Blog Posts

The Regatta, by Tessa Edgecombe

4/5/2019

As a skinny eleven year old I was too young and green to carry the fate and weight of the flashboat team on my narrow shoulders. It was the last race of the regatta, the four man randan. The tide was high and the river was running fast and strong. The ten light-as-a-feather racing boats bobbed on the river’s surface, sleek wooden thoroughbreds. The tension bounced around the Antony Passage crew. Fingers were cracked, jokes as well, some swearing. The tide turned, and the current wrestled with the rudder, almost wrenching my arms out of their sockets. Confidence was a stranger to me, determination a mere acquaintance. I was full of dread.
Training had comprised a mere hour or so the evening before, in our lone craft, on a quieter tributary. Now it was the big race of the day and the boats did not just jostle their way towards the starting line, they positively thrashed their way forward trying to secure the best position. After a false start, the race commenced, with the crowd’s shouts and cheers crashing like waves over us. Desperately, I took a bead and headed as sure and straight as I could for the first buoy marking the turning point. But that’s where the other nine boats were headed as well. Terrified of ramming any of the other teams and being disqualified, I took too wide a turn only to be met by groans from the crew when they saw the ground they had to make up. All muscle and slog, they had no idea of the battle I was fighting with the rudder and the tide. Soon though, we were making up ground with the captain repeatedly asked me to hold a steady line. This I tried to do, but the melee of oars and craft was confusing and next minute we had careered into the nearest boat with the whipcrack of breaking wood filling my ears and bringing tears of misery. Both sets of men took to swearing at each other but it was obvious we were not going to finish the race, and I sat huddled at the back of the boat, cold and wet, the sun now behind clouds and my hands welted with blisters.
On reaching the shore, the young men clambered out of the racing boat, their shoulders sloped in disappointment, barely looking at me, their backs broad and unforgiving. I felt my failure keenly, sharp and raw, but sharper still was the bitter blame I laid at my uncle’s door. Shrugging off his help, I too clambered out onto dry land, remembering how he had suggested me as a coxswain for my cousins’ boat. I turned my back to him, less broad but just as unforgiving.

Into the Light, by Kim Favors

3/5/2019

Securing the trash cans for pickup is what Evelyn will tell them if discovered. But at dusk, with kitchens bustling and televisions blaring, few people are looking out their back windows.

If they do, it’s unlikely they’ll see the shabbily dressed woman walking the far side of the alley in the near dark.

Watching.

The low-rent housing owned by Evelyn and her brother was a motel before a new highway rerouted travelers.

For years, nightly strolls sent them following the aromas of chicken frying and spaghetti and cookies just out of the oven.

No longer.

Huddling near kitchen windows brought up fragments of flashbacks from a tragedy Evelyn has tried to forget.

And with her brother gone, she now keeps her distance.

Besides, “my babies,” as Evelyn calls the children, are the real reason the landlady spies on her tenants. So she tells herself.

Pony-tailed girls clutching dolls and their mothers’ aprons. Helping set the table. Their brothers in play coonskin caps watching Davey Crockett on TV with their fathers.

Images from the 1950s that Evelyn imagines she sees through those windows.

This Christmas she’s planning to visit “my babies,” hoping to be welcomed to the families’ festivities.

Perhaps she can help out in the kitchen. If Mommy lets her.

Going Down, by NT Franklin

3/5/2019

Roger ran to the elevator as the door closed. “Crap, shut out and going down, just like my career.”

Seven years an accounts manager, and today, passed over for a fifth time for a supervisor position, Roger was finally questioning his future with Allied Industries.

“Got problems, buddy?”

“What?” Roger didn’t know anyone was behind him.

“Sounds like you’re going nowhere, and not even heading there very fast. I’m Charlie, by the way. I don’t work here anymore.”

“Uh, okay, Charlie, glad to meet you. Roger here. Sorry, but I’m not having the best day.”

“I gathered that. I quit here three years ago.”

Roger ran a hand through his thinning hair. Then what are you doing here?”

Charlie dug a business card from his pocket. “Yes, better pay and benefits, even time to visit old friends. Here’s my card. Give me a call, maybe we can work something out.”

“Uh, thanks. I just might do that.”

“Your elevator is here. Going down.”

When the elevator doors closed, Charlie dug out his cellphone and dialed.
“Hooked one.”

After forty minutes, Charlie left the building and was walking across the parking lot when his phone rang.

Roger was on the line. “You have any openings?”

Charlie smiled. “I like you, Roger, and yes, there is an opening for an Accounts Supervisor, but we need to know what you are working on and the extent of your clients. This is a pretty big job and we have to be certain you are up for it.”

“I can email a file of my client list and current projects to the address on your card later today.”

“That would be excellent, Roger. I like a man that is confident and decisive.”

Roger gave a little half smile. I’ll send the complete company client list and projects. That should demonstrate my value.

Charlie looked at the file that arrived on his phone, saved it, then dialed.

“Gold mine.”

The voice on the other end asked, “How many client names did you get?”

“All of them, and the current projects. I need five times the money we agreed on.”

“Take four times the money?”

“Done. Burn the website. I’ll ditch the burner phone. Good doing business with you.”

The Museum of Broken Relationships, by David Croll

1/5/2019

They met at the Museum of Broken Relationships.
“What are you leaving behind?” he asked her.
“A cast-iron skillet,”
He looked quizzical.
“He gave it to me for our first anniversary. So many times, I wanted to smash it over his head. Never give a practical gift as an anniversary present,” she offered.
“I’ll remember that,” he said laughing.

“What are you leaving?”
“A mix tape. Music is so important to me, and I wanted to share it with her.”
“So, you gave her a mix tape?”
“No, I gave you mp3s but deleting them did not feel cathartic, so I made…”
“So, you made a mix tape to throw away. Seems like an awful lot of work.”
“I suppose you’re right.”

“I’m Mackenzie,” she said offering her hand.
“I’m Morgan,” he replied taking her hand.
He held it longer than customary, but she didn’t mind.
“Would you like to go to a place where someone else is using a skillet?”
She laughed.
“As long as they don’t play any of the songs from your mix tape.”

