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The Fight, by Deborah Shrimplin

5/6/2020

Walter pulled his RV into the most remote camp site near the lake. He wanted nothing to do with strangers. He wanted to "go off grid". He still believed in electricity and running water. The rest was questionable.

Walter was a retired widower. His senior legs were strong, his night vision good, and his beard speckled salt and pepper. He was an avid reader. At one time, he played golf, sailed with his friends and tasted the best of wines. The fight had brought it all to an end. Now, he walked alone, ate alone and read his books alone.

After tying the RV to the earth, he sat in his sofa and gazed through the pine trees at the lake. Then, he picked up his book, "Reflections at Walden", and began the last chapter. He was almost finished when he heard a loud pounding on the door.

"What the devil!" he thought.

He looked through the window in the door. It was his son. It was his only son.

He refused to open the door and shouted out, "What do you want? How did you find me?"

"Technology. Now, Dad open the door. We need to talk."

"I have nothing to say to you. Leave me alone. You will never hit me again. Now, go away."

"Dad, open the door."

"Go away. I never want to see you again.. You don't belong to me."

"Dad, just sign these papers and I'll leave you alone."

Walter opened the door. He grabbed the papers and pen out of his son's hands. He scribbled his signature on the bottom line and shoved the papers back at him.

"Here. It won't do you any good. I gave all the money away to charity."

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Empathy of the Vampire, by Bex Gooding

5/6/2020

Thana’s memory cast back eighty years to the time of one of the human wars. The General on one side of the conflict, fascinated by the occult, commissioned a scientist called Dr Mordred to perform experiments on his prisoners in the hope of finding the secret of immortality. Thana thought the solution was simple, the General could have been turned into a vampire, but the General didn’t want to be solely a night creature.

During the war many vampires used the cover of conflict to feed. Thana posed as a nurse, a ruse she had first employed during the Crusade Wars. She visited the wounded at night, telling herself that she was being merciful by easing their suffering and sending them on to whatever afterlife they believed in.

It was during one of her late night rounds that she discovered the twins. Drawn by the sound of their suppressed crying Thana went to investigate and found a boy and a girl aged around six years old, emaciated, covered in dirt and blood and dressed in rags locked in a basement room in the hospital. Thana never fed on children but she felt drawn to the twins, with their beautiful blue eyes large and frightened staring out of their thin faces. Perhaps because she had been made a vampire as a young woman, a part of her yearned for the children she would never have. Whatever the reason, Thana knew she had to save them.

The twins huddled together in the corner of the room shivering and shaking with cold and fear. Thana had heard the stories of Dr Mordred and was incredulous how humans could label her kind as monsters when evil clearly walked among them, many holding positions of power.

The twins were anaemic, not from any cut or wound but from systematic exsanguination. Dr Mordred was draining them.

‘Come little ones.’ Thana said holding out her hands towards them. ‘I’m not going to hurt you.’

The children were traumatised and wouldn’t be easily persuaded. Thana crouched down in front of the them, speaking words of encouragement in soothing tones. Eventually they both smiled at her and stood up on their skinny legs, both as unsteady as new born foals.

Thana scooped the twins up in her arms and inhaled their scent. They clung to her, she could feel their bones as brittle as birds. She headed for the door, her intention to take them as far away as possible, but she stopped short. It was snowing outside and although Thana did not feel the cold, the twins would surely die quickly from hypothermia in their current state.

‘Stay right here.’ Thana said. ‘I’ll fetch a blanket.’

The twins reluctantly let go of Thana and stood side by side.

‘I’ll be right back.’ Thana said. ‘I promise.’

Thana returned with a blanket in less than two minutes, but when she entered the room, the twins were gone. All that remained was the scent of Dr Mordred and his guards.

Not Eating, by Bruce Levine

5/6/2020

“I’m tired of eating,” she suddenly announced.

“You’re not even eating,” he answered. “Aren’t you hungry?”

“It’s not that I’m not hungry, I’m simply tired of eating. I may never eat again. It’s simply a chore to be gotten through several times a day.”

He looked at her and suppressed a laugh, but wondered if she were serious. Lately she’d eaten less, but not to any extreme.

“Aren’t you going to have dinner?”

“I’m tired of eating,” she said again. “Wouldn’t it be nice to simply not have to eat? Not have to go through the process of sitting down and putting food in your mouth, chewing and everything else involved with eating? Why can’t all the great geniuses who think they can figure everything out figure a way that one simply wouldn’t have to eat in order to survive?”

