Blog Posts

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.

Extremes, by Don Tassone

13/3/2019

George Abbott was a man of extremes. To be more precise, he pushed the limits of everything and everyone, especially himself.

He worked harder than anyone. His company led its industry on every measure. He pushed his employees to achieve more every quarter. He acquired more wealth than just about anyone. His home was the largest in the city. He married five women, divorced them all and sired 15 children. He ate like a horse and weighed as much as a pig.

One night, George had a dream. He dreamed he was a pendant, suspended from a great pendulum by a thread. He had swung to one side as far as he could go. Any farther and the thread would snap. He knew he must stop and swing back or risk flying into the abyss.

The next day, George put both his company and his house up for sale. He instructed his attorney to divide his proceeds equally among his children and his ex-wives.

A few days later, he moved into a one-bedroom apartment with no furniture, except for a mat. He began eating only one bowl of rice a day and drinking only water.

Sitting on his mat, George began each day in prayer. Day after day, he talked with no one and saw only those passing by his window. He had no computer or cell phone. He read no books and watched no television.

Instead, he simply sat and reflected on the excesses of his life. He wondered how his life had veered off to such an extreme.

Over many months, George grew thin and weak. One morning, after prayer, he fell backward, too weak even to sit up. He looked up at the ceiling, which opened, revealing blue sky.

George watched as the clouds in the sky became more distant and realized he was falling. He fell for a long time. Then his fall slowed and stopped, and he began rocking, gently rocking, back and forth, as if he were in a cradle, rocking slower and slower and slower until at last he was centered and still.

A Pivotal Fix, by Jim Bartlett

10/3/2019

Grabbing hold of one of the cross arms, Astronaut Raymond Mason pulls himself under the ISS’s solar panel for a better view of the swing hinge. The idea is to get a closer look at the sticky pivot point, but he smiles, for here it is even harder to focus, as the heavenly glow of Earth, 250 miles below, steals both his gaze and his breath. Stretched out before him, it basks in the sun’s light, showing off the varying blues of the oceans, the white of the soft icing-like clouds, the tan of the dry desert sands, and the crusty brown of the mountains, some tipped in bright-white snow. Making it all the more spectacular, the luminescence of Earth, this living, breathing organism, is solidly framed by the deep black of space just behind, its vastness nearly overwhelming. He takes in one last look before turning back to the mount.
The problem practically jumps out at him. A bushing has caught against the rotating arm, leaving metal to rub against metal. He shakes his head at its simplicity, and reaches into his tool pouch, pulling out his wrench. Making sure to lash the lead, he twists around the side and starts to--
“Raymond?”
--loosen the long hinge bolt--
“Hey, anybody there? Earth to Raymond...”
He wants to ignore the call, revel in the moment, but a hand wraps around his ankle and yanks him out from under the Audi.
“Hey, come on, maaaan...that old lady, Mrs. Weathers, is asking about her car. Ya got it figured out yet?”
His boss, Dennis – or, “Rooster” as everyone calls him, with all the strutting he does around the garage – stands over him, hands on his hips. He’s a tall skinny kid, a good 25 years younger than Raymond, who can’t seem to get the hang of shaving or combing his hair, and spits while he talks. But his uncle owns the shop, so...
“Yeah. It’s a bushing on the tie-rod. Just a couple more minutes to slip on a new one. Probably have to check the alignment.”
“Good. So get with it...” Rooster gives a swift kick to the bottom of Raymond’s shoe and disappears back in the office.
With a deep sigh and a shake of the head, Raymond rolls the creeper back under the car.
It’s then, not too far off in the distance, he hears the roaring locomotive fast approaching. As it closes in, the rumble of the tracks reverberate into the trestle pillars, and it shakes him to the very marrow of his bones. Dangling from his rope, 500 feet above the raging river below, Special Ops Agent Raymond Mason realizes he only has a matter of seconds to get the pivot bolt back into the support arm, or the President’s train will go crashing into the canyon in a flaming heap...

Selfless, by Don Tassone

10/3/2019

He stepped into the kitchen from the hallway.

“Hi,” she said.