They shared a bottle of wine and laughs as they began building new memories together. Memories that in a few months’ time, will bring them both back, individually, to the museum to discard.

You Boys Stop It, by Brian Taylor

1/5/2019

Ray's job and hometown made him feel tired these days, so on one early Saturday morning, he decided to take a long road trip to get away from things and try to clear his mind. So with just himself and his old pickup, he hit the road. After about five hours of driving, he needed gas. He stopped at the first convenience store he came to, in a little town that he already forgot the name of.

After he pumped thirty dollars worth in his truck, he went inside to pay. Two young boys were hanging around the store entrance, scuffling, laughing and calling each other names such as "chicken" and "turd."

Ray cleared his throat loudly, so they'd get out of his way. They moved a little but kept playing. Damn boys, he thought, annoyed.

After paying for his gas and a cup of coffee, he came back outside. The boys were still by the door, horsing around. His temper flared.

He growled at them, angrily, "You boys stop it!"

He hadn't meant to say it exactly like that, or so loud.

"You're just in people's way," he added, more quietly.

He briefly wonders if the woman cashier was the boys' mother and if she'd come out to scold him for yelling at them. But if she was, she didn't.

They stopped playing and looked startled and guilty, making their faces look even younger. The oldest looked like he was about twelve and the youngest looked eight or nine. They both had on baseball caps and dirty t-shirts, dirty jeans, and sneakers.

They both muttered "Sorry, sir" and shuffled away.

He walked to and got in his truck, put his coffee in the dash cup holder, and sighed. He put his seatbelt on and looked down at the floorboard. His mind taunted him, as it often does these days.

You know why those boys really upset you, don't you?

He did.

They reminded him of his own boys. Both grown now, and probably forever estranged from him because of his own pride and stupidity, with them and their mother. He has his excuses, but excuses don't mean anything when no one wants to hear them anymore, and you're all alone.

But damn, the memories of the good times with his boys; the wrestling, the fishing, the swimming, the joking around, the riding around with them in his truck, those hurt him worse than the bad ones for some reason.

He shook his head and looked up, and saw the two boys peeking around the side of the store at him.

He blushed and started his truck and left the station faster than he should have, but thankfully, there were no cops around to catch him. As dumb as he knew the thought was, the boys almost seemed like ghosts sent to haunt him.

He waited until many hours later when he took a detour down a dirt road at sundown before he allowed himself to cry.

A Wrong Turn, by Sankar Chatterjee

30/4/2019

Scientist Doug Lloyd was already late for evening’s dinner invitation. After earning his PhD degree from a prestigious university in California, Doug accepted a job offer from a start-up biotech company located 20 km outside Philadelphia, his hometown. However, as a young bachelor he decided to stay inside the city to have access to Philly’s burgeoning nightlife. In addition, Doug via social media re-connected with some of his past high-school friends, now living in various parts of the city.

Tonight, one of the friends invited him for a dinner. Not having a car yet, Doug decided to walk to his friend’s place instead of taking public transportation. He was following the GPS-direction on his i-phone when he realized that he had taken a wrong turn at some point, now arriving at a dimly-lit narrow street. From a distant, he noticed a few youths were hustling near a narrower side-alley, while exchanging some objects. That’s when he figured that his mistake might have landed him in an illicit drug trading area.

Like all big cities around the world, Philadelphia also suffers from the modern-day scourge of drug epidemics, especially city’s opioid-crisis headlines national news. However, Doug maintained his common sense, gently pulled out a ten dollar bill from his denim’s pocket, and exchanged it for a small package from the seller, while also getting the direction for the street of his interest. Embarking on a lighted avenue on the other side, he opened the package and found a lollipop on a stick. Looking back, Doug noticed that the next buyer, who had followed him, already started sucking on his lollipop.

Now, for his PhD thesis, Doug had worked on a novel method of delivering medicine to severely sickened patients, especially those in cancer treatments. For reasons still unknown to medical professionals, some of these patients would suddenly experience severe breakthrough pain making them even unable to swallow a pill. Four years of hard work in the laboratory allowed Doug to invent a unique method of formulation of pain medicine in a lozenge form for the patients to suck on it, thus alleviating pain. His scientific work was well-recognized by the scientific communities as well as the medical professionals.

But, the “miracle-turned-Genie” had come out of the bottle. The entrepreneur drug dealers must have found some rogue scientists to work in clandestine facilities to formulate the illicit drug substances into the similar lozenge form on a stick, giving it a lollipop look.

*

Under bright city lights and surrounded by high skyscrapers, Doug kept on walking towards his destination. At the same time, he wondered how many more lives would now be ruined with new drug-epidemics exploiting his invention that was intended for the welfare of the society.

Please Hold, by Marjan Sierhuis

25/4/2019

1:00 p.m.
Lottie’s flash fiction story is nearly complete. But she suddenly loses her internet connection. This can’t be happening she says while she stares at her computer screen, willing it to connect. Poppycock, I still need access to an online database. [Lottie calls her company’s service line.
[Ring ring]
[Click]
Lottie: “Hello, I would like to speak with...
Robot: “I’m sorry our agents are currently busy helping other callers, but your call is important to us. Please hold. We will be with you shortly.”
Lottie: “Yes, but…
[Music starts to blare from her phone’s speakers]
1:30 p.m.
Robot. “Thank you for waiting. We will be with you shortly.” “Have you checked our website?” “It may be able to answer your questions.”
Lottie: “You have got to be kidding,” she says in a frustrated tone.
3:00 p.m.
Robot: “Thank you for continuing to hold.”
Lottie now has a headache and rubs her forehead. She runs into the kitchen, grabs a bottle of water, holds it against her forehead and returns to her computer screen. Still no connection. She curls up in a chair, balances the phone against one ear and falls asleep.
4:00 p.m.
Robot: “Your call is important to us.” “Please continue to hold.”
Lottie wakes up as soon as she hears the recorded message.
Robot: “If you would like to leave a call back number where you can be reached, please do so now.”
Lottie shakes her head in disbelief. She yearns for a live voice.
6:00 p.m.
Robot: “Please try again tomorrow.” “We are open for business at 8:00 a.m.” “Goodbye.”
[line disconnects]
Lottie swears and goes in search of a dictionary.