He looked at her…

“The pleasure of eating, enjoying great food is one of the joys of the world,” he responded enthusiastically. To him the culinary experience was something that sustained him, not only physically, but gastronomically. It was one of his passions in life and he found it hard to believe that anyone would consider eating a chore.

“For you, but for me it just means putting food in my body.”

They’d been making dinner together, sharing the time as they prepared the food and cooked it and now that it was finished cooking and the aroma of their feast wafted through their apartment he was sure she’d change her mind.

“Aren’t you going to eat?” he asked as he placed their plates on the table and held her chair for her to sit.

She looked at him and then at the food.

He watched as she devoured three helpings.

Fail Safe Friends, by Sterling Warner

5/6/2020

“Tell me Ben. Why on earth do you take the fall for others? You had nothing to do with the carjacking by Straw Hat Pizza employees last week.”

“They’re my friends and coworkers.”

“Some friends; they borrow all your money, take advantage of you for transportation, and bring out the very worst in you.”

“You only know part of that story. Our boss set them up because all three dated and then jilted his daughter at one time or another.”

“Adele?”

“You know damn well it is, Celia. The two of you were thick as thieves until recently.”

“Well, I must admit; she’s a vengeful slut…. Though I can’t blame them for dumping her, those three nitwits should have known better!”

“Again, none of us did anything illegal; we were framed!”

“Still, you just lost your third job in a row by not minding your own business and allowing other losers to fall by the wayside.”

“Our Republican president, the biggest loser in the world, constantly calls the kettle black when accusing others. Then he brags how successful he has been—and will be—in life.”

“Let’s not get sidetracked talking politics, Ben”

“Okay. When did we start hangin’ out, Celia?”

“About two years ago, why?”

“How’d we meet? Do you even remember?”

“Sure. We were at the Bodega, drinking brewskis, listening to Hot Tuna.”

“As I recall, though both flirty and friendly, you frequently broke down in tears while we attempted to hear each other talk over the sound of the band.”

“Yeah, my asshole landlord threw me out of my apartment…. But then you invited me to crash at your place.”

“Just out of curiosity, how long did you plan to stay, Celia?”

“Er, we became lovers and—”

“How long!”

“What’s with you, Ben? We never established a minimum stay, especially after we’d become a couple.”

“Who paid the bills?”

“You managed to do so—I never said otherwise.”

“How?”

“Dunno.”

“By putting aside part of each pay check I received, preparing for a rainy day.”

Irritated, Celia shook her head and snapped, “We’re arguing about your loser friends, not rainy days.”

“Correction. We were talking about us and how I’ve provided you with food and shelter—job or no job.”

“Ben—what point are you trying to make?”

“Well, Celia, you’ve been right all along. I’ve emotionally blinded myself to a stark reality.”

“Do tell?”

“Without a doubt, I need to reprioritize my friendships.”

“High time,” she sighed with an air of satisfaction and approval.”

“Pack your bags, Celia. I want you out of my house by tonight.”

“Be serious Ben; I’m not the loser in this room.”

“Fine. Drop me an email relating your future successes.”

Celia smirked, raised her eyebrows, and questioned, “Aren’t you forgetting something Ben?”

“What might that be?” be he retorted smugly.

“I inherited our house from my grandmother. I’m going nowhere!”

Your Cross to Bear, by Doug Bartlett

5/6/2020

He walked through the warehouse doorway carrying the cross on his back.
Pete greets him and asks, “ How may I help you?”
“This cross I’ve been given is way too large and much heavier than I can handle. I’ve tried carrying it through life but it is just too much for me. I’ve seen other people’s crosses and they don’t have this much to bear. “
“Lean your cross against that wall by those other ones and let’s look for one more suitable for you.”
Walking through the winding labyrinth of aisles they disappear into the forest of crosses. They spend hours perusing in the enormous warehouse. There were crosses that were made of massive, heavy beams of timber and some that were so tall they nearly reached the ceiling.
He was about to give up when he spotted one in the corner. He became excited.
“I’ve found it! Finally, I’ve found it! This is perfect. This one is made for me. I’ll be able to manage this one just fine. Thank you so much Pete.”
“But Sir,” Pete exclaimed, “ this is the one you came in with.”