“Hello.”

“Finished?”

“For the morning.”

“Productive?”

“Yeah. I’m putting finishing touches on a marketing plan for a new client. I’ll probably send it over this afternoon.”

“Hungry?”

“Starving.”

“We have that leftover spaghetti from last night.”

“Sounds good,” he said, pulling open the refrigerator door.

“Join me,” she said, walking by him into the family room. She was carrying a sandwich and a glass of water.

He pushed the cold spaghetti onto a plate with a fork and slid it into the microwave.

“Care if I watch the news?” she called to him.

“Nope.”

When his lunch was ready, he joined her in the family room. They sat at opposite ends of the sofa.

On TV, a man anxiously reported on an outbreak of measles because of children whose parents had refused to have them vaccinated.

“That’s terrible,” she said. “Those poor kids.”

“Just wrong,” he said.

“If we had had kids—“ she said.

He waited for her to continue, but she said nothing more. He looked over at her. She was looking down with tears in her eyes.

“What’s wrong, honey?” he asked, reaching over and putting his hand on her back.

“Do you think we made the right choice?” she said, her voice trembling.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean not to have children.”

“Yes,” he said. “Yes, I do.”

“Well, sometimes I’m not sure.”

“Why do you say that?”

“I mean sometimes it feels so selfish.”

“Hun, we’ve been over this,” he said, rubbing her back.

“I know,” she said softly.

“You know the opposite is true. We’re being selfless. There are far too many people in the world. We’re doing our best to lessen the burden on our planet. Our choice is a kindness.”

“I suppose you’re right,” she said, wiping her eyes with a tissue.

They resumed watching the news, saying nothing more, and finished their lunch. He stood up, then bent down and kissed her on top of her head.

“I love you,” he said.

“I love you too.”

“I’m going back to work.”

“Okay.”

He began to walk back toward the kitchen, then turned around.

“Would you like to invite Matt and Sarah over for drinks tonight?” he asked.

“No. I’d rather not.”

“Okay.”

He put his plate in the sink and walked back down the hallway to his office. She picked up the remote and turned off the TV. The house was so quiet, and she felt so lonely.

One Last Ride, by Doug Bartlett

8/3/2019

Burt Collins was a decent human being, a great husband, a wonderful father and grandfather, and oh yes, he had made millions of dollars in the stock market. Everyone who knew him loved him but didn’t care too much for his wife. Susan, his rich and conceited widow, had fond memories of their life together as she was being wheeled from the chapel, having been confined to a wheelchair the past several years. The quick ride to the cemetery was not quick enough for her as she was concerned about arriving late, but she knew they wouldn’t dare start without her. Upon her arrival at the gravesite she had assistance in getting out of the vehicle and was quickly surrounded by family and friends. She felt sorry for many of them, thinking they were jealous of her and her money, even though they could walk and she could not. She could hear them talking about her, but only her six-year-old grandson would talk directly to her. Finally, the service came to a close and people began leaving until Susan found herself all alone, with the exception of the two workers who carefully lowered her into the ground beside her husband.