Pebble, by David Berger

23/4/2019

The Holy Man walked barefoot down a path. Suddenly, he felt a flash of pain. He looked down and stuck between his big toe and the one next to it was a pebble. He bent over and saw that the pebble had cut him slightly, and there was blood on it. He saw that the cut was superficial. In fact, the bleeding had already stopped. So, the Holy Man tossed the pebble over his shoulder and continued on his way.

“All existence is one!” he heard a voice say, just before he heard the clink of the pebble hitting the ground.

The Holy Man turned and looked behind him. He could see nothing, so he turned back and went on his way.

“All existence is one!”

He heard again. This time, the Holy Man turned and tried to find the pebble with his blood on it that he had tossed behind him. After ten minutes of fruitless searching, he abandoned his search and gave up to continue on his way. However, before he could take a single step, again he heard from behind him.

“All existence is one!”

Again, the Holy Man searched for the bloody pebble, and again he couldn’t find it, and again he turned to go and again,

“All existence is one!”

The cycle of events occurred three more times. It was getting dark, the road was lonely, and a storm was brewing. The Holy Man turned his back, once more, and began to walk.

“All existence is one!” he heard again.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” he said. “I’ve heard that somewhere before,” and he continued on his way.

“All existence is two? Three? Four?” the Holy Man heard from behind him.

“Try five,” he said and continued on his way.

She, by NT Franklin

20/4/2019

Midge and Helen sat together at the funeral service. There were two houses between them and that’s about as far apart as anyone ever saw the old spinsters.
Midge shuffled uneasily in her seat. “Think she’ll show?”

Helen turned to her, “Not a chance.”

Midge looked straight ahead. “She was at the last one.”

“Yeah, well, that was different. Tim was the fragile sensitive twin. Everyone liked him.”

Midge looked for something in her pocketbook. “But he killed himself. That’s not a Christian thing to do.”

“Stop fidgeting, Midge.”

She closed her pocketbook. “I wish they’d start. First Tim, and now Tom. So sad. We watched those boys grow up.”

Helen let out a long sigh. “Yes, Tim’s death was sad.”

“What about Tom?”

Helen composed herself before she spoke. “Now don’t go telling me it is not Christian to speak ill of the dead, but you watched Tom grow up, same as me. Trouble with a capital T.” Helen paused, waiting for Midge to interrupt her, but it didn’t happen. “You know full well the beatings he gave that poor girl. The whole town looked the other way for years. All because they were the preacher’s sons.”

“Helen!” Midge said, a little too loud. Heads turned around and looked at the pair. “Oops.”

Helen looked straight ahead, staying above the fray. When the heads returned facing forward, Helen continued. “She got even didn’t she? Got tired of the beatings and took up with his twin brother. That had to hurt more than her bruised cheek.”

Midge opened and closed her pocketbook again. “Do you think she could’ve known Tim would kill himself when she left him?”

Helen stared at Midge until she stopped fidgeting. “I don’t see how. Any more than she could have seen Tom taking up heavy drinking when she left him.”

“I guess,” Midge said. “You think maybe he killed himself too, or wanted to? Driving that fast on the swamp road.”

“I don’t know. Bound to happen sooner or later with his behavior.

Midge shifted in her seat. “Think she’ll show?”

Helen shook her head. “Not a chance.”

Predmeditated Fraud, by Bruce Levine

20/4/2019

A deal was a deal. I had accepted it under duress, but it seemed like the easiest way and the end justifies the means – usually…
She owed me the money. She admitted it, in writing, but she wanted to insure that I would show up and sign the papers. If I didn’t sign she didn’t get the one thing she dreamed of obtaining most. And she would lose both money and her dream.
It was a stalemate. If I didn’t agree to sign she wouldn’t send any money.
So I accepted – as I said, under duress.
She’d send me half now and give me the other half at the signing.
I knew that she was trying to insure that I’d show up and that I’d sign.
She sent me the first half and the check cleared and so I waited until the appointed day for both the signing and receiving the second half of the payment.
The day arrived – I showed up at the location and I signed the papers – her dream was coming true. As I was about to leave she handed me a check for the second half of what she owed.
On the way home I deposited her check in my bank and waited for it to clear.
Everything seemed fine and the full amount was credited to my account. Then, a few days later, it hit the fan – a notice from my bank that her check had bounced.
I went to my bank to get a copy of her cancelled check and find out why. My bank gave me the copy, but couldn’t state why her check bounced. They advised going to her bank for the answer.
“She stopped payment,” I was told. “It was stopped the same day it was issued.”
It didn’t take much thought to realize what her plan had been all along. She was determined to get what she wanted by any means.
She felt that part of obtaining her dream included me paying for part of it – obviously I had no intention of paying anything since this wasn’t my dream. She wanted to deduct what she thought was fair and when I’d refused she put her plan into play – fool me into to coming and signing by pretending that she’d pay the component she felt was my share.
As I said, the day arrived, we all arrived, I signed and I went on my way with a check that had already had a Stop Payment attached to it.
When the police read the emails stating that she’d pay the full amount and offering the original deal and then the follow-up email stating that she’d send me a check for the amount minus the amount of my component which she “thought was fair” – SHE thought was fair – they immediately agreed – deliberate, PREMEDITATED FRAUD!

As Dead as if He'd Died, by John M. Carlson

19/4/2019

Bill would never forget the accident. Bill was driving home with Stacy, his wife, that night. They’d been arguing about something or other. Stacy started to say something that she said was important. Suddenly, a large SUV came out of nowhere, and smashed into their car. He could still hear in his head the loud crash as the SUV smashed into them.

Bill nearly died. Stacy, fortunately, had only minor injuries.

The accident had dominated Bill’s life ever since. Surgery. Physical therapy. And the seemingly endless battle as they fought the SUV driver’s insurance company. At one point, the whole ordeal was so awful that Bill gave serious thought to killing himself. He resisted. I can’t do this to Stacy! he thought.

But all that was now over. At least as over as it ever would be. The doctors had done good work piecing him back together. He wasn’t 100% perfect, but he’d be able to have a fairly normal life. He still had nightmares at night, sometimes, but they weren’t as bad as they had been.