Dear Kell, by Mary Wallace

5/6/2020

It's on again, that stupid Christmas jingle you loved so much. You loved it last year even after I yelled at you for humming it constantly.
The letter I sent you arrived back, I know you never read it- well you couldn't, could you? It arrived back yesterday and today one arrived from you. Doesn't make sense does it? A letter came and you didn't. The jingles here and you aren't. Christmas is coming and you're not.
Stupid work trip, I wish I'd gone too. I would have reminded you to look both ways, made you catch a taxi instead of juggling parcels. You should have let me come. They sent your parcels you know, they came before your letter. The jumpsuit saying "daddy's girl" was perfect.
She's here you know Kell. She came the minute I heard the news that you were gone, as if by rushing she might still catch you. I still have a small bump where you last placed your hand, I hope it never goes. I called her Kelly so she has your name and your eyes.
I had to get your brother to help with that cot we bought, I couldn't get it to click together on my own. We did it crying, not one argument, who would have thought a flat pack could be erected without an argument! We never managed.
We had a sausage sizzle in the yard your brother and I, crying, cursing you, finding your face in the baby's features.
That jingle is back, I'm humming it for Kelly, she loves it! Kell, where do I send this letter? The dead letter office I hear you chuckle. No, I think I'll burn it, scatter its ashes with yours so you will always know that Kelly and I love you and miss you. I'll do my best Kell - we'll manage. Hum with me?

The Tale of Robert Aurora, by Gordon Lawrie

29/5/2020

Recently, I've been running a flash fiction competition for 100-word stories. Two weeks ago, an email arrived in my Inbox.

"Dear Esteemed Editor,

I have just submitted the winning entry for your glorious Friday Flash Fiction Competition. I believe it is a fine piece of writing. Thank you for providing this opportunity to enter.

Yours sincerely,

Robert Aurora"

I checked the entries. Sure enough, there it was. 140 words of badly-written, misspelled, badly-punctuated ungrammatical drivel that broke all of our rules. It wasn't even fiction. We Scots have a word that covers it nicely: keich.

I ignored it.

But another email from Robert Aurora arrived four days later:

"Dear Esteemed Editor

You might remember that on Tuesday I sent you what should prove to be the winning entry in you Friday Flush Fiction Competition. I am surprised that my story has not appeared on your website. However I know you are busy.

I see you are also a great publisher, and your bank details are on its website. I'd like to support Frodo Flush Faction by making a small donation to help writers less fortunate than myself. You may use this as you please, as I know you are a very wise man.

I look forward to the results of the competition!

Yours gratefully,

Robert Aurora."

I binned this, too. And the third. Burying my head in the sand, I clicked that little 'Spam' button. Robert Aurora disappeared from my life.

Some days later, I glanced at my publishing house's online bank statement, and saw that £50 had been transferred into it from a 'Robert Aurora: winning entry'. Further increased payments appeared on subsequent days.

Guiltily, I trawled through my spam box. Sure enough, there were three more increasingly desperate emails, each coinciding with bank payments. The last was especially poignant:

"Dear Esteemed Editor

I am distraught that my award-winning tale has not yet appeared on your website. I know that a man of your undoubted vision will have seen the merit of my submission, but I am afraid that minds less able than yours might have influenced your choice.

I live in a small village, and I am trying to encourage my neighbours to express themselves. I think writing is an important means of empowering the poor and downtrodden, of giving them a voice in a world where greed and power have corrupted our society from top to bottom. Had someone like me from a humble background won the prize, everyone in my village would have entered the next time. It was hoping that my efforts would liberate many others. I am keen to help writers less than fortunate than myself.

Perhaps I might win another competition instead.

I remain your humble servant,

Robert Aurora"

I wanted to return the money, but I'd no idea who Robert Aurora was or where he lived. My emails bounced back, so in the end I gave up.

No, I didn't keep the money. I donated it to the local public library instead.

In case you're wondering, this is fiction! – GL

The Man, by Bruce Levine

29/5/2020

A weird wind howled across the landscape. The man stood, clutching the neck of his coat and wrapping his scarf tighter. He’d lost his way during a walk through the woods and came out on an unfamiliar street, a street with no lights, no houses or other forms of habitation in sight. He was alone, alone with only the wind for company. The weird sounds pierced his memory of other nights he’d found himself in similar situations. Where was he? Why was he here? Why did it seem that he’d been here before and yet there was nothing familiar, nothing to guide him home. Nothing and no one. A weird wind howled as he started walking.

Then a memory. He’d been walking through the woods. He’d been walking the other times. The only thing that connected in his brain was walking. Walking where?

“Wake up,” a stranger said, shaking his shoulder.