The Basement Chamber, by Jim Bartlett

8/3/2019

He follows her down the winding staircase, more a rickety pile of ancient boards and rusty nails than a series of steps. By the time he’s at the halfway point, the chill in the air has crept into his bones, and he begins to shiver. He wonders if it’s really the cold that raises the goosebumps on his arms, the hair on the back of his neck, or this place and its past have left their mark.
“Come on, get a move on,” she calls, already to the bottom.
He picks up his pace, coming to the landing where the walls are nothing more than flaking cinder blocks, the only lighting flickering torches that make the shadows sway in a ghostly dance. He tries to keep his focus on the sound of his own footsteps as they clack on the stone floor, because off in the distance he can hear the rumble of thunder; while right here, in this very chamber, he hears the echoes of bygone screams forever trapped in the walls.
As with the floor above, cobwebs fill in the crevices and cracks, they dangle from the archways and ceiling, hide in the swirling shadows. He can’t help but bat the air in front of him as he inches forward, worried that any moment he may walk face first into a giant tarantula.
Or a dead body.
They round a corner – she’s still twenty paces ahead - when he comes upon a thick wooden door that sits slightly ajar. Peeking in he can see a table, chains and pulleys strewn atop, a lumberjack-sized axe stuck in one of the tree-trunk legs. Chain-link bindings hang from the wall next to an open box with a variety of knives and nooses and even a long, thin, sharp stake, something like what his dad might use for a shish kabob.
“There are s-s-stains on this t-t-table,” he stutters out.
“Well, what’dya expect?” she says with a roll of the eyes and a dismissing shake of the head, “it’s a torture chamber.”
From somewhere behind, a tormented moan fills the air, followed by several shrieks of terror.
“AHHHHH! That’s it for me,” he shouts. Ignoring the webs and chains and haunting shadows, he dashes past her and down the hall. Racing by three or four more open doors - none of which he has the slightest inclination to turn his head for a look - he comes to a slow bend in the corridor that finally leads to the exit.
He bursts outside, stopping at the closest tree to catch his breath, gather his wits. Maybe even quit shaking. He’s only there a moment when she pops up behind him.
“That was fun. Let’s do the roller coaster now...”

The Clubhouse, by John M. Carlson

8/3/2019

Enough is enough! I thought, as I slipped out of Grandma’s house.

The day had begun as a nice celebration of Grandma’s 90th birthday. Then, a couple of my aunts started screaming to each other about the 2016 presidential election. It might be 2019, but that mere detail would never stop my aunts from arguing about Hillary Clinton vs. Donald Trump.

It was now late afternoon. I shivered as the damp Washington state cold cut through my sweatshirt. Still, it was more comfortable being out here than in the overly warm living room, listening to my aunts shriek at each other.

I wandered through the yard, and past the back fence into the woods. How many hours had I spent back here when growing up? I wondered. It had been my go-to place when escaping from family when I was growing up.

I finally reached a small, ramshackle shed. I have no idea why it was first built, but when Jeff and I started a club the summer we were 12, this shed made a handy clubhouse.

I went inside. Everything had a film of dust and dirt. The roof apparently leaked now. The wobbly old card table we had sat at during our meetings now had rusty legs. Pictures clipped from a magazine we'd put on the walls were now faded and brittle.

But one important thing hadn't changed at all. There was a feeling of peace out here. This place was still a good way to escape some of the crazier members of my family.

“Great minds think alike, although that doesn’t explain why you also came here!” came Jeff’s voice from the doorway. I turned and glared at him. He grinned, and stepped in. He looked around a moment. “It looks like this place hasn’t been used for anything since our last club meeting thirty years ago.”

“Probably not.” I picked up a rusty tea tin that had been used for our club savings. I rattled it. It was empty. “Someone seems to have stolen our club treasury, though.”

“Big deal. There wouldn’t have been enough for even a gumball machine.” Jeff glanced at his watch. “Dinner should be on soon. We’d probably better get back.”

Dinner sounded good. Another thing that hadn’t changed: we always made sure we got back to Grandma’s in time for dinner.

We headed out of the clubhouse. I carefully closed the door, and we started walking back to Grandma’s house.