On the first Friday of spring, Bill decided he’d cook a special dinner. It would be a surprise for Stacy. It would celebrate the advent of spring, and also celebrate putting the accident behind them.

At six, Bill sat in the living room, waiting for Stacy to come home. A fire crackled in the fireplace. A small table near the fireplace was set with their best china. Dinner waited in the kitchen, along with a bottle of nice wine.

Stacy arrived home. “What on earth?” She stared at the table.

“I just decided it would be fun to do something special. Celebrate spring.”

“I see. I hate to tell you this, after you’ve put all this work in. But...well...I’m going back out for an appointment.” Stacy sighed. “I maybe shouldn’t tell you this now...but maybe it’s better that I tell you. I’ve been meaning to, but I keep putting it off. Our marriage is doomed. I’ve felt this way a long time. That night of the accident—right before that clown plowed into us—I was going to tell you that I thought maybe we’d better separate. Of course, after that accident, while I was still unhappy, I decided I’d better wait. You are better now, and so I think we need to start talking about divorce. Particularly since I met someone.”

“You met someone?” Bill said weakly.

“Yes. While I was waiting for you at the doctor’s office one day. I’m sorry...but that’s the way these things work. Anyway, I need to go out tonight. I’m looking at an apartment. I’ve just got to grab something, and I’ll go.”

Stacy left a couple of minutes later. Bill sat, staring at the fire. He felt dead inside. As dead as if he’d died in the accident.

Sea Change, by Ella Craig

19/4/2019

He puts on the linen suit Wendy said would be so classy and perches a Panama hat on his head at a rakish angle. The mirror reflects a picture of sophisticated elegance, except for his expression. He forces his face into a smile; now he is ready for the Beach Terrace Café reception. This is where we will meet the right people Wendy had assured him. He will do this for her because all he ever cared about was making her happy.

‘How do I look?’ Wendy appears in the bedroom doorway, dressed in lilac, the colour of old age. Her hat resembles the light shade his mother had on the standard lamp in their front parlour. A fusty room for entertaining the guests who merited the best china, and where he would sit in polite formality wishing, he were anywhere else.

‘You look nice.’ What else can he say? He misses her ethnic prints and the bold palette of colours she used to wear. Now she favours the bland tones of safety and respectability.

His smile fades as he escorts her along the greeting line. She simpers and air kisses with the best of them.

He remembers a time when Wendy drew attention with her shine and dazzle, and how she moved among people not caring if she said the wrong thing or wore the wrong clothes.

Now she tries too hard, her smile is brittle, her laugh is too loud, and they brush her off like a fly from honey.

She bows her head, and he moves to her. ‘Don’t cry, Wendy.’

‘I am not crying; I’m angry with them and with me. What are we doing here?’

‘You insisted we come because making new and better friends was one of your conditions for us to start again.’

‘I was wrong.’ The sun disappears behind a cloud and Wendy shivers.

‘Do you want to go home?’ He struggles to contain a burgeoning hope.

‘I want to go back.’

‘Stay here. There’s something I need to do.’

He finds a dark corner in the bar and strips to his underpants, letting his clothes fall to the ground. A waiter approaches him.

‘Sir, are you all right?’

‘Never felt better.’ He takes a drink from the tray and steps outside.

A woman screams and drops her glass. The throng of people stop talking and stare at him in silence, except for two children who giggle and point.

He winks at them and hands his drink to the woman. ‘There you go, enjoy!’

He strolls over to Wendy. ‘Are you ready?’

She nods but does not look at him.

He crooks a finger under her chin and lifts her face to his.

The sun comes out, and Wendy smiles with a radiance that is blinding. His heart bursts with love.

She rips off her hat, takes his hand and they run, laughing, down to the sea.

The Underground Railroad, by Sankar Chatterjee

19/4/2019

Mr. Robert Williams, a prominent African-American civilian judge in the High Court in Phoenix, Arizona was returning home after a long day’s work. While driving past the city’s bus station, he noticed a parked green van, its side-windows reinforced by metal bars. The van belonged to the immigration department. Federal law enforcement officers, in brown uniforms, were busy in pulling out several adults and children of various ages. They were carrying their meager belongings either in backpacks or tiny luggage. As soon as, the last person was dropped off on the sidewalk, the van sped away. The group stood motionless on the sidewalk, while a few ordinary citizens, both men and women started to appear near the crowd and began interacting with the group. Judge Williams’ curiosity forced him to park the car at a distant and walk back to the scene.

Soon, he learned that the original group of people, none spoke English crossed the southern border that morning fleeing poverty; gang-violence, and religious persecution in several neighboring poor countries, while seeking asylum inside his country. They were rounded up by border patrol and throughout the day presented in front of an immigration judge to file their initial petitions. Those applications would now go through byzantine legal processes over many months. But at the end of the day, the trespassers collectively were dropped outside the bus station since the private bus company won’t allow them to enter the building without a valid ticket. In fact, they didn’t even have any money to buy tickets or cell-phones to contact any relative living inside the country. However, the volunteers from local social enterprises and religious institutions created a vast network of similar-minded citizens providing food, temporary shelters, and further assistance to these helpless migrant masses.

Judge Williams ordered a cup of coffee from a nearby café and sat on a chair watching the process unfolding. As the sun began to set behind the distant mountain-range painting the whole sky in a subdued pink hue, he started to remember the pages from a hand-written diary. This was kept by his great-great-grandfather who as a young boy, along with the rest of the family, was able to escape the dragnet of their masters when President Abe Lincoln freed the slaves. Traveling only in the dark of the night, the family had inched out of the southern states over several months. Then they came in contact with the volunteers from the northern states running a vast network of escape route for the newly-freed slaves. The history-books would later term the network as the “Underground Railroad”. Growing up, Judge Williams visited several of these historic hidden escape-shelters, spread out along the north-south corridor.

He looked at the sky, now slowly darkening. As a direct descendent of freed slaves, he couldn’t fathom the fact that even after 150 years later, the country needed a new underground railroad to protect the current vulnerable members of the humanity.