“Where am I?” the man asked.

“Don’t you know?” the stranger asked.

“No.”

The man felt in his pockets and found nothing – no identification, no indication of his address. All he knew was that he was obviously far away from home and he had no idea how he’d gotten there.

“You were sleep-walking,” the stranger said. “Come up to the house and we’ll find a way to get you home.”

The man allowed himself to be led along by the stranger. As he walked he began to realize who he was and where he lived, but the sleep-walking had led him far away from home. How long he’d been walking he had no idea – all he remembered of the night before was getting undressed and going to bed.

Two hours later the man got up from the comfortable seat in the stranger’s living room and went out to the car where his wife had come to get him.

She thanked the stranger for his kindness and escorted the man to the car.

As they drove off the stranger waved, patted his dog’s head and went back in his house. “I wonder how often that happens?” he asked his dog.

Like the man, the dog had no answer.

Gramps Skins the Cat, by Doug Bartlett

29/5/2020

Gramps was excited as he and his wife were headed over to visit their daughter and young grandson. When they arrived, his wife and daughter soon decided that they would go shopping if he would be willing to babysit. He loved that idea.

“This will be great,”Gramps says ecstatically, “ I can take him from the playpen and we can have lots of fun. Look he has his arms outstretched wanting me to pick him up.”

“I’m sorry Dad but he is not to leave the playpen. He is safe there. I would be worried while I was gone knowing he was not in the playpen.Promise me you will leave him in the playpen.”

“But honey, I want to……. Oh, okay I promise.”

Mom and daughter returned after a couple of hours to find the youngster safe and secure in the lap of Gramps. They had played so hard they both had fallen sound asleep with smiles on their faces, but Gramps had kept his word as he was sitting in the middle of the playpen holding his grandson.

Call of the Wild, by Don Tassone

22/5/2020

I’d never camped or fished or hiked in the woods. But one afternoon, when I was 30, I heard the call of the wild.

I can’t really explain it. I was sitting on my balcony, overlooking the intersection of a trendy part of the inner city, where I live, when I heard a dog bark. Actually, it was more like a howl. It stood out because it sounded so primal.

Anyway, I suspect it was that dog barking that made me think of a wild place, far from the virtual world in which I lived every day.

Getting a whiff of exhaust from the cars below, I felt like camping deep in the woods. I felt like fishing. I felt like hiking.

But where would I go to do these things? And what would I do them with? I had never owned a tent or a fishing rod or hiking boots.

In my mind, I put aside the place I might go and thought about the gear I’d need. Bass Pro Shops, I thought. There’s one in Forest Park, about 20 miles away.

I hopped in my car and headed north. I’d never been inside one of these stores, only seen them on TV. As I got out of my car, I looked up. It looked like a Walmart made out of Lincoln Logs.

Stepping inside, I felt I was in Montana, even though I’d never been to Montana. Enormous columns, actual tree trunks, stretched from floor to ceiling. The heads of animals peered out from the walls. Wagon wheel chandeliers hung from wooden beams the size of redwoods.

I must have looked bewildered because a young lady came up right away and asked if she could help me.

“Yes,” I said. “I’m going camping.”

“Cool,” she said. “Are you looking for a particular piece of equipment?”

“No.”

“No?”

“Not really a particular piece. I need everything.”

“I see,” she said with a smile. “Why don’t we start with camping supplies?”

Two hours and two grand later, I drove out of the parking lot, the back of my car packed with enough gear for Lewis and Clark. I had to fold my back seats down to fit it all in.

When I got home, I lugged all my new stuff up to my apartment. I had to make several trips. I stuffed it into my spare bedroom.

Wiped out from my big excursion, I grabbed a beer and went out on my balcony to relax. The sun was setting, and the streets and sidewalks below were crowded. Engines revved, horns honked, people called to one another. The sounds of my daily life.

Once again, I heard a dog bark, but this time it was more of a yip. I guessed it was a poodle.

For a moment, I thought about going online to find a state park nearby. But then I remembered a project due in a few days and decided to go inside and get some work done.

Jake, by Jim Bartlett

22/5/2020

Jake’s eyes snap open, and he quickly turns to the side. But like his aching heart, the spot where Max always sat on the couch remains empty. He takes in a long, deep breath – really more of a sigh – and squeezes his eyes closed, hoping that by slipping into the darkness of a nap, he will temporarily mask his sorrow.