A Spy In The Camp, by Kim Hare

8/3/2019

Anna saw Albert approaching through her restaurant’s main window which overlooked the graveled car-park out front. Unable to remember if she’d unlocked the entrance doors and knowing a ‘closed’ sign would not deter him, she hurried through to meet him.
‘Roses looking good today, eh?’ he said, traipsing a great pile of thick mud across her newly washed restaurant floor.
‘Morning Albert. Yes. Maybe today you could weed the..’
‘Saw your Cousin yesterday, tell you what, their new place is a bloody gold mine! They’re reapin’ it in. D’you know, she told me they were fully booked every night last week? Yeah! I know! Even had to hire extra waitresses!’
Anna held herself upright against the bar, watching the trail of mud solidify. More work. She wished he’d just go away. She rubbed at her scar.
‘Yeah’ he said, getting cosy ‘course, you wouldn’t know what with refusin’ to talk to them and all that, but you’ll need to watch out or they’ll be stealing your customers next. S’funny too, cos I remember I was the one wot told them all about your new decor, you know, and how you’ve been doing so well with it all, and d’you know, they’ve had their place done out just the same! I know! Still, must get on, don’t want to get in your way.’
Anna watched him leave and stood for a long moment, waiting for the burning rage to subside and then went to fetch her mop. As she cleaned his mess, she thought of all the hard work she and her team had had to put in to get this place going. She pictured her so-called family’s cold disinterest, refusal to reconcile. All these years, she thought, all these years of hard graft, of trying to do the right thing. How easy it seemed for her cousins and her Aunts to so openly steal away her business, no shame, no remorse. It was as if they could do what they pleased to her. And Anna supposed they could. For what could she do?
They’d always called her the witch. Ever since she was little. Her mother had tried to protect her but had died so young, Anna could barely remember her. Then having to live with her Aunts and cousins had been horrific and Anna had been glad to leave, go to college, train as a chef. She’d barely noticed her cousins had followed her into the trade. She’d been too busy putting a roof over her head and later trying to help other young waitresses, giving them jobs, sometimes even a room. Yes, she’d been rather busy this past twenty years, and now she saw that she’d thought she’d helped Albert too. But Albert was in fact a spy in the camp and not at all the benevolent soul she’d imagined. What a fool she’d been. Well no longer, she thought. She put down her mop. It was time, she decided, to go to war.

Clueless in Seattle, Doug Bartlett

2/3/2019

A small group of strangers were huddled around a long, oak table adorned with two ornate candlesticks that were lit to help provide an ambience of mystique for this particular evening.

The group consisted of:
Tiffany Brown, School Teacher
Georgeanne Cratchett, Nurse
Debbie Spellman, Engineer
John Mustard, Air Force Colonel
Joyce Fox, Psychiatrist
Kristin Tyson, Stock Broker
Mike Manson, Plumber
Mary Johnson, hostess of the bed and breakfast inn.

The table was located in the center of the upstairs dining room in a bed and breakfast inn on the outskirts of Seattle. They had all signed up with Mary to play the murder mystery game that the inn provided for their guests’ enjoyment. Mary’s explanation of the rules for the game was cut short by the lights going off unexpectedly. Mary told the group to stay seated and remain calm. “This happens periodically, and the electrical panel is downstairs in the library. I’ll be right back,” she said as she grabbed her flashlight and rushed hastily out of the room. Fifteen minutes later the agitated group had run out of patience, demanding someone in the group needs to do something. Finally, the Air Force colonel stands up, grabbing one of the two candlesticks from the table, saying “I’ll go, but I’ll need this to see my way down the stairs.” Arriving at the bottom of the stairs, he realized he didn’t have a clue where the library was. He systematically tried each door in the hallway until he reached his goal. As he was entering the room he raised the candlestick higher. At the same time, Mary, hearing his footsteps behind her, began turning around while her face filled with pure, unadulterated terror. She shrieked at the top of her lungs, “No, no…it can’t be…It’s Colonel Mustard…in the library…with the candlestick!!!”

Prepared, by Jim Bartlett

1/3/2019

He turns into the short alley, keeping his pace steady, his breaths deep. Training. Running this distance is all about the training. Back when he’d first started, he’d checked this route, time and again – plenty of visibility, no tripping hazards, no dogs, no unexpected delivery trucks popping out – and then began running it three times a week. It took him nearly six months to build up the endurance, even though he was young and it was only a four mile trek. But, with sheer determination, good preparation, and wearing the right gear – top-notch running shoes, loose shirt and pants, and a good heavy backpack - he soon nailed it, the run becoming almost second nature.

Shooting out from the alley, he cuts along a back street, staying close to the fence line and away from the traffic. This is the only section of his route that takes him close to a roadway, and even though it’s a residential area, he keeps his eyes peeled. Watching. Ever ready.

Prepared.

Then, from somewhere behind, seemingly over and above his left shoulder, he hears a rumble in the sky. A forceful stirring of the wind that sends fear deep into his bones. It closes in, the rumble becoming a loud roar, an ominous growl. It churns his adrenaline, and he reaches deep inside, pressing his pace faster and faster, his legs stretching out longer.