The Stranger, by Avijeet Das

12/4/2019

Life was throwing different problems at her and she had no way of overcoming them. She was increasingly feeling sad and depressed. And the people she had around her were not even able to understand her a wee bit! She felt she had to do something about her life. She loved writing and that was the only thing that made her happy.

And then she remembered the Stranger. She had met him on an April afternoon. And then in his presence she had felt feelings that she had never felt before. The Stranger had touched the innermost parts of her heart by just his words. And his presence had made her experience something unusual. It was as if being connected to the Stranger put her in a spell.

Today she was feeling restless. She was feeling sad and melancholic. And she wanted to feel that unusual feeling all over again!

She was desperately in need of speaking to the Stranger. But the Stranger was not in touch with her. They both had last spoken to each other since a month ago. And it was she who had tried to have a distance between them. So she had not kept in touch with the Stranger.

But today she felt she had to talk to him again. She needed him. No matter what happened she had to speak to the Stranger. And then she called the Stranger's number.

She: "Hello, how are you?"

The Stranger: "I am okay. How are you?"

She: After a long pause "I am not okay! In fact I am depressed. I can't find anyone who can understand me. Can you help me?"

The Stranger: "How can I help you?"

She: "You understand me so well! You are my balm. You are my medicine. You are the Healer!"

The Stranger: "Why do you feel so!"

She: "You give me strength. Your words make me happy. You make me feel alive!"

The Stranger: "Thank you for feeling so! You understand me well too!"

She: "Thank you for your presence in my life!

The Stranger: "There is a reason why you and I met! We don't meet anyone by chance!"

The Crash, by NT Franklin

6/4/2019

Robert stood on the window ledge of the high-rise building. He looked down at his expensive shoes, bought last Christmas with his huge bonus. Briefly lost in thought, he focused beyond his shoes and the tiny cars way below him came into focus.

He snapped back, keenly aware of how high he was above the sidewalk, and wobbled a bit. Gathering courage, Robert started talking out loud to himself. “Why worry about a wobble? You’re going to jump anyway.”

After a deep breaths, Robert straightened up and pressed his back against his office window. He could hear the newsfeed from the monitor suspended from the ceiling…crude down one dollar per barrel and projected to drop through the month…energy futures are holding steady at this point, although experts expect them to drop in the short term…

Robert started perspiring. “Crude dropping, who cares. The Dow is already down ten percent, on top of yesterday’s twenty percent-drop."

One More Day, by Marjan Sierhuis

5/4/2019

Today he is fifty. He will remember the day well.

Grey hairs creep uninvited into his temples. There is very little energy left to blow out the birthday candles.

Nathanial sits in his favorite leather chair but he is in no mood to celebrate. Instead, he is tormented by feelings of doom as his heart beats rapidly in his chest.

When he tries to take a deep breath, beads of perspiration trickle down his face. A look of concern crosses his wife’s features but disappears in the blink of an eye, fleeting as a wisp of smoke. Emma gently strokes her husband’s arm, kisses his
cheek and whispers in his ear, “I love you.”

Nathanial tells Emma he is fine. He says his pain is fleeting. There is no reason to be alarmed.

“It is probably indigestion and like always will go away,” he says as he grimaces.

But Emma calls 911.

The ambulance siren screams a warning as it races through busy city streets towards an acute care hospital. A whooshing sound accompanies Nathanial’s stretcher through emergency room doors. Hospital staff run to his stretcher. They shout his name, tap him on the shoulder and ask if he can hear them.

He drifts in and out of consciousness and prays for the first time in his life.

Nathanial prays for one more day.

The Red Feather, by Jim Bartlett

5/4/2019

As Owen steps into the room, he’s handed a long soft feather and told to have a seat along the far wall. The feather is bright crimson, causing him to wonder if maybe it came from a cardinal. Or maybe an exotic species of parrot. With a shrug he sits, an impulse driving him to brush the feather against his wrist. But the light touch, which should tickle, instead sends a stab of panic deep inside his heart.
“Red.”
The call comes from a tall but pleasantly plump lady angel who stands at the doorway to the counseling center, and he jumps up, making his way to her side.
“You must be Owen,” she says, a twinkle in her eyes. She takes the feather and points to a door that moments ago wasn’t even there. “Right to the end of the hall. He’s waiting.”
The “hall” is nothing more than a wide slice in the puffy white clouds disappearing into the far horizon. Yet with just a couple of steps he’s standing before a large marble desk cluttered with stacks and stacks of parchments, behind which, in a high-backed chair made from an odd assortment of pillows randomly stitched together, sits an older man with white wings, a white beard, and wild white hair atop his head. He peers down through a pair of wire-rimmed glasses dangling at the end of his nose as his crooked finger traces along the page of a giant book, its ancient edges trimmed in gold. A little placard on the front of the desk reads: CLARENCE.
Owen stands for moment before finally clearing his throat, causing the angel to look up. When he meets Owen’s gaze, a smile breaks across his face, one so deep and sincere, Owen suspects Clarence may have saved it just for him.
“Owen. So good to see you.” He waves a hand toward the side of the desk. “Have a seat.”
As Owen sits, the angel continues. “So I understand you’re having a little trouble adjusting to Heaven?”
Owen nods. “It just doesn’t feel like I’m supposed to be here. I mean everyone is nice enough, but I can’t connect. And there’s no night or day...I don’t even know how long I’ve been here.”
“I see,” says Clarence. He flips a few of the oversized pages, before finding one that catches his eye. Squinting, he leans in for a closer look. “Oh...my...” he says with a gasp. “This is most certainly interesting.” But then he smiles. “No worries!”
Rising slowly from the desk, he places his hands on Owen’s chest and gently presses in. “This’ll fix you right up!”
With a start, Owen - wet, naked, and lying next to the tub in his bathroom - spits out a breath, his eyes popping open to a paramedic pushing down on his chest. Another EMT is wrapping thick gauze around the deep slashes in his wrists.
“We thought we’d lost you,” says the paramedic. “But you’re gonna be okay.”

Olivia, by N.T. Franklin

30/3/2019

I love her no matter what. I can’t help myself. But I’m starting to have doubts.