For fifteen years they were inseparable. Always side by side. The walks on the beach with the gentle waves calling, the seagulls cawing. All those hikes on the trail where the trees canopied over like arches, wrapping them in a soft cool shade on a hot sunny day. Even just a ride to the grocery store for something Martha may have forgotten, they always went together.

Though he knows that in some ways he should be thankful for just having their time together – those moments forever etched in his heart – and that the sickness took Max quickly rather than dragging out the pain for weeks, maybe even months, he still feels cheated. That somehow he is missing years that could have been.

Unable to sleep, he looks around the all too empty room, letting his gaze fall upon the leash, which still hangs from the peg by the door. It seems to wait patiently, ever ready for that next big adventure. As his eyes well up, he realizes for the first time how much his grief weighs, how hard it is to even rise with such a heaviness inside.

It is then he hears a shuffle from behind and turns to see Martha standing in the doorway, her shoulder resting against the frame.

“I thought you might be in here,” she says. She looks down at him for only a moment before her stare drifts to the couch. “I miss him, too, Jake. More than you’ll ever know.”

There’s a faraway melancholy tone to her voice, but he knows that her heart, like his, has a hole too big to fill. His head drops and he gives off another long sigh, which seems to prompt her to come over and kneel down onto the carpet beside him. She slides a hand under his chin and lifts it up, then tucks back his long, floppy ears, such that their teary eyes can meet.

“I guess you do know, don’t you, Jake.”

The Fair-Haired Girl, by Bruce Levine

22/5/2020

The fair-haired girl walked through the door and looked around. There was nothing special about her appearance which was why no one looked in her direction as she entered. The most anyone would say was that she was fair-haired, aside from that even Sherlock Holmes would have been hard pressed to give more of a description.

Even her name evoked no comment – Alice Mary Jones, named after her mother and her aunt. Her father, Nathan Jones, was hard working, but achieved very little in his short life of forty-three years, when he died crossing the street and getting hit by a taxi cab. Alice was eleven years old at the time and was then raised by the two women for whom she was named.

For the next six years her life went on in the same innocuous path – her appearance and her life presented an equally ordinary existence.

She took a seat in a booth in the far corner of the dines, out of the sight and hearing of the other customers, not that she said anything other than asking for scrambled eggs, white toast and coffee to the waitress.

Twenty minutes later she got up and walked to the cashier as if she was simply going to pay her check. She waited patiently for someone to come over to take the money she had laid on the counter. As soon as the cashier picked up the money and the cash drawer was open Alice Mary Jones took out a gun, shot the cashier, took the money from the drawer and ran out.

The stunned customers stared in disbelief.

The best anyone could tell the police was that she was a fair-haired girl.

My Doll, by Peyton Mills

15/5/2020

At eleven-years-old, I was celebrating my childhood with my family in our sprawling country home, my dolls dancing through my hands in a way that magnified the realms of my imagination. At twelve, the world as I knew it had met its maker, and the fallout filled the atmosphere with ash. After the dust settled, we all got sick, and Momma said it was radiation poisoning. Daddy told me it was some kind of disease, biological warfare. Either way, they both died with their faces contorted into screams.
The remaining cities flooded with people, and then they burned them to the ground. Relief groups popped up now and again, but they were habitually shot on sight. I was never alone, though. I had my doll with the salt-and-pepper hair, its porcelain skin scorched and bleached by the sun. I clung to the last tattered shreds of my childhood and did not cry. Momma always told me to be strong.
That October, by my calendar, I was walking along a dirt road when I stumbled upon a flash of pink in the bushes. It was a child’s slipper encased in soot, the clamoring buckles undone forevermore. In my mind, it stood as a solemn representation of yet another shattered childhood, another short-circuited imagination. I cradled it and cried for the first time since my parents died. When my tears dried up and my sniffles died away, I took the shoe and left the doll in its place. Maybe another child could put it to good use.
My childhood was over.

Anomie in Media, by Paritosh Chandra Dugar

15/5/2020

“Here is the true story of how Sophik claiming to be number one news channel shamelessly sacrifices truth to woo sensationalism. Listen to this poor woman whose daughter is shown picking up comestibles from the filthy road in order to mitigate their hunger in the video telecast by the channel yesterday.” Saying this with great vivacity, the reporter of Ethik turned to a lean woman and asked, “Would you tell us what actually happened?” The woman said, “Last evening a man came here and emptied a bag of eatables on the road and asked my daughter to sit down and collect it for our use. Another man standing nearby focused his camera on my daughter. Anyway, we were happy to have the food and some bucks for the little show.” The reporter thanked and paid her for being loyal to the script.