He breathes hard. Quick.

It’s right over him now, despite his pace, his training, his preparedness. Its reverberation makes the cement quiver below him, the fence boards along his side rattle and shake. A tornado-like blast of foul heated air crashes into the tress, their branches swaying and rocking, throwing a flurry of leaves onto the parked cars and blanketing the street.

He closes his eyes. Clenches his fists. Pushes even harder.

But it’s not enough. From just above, a voice cuts through the roar, angrily shouting out from a loudspeaker on the helicopter. “This is the police! Stop now! Throw down your weapon and drop to the sidewalk, arms and legs spread out!”

He legs stop on their own, just as two police cars screech around the corner ahead, their lights flashing, sirens blaring. Defeated, he tosses his gun to the side, unhooks his backpack stuffed with the bank’s money and lays it on the curb, and then drops to the concrete, spreading out as if making angel wings in the snow.

He thought for sure he was prepared. Ready.

But so were they...

The Waiter by, Bruce Levine

1/3/2019

Fourteen hours ago. Was it only fourteen hours ago?

Thom looked at his watch and calculated again.

Yes, it was fourteen hours since the audition. Somehow it already felt like fourteen days – fourteen years.

He wanted this job. He needed this job.

It had been two years since his last show. Two long years of waiting tables and taking classes and doing everything he could to survive.

He wondered if it was all worth it. Was he just pretending? Pretending to be an actor?

An actor acts and he hadn’t acted in two years.

When customers at the restaurant asked what he really did for a living… Was he that bad a waiter? He’d answer that he was an actor. They’d smile, benevolently and nod, then give him their order without any further comment.

He always guessed that they’d seen through his façade. But which one? The waiter or the actor? He always wondered.

He looked in the mirror as he got ready to go to the restaurant. Maybe it was time to shift gears and do something else, he wondered.

But what?

Maybe he should go back to law school – lawyers were acting most of the time anyway so he could combine his acting skills with his legal prowess and make a fortune. He certainly wasn’t doing that now either as an actor or a waiter.

It’s an idea, he thought.

He began to leave just as the phone rang.

At first he was going to let his answering machine take the call as he usually did because of all the annoying robo-calls and scams.

But something made him pick it up.

It was his agent calling to tell him that he’d gotten the job – he was to play a waiter on a soap opera.

“Well, at least I’m combining a couple of my skills,” he said aloud after he thanked his agent and hung up the phone.

Right now he decided that he’d better hone his waiter skills at the restaurant, at least for one more day – just in case…

With Bells On, by Tessa Edgecombe

24/2/2019

Edith was beginning to wish she had not worn her heavy winter coat. She was perspiring profusely, detecting the acrid taint of sweat emanating from her armpits. The tree felt like the crucifix of Christ on her shoulder, and her bag kept on slipping off the other. Her face was slick with sweat and she had to nudge her glasses back up onto the bridge of her nose with her wrist. Why oh why had she decided to do this? A plastic one would have been so much easier. It would have been really crap, but it would definitely have been less of a literal pain.
And the road – it seemed so much shorter commuting into work with Jinny. Then it decided to rain. Oncoming vehicles loomed out of her in the gloom. A lorry suddenly whooshed past, deluging her, with the tree swerving with the force of the leviathan’s tailwind.
Edith was nearly in tears from the pain in her shoulders and she felt so hot she thought she could die. On she trudged, counting her steps, promising herself a quick breather after fifty. But she only stopped when thirty minutes later, she let the tree slide down in front of her and leant it against the garden gate. She felt almost sick with the effort she had made but she dragged her prize in through the front door and along the hall to the front room.
It was dark now, but as a car’s headlights swept across the back wall she could see everything that she loved in the world in this one room. She smiled as she quietly set down her bag and eagerly shuffled off the fetid coat.
Minutes later she was wrestling with the tree and then the lights. In the gloom she hung small decorations onto the spiky branches, their twisted silken threads and the resin fragrance a connection to memories of the past. Earlier times in another small living room, a fire blazing out from an ugly tiled fireplace, the ceiling covered in a hazard of polystyrene tiles, every few years the sofa changing from blue to green to coffee crème leatherette, all faux Ercol and aspiring working class attitude.
Hearing a small sound, she bent down to switch on the tree lights.
On the sofa lay her teenage daughter, a baby half cradled in her arms, the cat curled at her feet.
The young girl blinked and opened her eyes, awkwardly pulling herself up into a sitting position. She looked up at the other mother, bathed in the fairy light as the infant let out a soft wail, making Lily turn to her and gently kiss her face.
Edith bent down to the battered box and added another bauble to the tree. Lily grabbed the moth-eaten crocheted blanket from the back of the sofa and wrapped it around the baby.
“Fire tonight, Mum?”
“I think we can have a fire tonight, Sweetie”.
“Christmas?”
“Yeah, we’re definitely having Christmas, Lily. With bells on.”