I met the woman of my dreams sitting at the bar. She shone like a raven-haired diamond in the rough. Had to be Latin blood that gave her such striking features. She was way out of my league, so I took an open table at the rear of the watering hole. “Would you look at her?” Came from the next table. “What I would do with her …”

She unfolded her long legs and sashayed over to my table. I have to admit, my eyes were with every other man’s watching her black leggings walking toward me.

I swallowed hard. “Hi,” was all I could mutter.

She put her hands on the table and leaned forward. It was all I could do to keep my eyes on her deep brown eyes. “Hi back at you.”

“Uh, well, I’d like whatever’s on draft.”

She straightened up and put her hands on her hips. Her long fingers seemed to wrap around her small hips.

“So would I. Buy a lady a beer?”

Before I could answer, the barkeep showed up with two tall drafts.

Regaining my composure, and suddenly feeling a little cocky, I answered, “Looks like I just did.”

She gracefully flowed into the chair and sat, head high and shoulders square. As much as I wanted to look around to gage the room, I kept my eye contact.

“I’m Matt.”

“Olivia.”

“Well, Olivia, what brings you into this bar and to my table this fine day?

A gorgeous smiled erupted across her face reveling perfect white teeth.”

“Well, aren’t you a quick wit, Matt.”

I couldn’t believe my luck, having her come to sit with me. My luck kept getting better when she came to my apartment that evening. And then stayed permanently. I have to admit, I didn’t know much about her other than she was between jobs and went out looking every day. I’d come home and sometimes she was waiting and sometimes not. But she always came home to me. Me. That’s why I surprised her with a diamond ring.

Olivia hid her excitement well, but I didn’t. It was the happiest day of my life when she agreed to marry me. She even chose the date. I thought two years to the date was long, but she said yes, so that was the important part.

She kept the ring on the kitchen windowsill during the day because it might hinder her chances in an interview. I thought it made sense.

A couple days later, I came home and she wasn’t wearing the ring and it wasn’t on the windowsill.

Olivia broke into tears and rushed to me. She wrapped her arms around me. “Oh, Matt, I was robbed today.”

“Oh my God, are you okay? Right now, let’s go to the police and file a report.”

Her arms were still around my neck and she held me tighter. “No police.”

“But we have to.”

She broke off the embrace and slowly her eyes met mine. “Matt, it wasn’t stolen, I lost it today. I was embarrassed to tell you.”

“I hugged her close. “It’s okay, you can tell me anything.”

Olivia said she’d be gone for a day or two, looking for a job in another town, but not to worry. It made sense to me at the time.

The next day, I stopped off at the pawn shop as I was having cash-flow problems. The ring cost more than I should have spent. In the middle of my transaction, I see the distinctive diamond ring I gave Olivia under the counter.

I pointed to it and the owner said, “Yeah, came in a couple days ago. Tall, well-built Latin girl. I might ask her out if she comes back to claim it.”

I chose to say nothing, but left the pawn shop. I love her, but I’m starting to have doubts about her.

Left Alone, Doug Bartlett

29/3/2019

All Alice wanted was to be left alone. When she was a child her parents were constantly telling her what to do and making what she considered to be unreasonable demands. To make matters worse her older brother would join in. It became unbearable and she hated it. She just wanted to be left alone. She looked forward to the first day of school, as she believed her life would be changed. She was quickly disappointed upon discovering her teachers were just as demanding as her family. Alice wondered if there would ever come a time in her life that she would be left alone. One day she came to the conclusion that in order to reach her life goal of being left alone that she would need to leave school and move away from her family. She knew that this plan would involve marriage. She met a young man who proposed to her and she quickly accepted. Shortly after the wedding day Alice realized she had made a terrible mistake. Her husband was even more demanding than her parents. She needed her space and to be left alone. She thought a job would be the answer to her problem, giving her a temporary reprieve from her husband. Her immediate supervisor was a tyrant. He constantly berated her, demanding of her far more than she was capable of. Alice wished he would leave her alone and let her get her work done. She just wanted to be left alone. Her husband was able to talk her into quitting her job to stay at home and start a family. Yes, she thought, I’ll finally be left alone. She had no idea how demanding a baby could be, but she quickly learned. Don’t get the wrong idea. Alice loved her baby. She just couldn’t stand all the demands placed upon her. She experienced dark times through those years but somehow survived. In the twilight years of her life Alice had lost her husband, brother and parents to death. She agreed with her son to move into Sunset Care Home on the condition she would have a private room. She sat in her room facing the window allowing the sunshine to warm her wrinkled face. She was thinking it took her eighty-seven years to reach her goal of being left alone. All of a sudden an orderly burst into her room almost yelling, “Hey Alice, you need to hurry up! You have your medication to take, and then you…” Alice interrupted him as decades of frustration welled up inside her and erupted out of her mouth directly targeting the unassuming orderly. Stunned, he quickly left the room. Alice began clutching her chest, feeling extreme pain, as she slumped to the floor, unable to move. She looked around the room. No one was there and her emergency button was out of reach. Her final thought was that the best thing that happened to her was also the worst. Alice was finally…left alone.

