping along as it brushed the dry grass.
She appeared from within the crowd moments later, her white cotton dress flowing in the soft breeze. She moved slowly at first, glancing around, looking, searching. Her pace quickened as she moved left, then right, forwards, backwards. And then she began to shout, to scream, a guttural sound carrying one word:
‘Joe!’

The Raffle, by Morgan Brennan

2/11/2018

The Pacific sun hovered there like a great golden globe intruding on a cobalt blue world. A warm sea breeze gave no respite to their sun burnt bodies and across the mirror sea nothing else stirred, just the gentle sway of the boat and the rustle of paper. Wilson Peters handed them out with closed eyes. They’d been cut from the headlines of an old sailing magazine, then folded and jumbled into a small metal cup. Each of the four slips contained a letter, but only one had the D.
‘Okay guys, you know the drill.’
Mallory was first. He opened his eyes and stared down at his folded slip.
‘Go on Mal, get it over with pal,’ said Gonzales.
Mike Mallory opened the slip. All eyes were on him. He looked to heavens, then exhaled slowly and held up the L.
Gonzales was next. Always the wise guy. He opened it like a sweet wrapper … and showed another L. ‘Hey guys, what I tell ya, you can’t touch–
‘–shut up, Gonzales. You’re up next Matty.’
Young Matt Davey’s hands trembled and his green eyes darted from face to face, before resting back on Peters.
‘I can’t do this Wilson, just can’t do it.’
‘You gotta Matty,’ he said. ‘Go on kid.’
‘You know the numbers don’t work, Matt. Man’s gotta eat,’ drawled Gonzalez.
‘I said SHUT IT Gonzalez.’
Davey looked again at the skeletal faces. They’d nothing left to offer him. He held out a shaking hand to Peters, the slip waving around like a tasty small fish on the hook.
‘You do it for me.’
Wilson Peters leant forward and snatched the paper. He slumped back, opened it and then stared into the distance. Beyond his men, beyond the boat and to a point on the empty horizon where blue met blue. The breeze had stilled now and the sun was a glimpse of hell. He curled the piece into a small ball and flicked it overboard.
‘You’re all right, Matty. It’s ok,’ he said.
Peters composed himself and roused his lean body to sit up, one more time.
‘Guess it’s me then,’ he said and opened the last slip, giving its L the merest of glances before screwing the paper into his fist. He gave them a resigned nod and held out his other hand.
‘Give it to me, Mike.’
‘No way, let’s see that paper first, Wilson,’ Mallory said.
‘I said, GIVE IT ME NOW!’
Mike Mallory shook his head, but then threw the revolver across anyway.
‘Wilson, I’m still all right ain’t I? AIN’T I?’ Davey’s green eyes were moist now, pleading.
‘Sure Matty. it’s alright kid, it’s alright.’
Peters put the gun to his head and cocked the hammer.
Then, another noise – faint at first – but unmistakable - aeroengines.

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