Men of God, by Sankar Chatterjee

21/2/2019

Mr. Pierre Bernard, a Frenchman was exploring the neighborhood of Belém in Lisbon (Portugal). While searching for a locally famous pastry shop, he noticed the architecturally magnificent Jerónimos Monastery. Taking a break, Pierre decided to explore the monastery, thus entering the associated church. Once inside, he noticed a well-carved tomb with a stone-figure lying on his back with hands folded in a prayer-fashion. The nearby marker identified the tomb as that of famous Portuguese explorer Vasco da Gama. A historian by profession, Pierre knew that da Gama was the first westerner who had sailed around African continent to land in southwest India near the end of fifteenth century. This day, Pierre learned that the initial burial had taken place in Kochi in Kerala (India), only to be re-interned here in later years.

Recently Pierre was attending an international conference in Trivandrum, Kerala. One day, he took a bus to Kochi, found the historic St. Francis Church, entered, and located a barricaded spot, covered with wooden planks. The nearby marker noted the area as the original burial-site of explorer Vasco da Gama, thus off-limit to the visitors. He gathered that the church had still been active. Pierre had noticed several churches co-existed with temples throughout the state. He learned that in past, the strict caste-system of country’s main religion forced many members from lower castes to find sanctuary to a foreign religion brought along by the early western colonial powers.

He came out of the church. The main road was impassable; a protest-march was taking place. To his surprise, he noticed that all the participants were nuns from various local churches. He asked the young lady wearing a silver cross and standing next to him: “What’s going on?” The youth replied: “A well-known bishop was in town for a holy communion. But the night before, he violated several nuns. But nobody would believe the sisters. So, in solidarity, they took to the street along with other sisterhoods.” Pierre remembered the scandals breaking out throughout the western world about years of abuses on helpless young children by these “Men of God”. Only now the similar untold abuses on the nuns also started to come to light.

At that very moment, the Highest Authority, thousands miles away opened a gathering of the hierarchy by lowering his head in shame and proclaiming: “We hear the cry of little ones asking for justice.”

Big Game, by Doug Bartlett

21/2/2019

The local natives had told Jim that this was the best location to see “big game”. He peered anxiously through the binoculars, scanning the lush, green field below him. He saw a few zebras before he spotted a lion, another, and yes, another. He had come upon a pride of lions, nearly a dozen in all. The next thing that appeared in his view was an equal amount of bears lumbering to and fro. However, they always stayed at least a few yards away as if an invisible wall separated the two groups. All of the lions gathered near the center of the field creating a cluster. The lions dispersed and quickly ran directly to the line of bears. In a matter of seconds, the impact of their bodies crashing into each other made a sound not unlike thunder. A solitary lion was able to make his way through the bears unscathed. He continues running at top speed until he reached the end of the field, at which point the announcer’s voice exited the public address system into the crisp autumn air – “Touchdown…Detroit!”.

The Unanswered Questions, by Bruce Levine

17/2/2019

Was it a harbinger of things to come or only another entry in the long line of expedience?

There was no way of knowing. At least not with any certainty.

It might even be an accidental coincidence.