Lost in the City, by Tessa Edgecombe

29/3/2019

Jeannie was usually awoken by nagging hunger. Or by the city’s dawn chorus of gulls squabbling over last night’s take-aways. But this morning was different. A slightly bewildered but earnest robin sitting atop the straggly tree nearby was drawing her gently into the new day. She sat up, pulling the scratchy blanket around her. Still muffled in sleep, she looked over to the majestic plane tree in the centre of the green. An old armchair had appeared overnight. An unexpected hint of home and hearth. She shuffled off her coverings and wandered over, curling up into its large, wide-armed welcome. A perfect circle of Georgian terraced houses surrounded her, their glaring windows looking down – stuffy and judgemental. So she looked upwards through the branches to the blue sky beyond. The swifts were arc-ing way up in the atmosphere, so free, unhindered by the mess of humanity sprawling below. Jeannie felt overwhelmed and very small in the midst of the city, and looked longingly at the birds far above her.
Suddenly shivering, she hugged her knees tight, and glanced down. Sticking out from under the seat cushion was the tiniest corner of an old-fashioned manila envelope. She awkwardly pulled out the bulky package. After a moment’s hesitation, she ripped it open and fished out the contents. Monopoly money. The paint box colours of the notes glared out from her grey street-grimed hands.
She suddenly remembered how a year or so before her passing, her grandmother had started leaving bundles of notes hidden around her little flat. In a biscuit tin, under the pillow, under the cushions of her chairs. As she had become housebound, she had started to use the Monopoly notes from the board game under the coffee table. It had lain there from when Jeannie and her brother had spent wet Sunday afternoons playing with their grandparents. Jeannie looked around at the serried windows and doors hoping there was no one witnessing her sickening embarrassment.
A face moved from behind a curtain. An old lady smiled at her, pointing, and nodding her head encouragingly at the young woman.
Smiling weakly, Jeannie waved the wad of coloured paper, giving a “thumbs up”. She fell back into the chair and glanced over to her bundled belongings, the plastic carrier bags and bedding, ripped and muddy. She knew that if the stranger’s gift had been real money, she could have left her squalid life behind her and escaped to something better. The woman had reminded Jeannie of her beloved but demented old grandmother. Living alone, her life had started to unravel, with her flat becoming scruffy and even smelly and with her rejecting offers of help, acts of love.
“Just like me”. Jeannie thought and turned to acknowledge the small figure. The old lady had gone. Tears welled up and as they fell, they started to clear the smirch of the city from her face.

The Enlightenment, by Asaf Day

23/3/2019

Following forty days of fasting and visions, Jacob got up and shook the dust off his body and begun to march eastwards to New Megiddo. Upon reaching the town, Jacob marched along its main street, accompanied by the wary looks of the rustic townsfolk. He proceeded till stopping in front of the local Sheriff's office. After gazing shortly at the worn sign saying “Sheriff Bill”, he entered the office tenaciously to confront the law enforcement man. To his surprise, the man was sitting reading the local newspaper, completely disregarding the extraordinary man. After gaining Sheriff Bill’s attention by snatching the newspaper from his old cracked hands, the latter’s deputy jumped out of his chair, tackled Jacob, and detained him promptly. Following his lockdown, furious Jacob began his speech, pointing out the townsfolk evil deeds and sinful ways, accusing them of moral corruption and disrespect towards the kingdom aristocracy’s superior values and people: Your Sundays’ worship of the God of Mercy, instead of the God of Enlightenment and Wisdom. The obsession of your people with competitive horse riding is incompatible with our cultural ideals and practices, such as intriguing debates about the right form of justice and governing system necessary for our neighboring tribal nations, which you are seemingly unaware of their existence. And above all, your taste in food and music corrupts your children’s souls and undermines centuries of metaphysical and intellectual achievements. For that, you shall be punished severely by the almighty, as its wrath will be upon you and your offspring. This sinful town and everything that you’ve built will be fuel for the great fire and your names will be forgotten!

Sheriff Bill stared at Jacob for a few moments, and all of a sudden started laughing frantically... After regaining control of himself, Sheriff Bill turned to his deputy and said: “ Bart… look... we’ve got another of them crazy pants here.” The entertained deputy opened the detention cell and forced Jacob out of Sherif Bill’s office. In the background, the sheriff then chuckled and urged his deputy to bring Jacob “a noble steed, and don't forget to equip him with a big Iron a well.” After bringing him an old donkey and a pan upon his superior’s request, despite Jacob’s opposition, Bart sent the man away to the nearby valley to “save the souls of scorpions and rattlesnakes.” Following Jacob’s departure, the deputy commented with a slight uneasiness: “sheriff, we are running out of donkeys.” Sheriff Bill responded: “You can rest assured that the supply of asses will never end, they keep coming back...”

Too Many Legs, by Bex Gooding

23/3/2019

I’ve never fared well against creatures with six or more legs, they’ve often proved troublesome.

As a skinny eight year old wearing shorts, sitting on the steps in our back garden eating a apple. I watched as a wasp drawn by the sweet smell of the apple, flew in an elliptical orbit around the apple and away again. It made a few passes, decreasing its radius, I knew it was going to land.

The edge of its flight path took it between my knees and my eight-year old brain decided to stop him from landing on the apple by slamming my knees together and squashing him. The wasp stung me two or three times before dying and unsurprisingly, I cried.

Ten years old, playing outside our house and I fell on the grass putting my hand firmly down on top of a bee as I landed. Although a skinny girl, the weight of a ten-year old was enough to squash the poor thing but not before he retaliated and stung the side of my thumb. My thumb swelled to twice its normal size. We spent hours in the Emergency Department, much to the irritation of my little brother. It meant we couldn’t go to see The Empire Strikes Back.

Years later, there I was facing the wall, my emotions swinging between indignation and anger to mortified embarrassment, as my husband Pedro donned his ten-times magnification hobbying glasses and examined the site of my latest injury.

‘If you see two puncture wounds, it’s a spider bite.’ I said.
‘Whoa babe!’ Pedro said. ‘I don’t need magnifying glasses! Two definite puncture wounds.’

Was his tone tinted with glee? No. Not at my suffering anyway, but that I had presented him with my full moon, in order to confirm that I had a spider bite on my cheek!

‘The little….’
‘He must have felt trapped.’ Pedro said coating the wound with antihistamine.
‘Trapped?’
‘Or maybe it couldn’t cope. Imagine being that close to such a gorgeous bottom and seeing it with eight eyes.’

I love my husband.

We’d spent the weekend clearing a corner of old coats, hats and dog leads prior to painting and must have disturbed the spider. I recall leaning forward to paint the corner of the wall and Pedro joked that my trousers were giving him a ‘cracking view’ of my backside. The spider must have fallen into the ravine and finding himself trapped, decided to fight his way to freedom. Later when I removed the paint smeared trousers, releasing the spider, he dropped down onto my leg and bit the inside of my knee for good measure before scuttling off to the nearest dark corner.

My daughter thought I was exaggerating about the pain and size of the bite until she saw it.

‘WOW!’ She exclaimed. ‘That’s huge!’
‘I know.’ I replied. ‘It really hurts.’
‘But the poor spider. He must have been terrified and reacted the only way he knew how.’
‘Poor spider?’ I said. ‘My ass!’

Real Risk, by John M. Carlson

18/3/2019

November, 1983

Eric didn’t want to fall in love. Not then. Not ever.

He knew he was gay. There was absolutely no doubt of that. And it was not acceptable being gay. Not in the 1980s. Society would never tolerate it. His career plans might be over before he even graduated from college! Then, he was scared of AIDS. It would be best if he stayed single, celibate, and closeted for life.

Unfortunately, however, there was Troy, who sat near him in his college writing class. Troy was good looking, smart, and interesting.

That Monday, Troy read his current paper to the class. Eric listened, feeling almost addicted to the sound of Troy’s voice.

Eric knew that there was a real risk that he could fall in love in love with Troy. And that simply couldn’t happen.

***

At lunch, Eric paged through a newspaper he’d found on the table. There was an article about the AIDS crisis, and “new hope” for “better understanding” AIDS.

I don’t want “better understanding” of AIDS—I want a cure! Eric thought, as he flung the paper aside.

In the distance, he saw Troy walking through the cafeteria. Eric felt a surge of panic. What if Troy sat with Eric?

Suddenly, he wondered. What if Troy were gay? What then?

Troy sat down at a distant table. Eric felt relieved—and sad.

***

Eric suddenly woke up the next morning. He’d just been dreaming about Troy.

Eric got up. It was very early, but he didn’t want to fall back asleep. He might dream about Troy again.

He would get to work on his next writing assignment. He sat at his desk and turned on his Apple IIe computer. As the floppy disk drive rattled to life, he wondered what Troy would think of this paper.

***

Friday night, Eric went to the Student Union to see an old suspense movie. It was a distraction from thinking about Troy. Although he did notice the movie’s characters included a young man and a young woman who were obviously falling in love. Something that will never happen to me, Eric thought sadly.

Finally, the movie’s villain was caught. The man and woman had fallen in love. Everything was right with the world again. And so the movie ended.

Eric got up to leave. Suddenly, he noticed Troy, who was walking out with a young woman. They were holding hands.

At least, I don’t have to worry about him falling in love with me! Eric thought.

Eric headed to his dorm room. He got into bed. It was early, but he was tired and felt lousy. He kept thinking of Troy. Troy with his girlfriend. The happy couple in the movie. AIDS. Society acceptance of gay people.

Eric began crying. He cried himself to sleep.

The Nobel Dream, by Sankar Chatterjee

17/3/2019

On a recent evening, Prof. Christopher Lloyd, a Nobel Laureate in chemical sciences, was looking outside from his third floor lab-window. Nearby Harvard Square was covered with at least 10-12 cm of freshly fallen snow, even such late in March. From all indications, this had been an unusual harsh and long winter. States on east-coast were getting snowed repeatedly, while states in mid-America dealing with tornadoes and thunderstorms and states in west-coast experiencing destructive wildfires. There’s no doubt a profound climate-change had happened affecting our universe. And that’s when, the innocent face of the European teenager (he couldn’t remember her name) appeared in his thought. The fearless teenager, not depending on adults, was organizing a worldwide protest movement involving students everywhere against drastic climate change. Just an hour ago, Prof. Lloyd was buying a cup of coffee from the underground café, when the newscaster on the flat-screen wall-TV announced that a few European peace organizations nominating the teenager for this year’s Nobel Peace Prize.

While appreciating nature’s beauty in fresh snowfall, Prof. Lloyd fell into a deep nostalgia. Growing up, he was a brilliant student both in his high school and college days. Both his parents were practicing doctors, but he had chosen a different career-track of a discovery scientist. He wanted to leave behind his legacy by discovering novel molecules that would be useful in fight against human hunger and illness. After earning his PhD, he began his career in academia, devoting time in experimental research as well as training new PhD-s. After initial struggles, success followed. Along came the desire for recognition, fame, and the ultimate dream of a Nobel Prize.

Prof. Lloyd was well aware of the fact that the granting of a PhD-degree resided mainly on the final nod from a mentor. He began to accept mostly hard-working international students to do breakthrough research towards their PhD-thesis. Three past foreign students would commit suicide, being unable to cope with pressure, followed by shame of being failures. But he was never investigated due to his world stature. Two of his marriages dissolved in divorce without any children from either one. He remained obsessed with his dream, like many of his contemporaries. Finally, the midnight-call came from Sweden. Now turning around, he looked at the award-medal resting inside one of his bookcases.

However, like the unforeseen destructive behavior of Nobel’s dynamite, Prof. Lloyd’s many discoveries also took some unintended turns. Due to expansion of global terrorism, many of his same experimental inventions found utility in creating new generations of explosives. On the other hand, the industrial-scale production of medicinal and agricultural products proved to be responsible for releasing harmful gases into atmosphere. Multinational companies found cheap labor and lax regulations in world’s poorest countries to manufacture the products. Many of those countries began choking with severe atmospheric pollution.

Prof. Lloyd opened his computer, composed a strong recommendation letter for the brave teenager, and floated the same in ether for the Nobel Peace Prize committee.

The End of Ageism, by Don Tassone

16/3/2019

When I was in my twenties, I started running on a bike trail along a river near my house. I ran fast, as I had all my life.

I said hello to other runners as they passed me. The other young runners, that is. Older runners didn’t interest me. In fact, for some reason, they made me feel uneasy.

Every once in a while, I’d see this older man on the trail. I’d watch him jogging toward me, but as he drew near, I would lower my gaze. Close up, I never looked at him or even acknowledged him.

In my thirties, I still ran at a good clip but not as fast. I’d still see the old man from time to time too. Now he was trotting, not jogging, and when he got close, I’d still avert my gaze.

When I hit 40, I dialed back on running and started jogging. My knees began to hurt. I still said hello to the younger runners, although some of them seemed not to see me, especially the women.

And I’d still see that old man. Now he was walking. When I passed by him, I still didn’t look at him.

At 45, my hips began to hurt, and I began to alternate walking and jogging. None of the other runners paid much attention to me. I felt invisible to women.

One day, I spotted the old man in the distance. He was walking with a cane. As I got closer, I decided to look at his face. The closer I got, the more familiar he seemed. When we were just a few feet apart, I realized he looked just like me, and his face was simply an older version of mine.

“Hello,” I said.

“Hello,” he said, smiling.

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