Felicia looked at her computer screen and wondered. She’d finally yielded to the pressure. She hadn’t wanted to and had always said that she saw no reason to do it. And now that she had she still didn’t understand why it was so popular, so ubiquitous.

She’d been so comfortable in her isolation. So insulated from what she considered the indolent narcissism of society. So free from the maddening dogma of the ideologues on both sides of the aisle.

The stupidity, she thought, as she scrolled through the miasma of buffoonery, the unrelenting display of stupidity perpetrated by people who thought that they were presenting a series of interesting phenomena to the world.

“Interesting to whom?” she asked aloud.

Certainly not to her!

This was supposed to be an expedient. A tool, a device.

Would it have the anticipated results? Would it have any results?

No one could answer those questions. Give it time, she was told. Time alone could bring answers.

Could? Or would?

There were no answers to those questions either.

Just ignore whatever you’re not interested in, she was told.

Easy to say if one had the personality to ignore whatever bothered them. She envied people who could, at least in a way. But then she wondered about that ability in others and how it might affect them in other ways, ways of their own devising or ways of perception in a broader spectrum.

Was she becoming philosophical or simply reacting to stimuli?

And now she’d come full circle. The whole thing was a reaction to stimuli.

Her disdain, her abhorrence, her constant struggle to maintain her equilibrium in the face of a society she saw crumbling before her eyes.

Was that all a reaction to stimuli?

And now that she’d finally yielded, given in to the pressure wasn’t she only reacting to stimuli?

She tried to rationalize it, but had no answer to that question either.

She’d opened a Facebook account and now witnessed her own reflection.

Bijoya and Swapan, by Sankar Chatterjee

15/2/2019

Mr. Swapan Kundu was born to a family engaged in agricultural farming in the village of Sahapur, 75km outside of Calcutta (India). Family’s economy depended on two seasonal crops. But, the global climate-change over past decade was causing havoc for the small farmers like Swapan’s parents. Growing up, Swapan the eldest child would help his father in the field, even attending the village school. He was smart, curious, and dreamed of attending a college in Calcutta. In one hot summer, a deadly drug-resistant bacteria spread through many parts of India, unfortunately taking away the life of Swapan’s mother. Swapan would graduate from high school with distinction and earn a scholarship to attend a prestigious college in Calcutta, majoring in economics.

In college, Swapan fell in love with Ms. Bijoya Mukherjee. She came from a wealthy and educated family settled in Calcutta over past several generations. In addition, in India’s ever-flowing caste-system, the Mukherjee-family belonged to the highest caste of Brahmins. However, the love between Bijoya and Swapan blossomed throughout their college years. On graduation, Swapan would land a job in financing in a major bank. He proposed to Bijoya “Marry me.” She said “Yes.”

Growing up, Bijoya, a millennial was a free-thinker and independent. But she also knew her parents’ generation still remained stuck in old conservatism of a “Babu-class” from colonial-era, especially when it came to mingling of castes in matrimonial arrangements. She expected some resistance breaking the news to the family. But when she did, all hell broke loose. The elder extended family members couldn’t believe “How could she bring such a shame to their respectable family”? Her father Mr. Shambhunath Mukherjee kept murmuring “How did I raise such a daughter?”

Two days later, in the evening, Mr. Mukherjee was driving back home from his business in the middle of a torrential monsoon rain, still preoccupied with the thought of his daughter’s regrettable decision. He missed a red traffic light and collided forcefully with a truck, moving across. His car flipped throwing him out. Soon the family members received a call from the ER of a local hospital, informing them the seriousness of the accident. The family rushed to the hospital and waited patiently outside the ER, the surgery already began.

Soon, a few surgeons came out of the ER and informed the family that Mr. Mukherjee had experienced severe blood loss, thus needed to be infused immediately. To doctors’ surprise, he belonged to the rarest class of “AB-negative”-type and the hospital didn’t have any in reserve due to its scarcity. All the gathering family-members lined-up to donate, but none of their type would match. The last person in queue was Swapan who rushed to the hospital, getting a call from Bijoya.

Next, the entire family observed the doctors were drawing the blood from Swapan’s left arm, while Bijoya was holding his right arm gently.

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