The next day, the woman reappeared, this time, with Sophik’s reporter. She spoke as if to clarify something, “What I said yesterday was a lie. They squared me to tell that.” The scripted clarification was duly rewarded.

Corona, the Divine Agent, by Sivan Pillai

15/5/2020

A group of demi-gods, worried at the dismal state of the earth, decided to meet God, the Almighty.
“Anything wrong?” God asked, noting the distress on their faces.
“The earth is no more a fit place to live in, Lord. Humans have multiplied and they are trying to lord it over all other living beings. The air, water, and land are polluted with effluents from their factories, emissions from their vehicles. They have encroached upon forests, leaving little space for their original inhabitants. Over-exploitation of natural resources for selfish gains has endangered the earth. We beseech your divine intervention.”
“If the situation is so bad, I can return the earth to its pre-creation state by repeating the flood that brought even the highest mountain under water for forty days,” God said.
“Not that severe, Lord. Just give them a solid rap on their knuckles that they won’t forget in a hurry.”
“So be it.”
The next moment there stood the frightening figure of Corona before them.
“See what you can do,” God commanded her.
Three months later they met again and Corona presented her report.
“Things are better now, my Lord. Humans were so frightened of me that they declared a complete lock-down for days together. Life came to a stand-still. They remained at home, reinventing family ties in the process. Weddings and death ceremonies, events to show off one’s affluence till now, were performed with minimum fuss. Factories were shut down, vehicles and other pollutants came to a standstill. Thousands died like flies and were buried deep like dangerous trash without a glimpse or parting kiss from their dear ones. Offices, shops, multiplexes, hotels, everything closed. The economy of even the rich countries is in shambles. Unemployment is rampant. The air is now pollution-free, but the poor guys are afraid of breathing it in. They wear masks as if they were ashamed to show their face in public and keep distance from one another. No hugs in public, no hand-shakes. They have become paranoid.
“In between, they have begun to discover the beauty of nature. They now enjoy the sight of the blue sky, rainbows, the moon and stars. Rivers are bubbling with life. Wild animals seem to have asserted their rights and roam in human habitats. More and more birds are seen on trees and the sky, chirping unabashed. Children study online without having to lug their heavy schoolbags. People eat natural food at home and even grow it on small plots and rooftops. They work and pray from their homes. Hopefully, they have learned their lesson.”
“But, Lord, suppose they revert to their old lifestyle after Corona becomes a bad dream?”
“Now they know the price they have to pay for their excesses. If they repeat them, I can always send someone more ferocious than Corona.”

Wrong Floor, by Don Tassone

15/5/2020

I guess we’re both creatures of habit. I’m usually the first one in the elevator at precisely five minutes before eight, and you always show up about a minute later, the last one in before the doors close.

At that point, the elevator is always crowded. I don’t think you ever saw me, but I sure saw you. You always stepped to your right when you got in, then turned around right away, tucked away in the corner.

Sometimes I had to move a little, if I could, to see you. When I couldn’t move, I’d crane my neck or stand on my toes to get a better look.

It was certainly worth the effort. Seeing you was the highlight of my morning. Your flowing, chestnut hair. Your lean but curvy build. Your toned legs.

And your dresses. A new one every day. You look great in all of them, but the white, linen, sleeveless one was my favorite.

You always got out on the sixth floor, three floors before mine. I think there are law offices on that floor. I wondered if you were an attorney.

I wanted to know you. I thought about waiting an extra minute to get in the elevator in the morning, then standing next to you. But the very idea of being that close to you, while thrilling, made me too nervous.

Maybe I could get you to notice me, I thought. I started wearing a suit. I even bought a new suit. Hugo Boss. But you never looked my way.

So one morning, I decided to get out on the sixth floor too. I imagined you holding the door for me and me thanking you and us introducing ourselves.

But I was getting ahead of myself. First, I’d have to get out on six.

“Excuse me,” I said as we slowed down for the sixth floor. Your floor. Our floor.

I watched the doors open and saw you get out. I tried to gently push my way forward, but the car was packed that morning, and it was hard for people to move.

The doors began to close.

“Could someone hold the door?” I called out.

But no one came to my assistance. I suppose they were all eager to get to their floors.

Then I saw a hand reach in from outside the elevator, and the doors snapped back open. A slender, lovely hand with red fingernails. I knew it was yours. You’d come back for me!

As the doors opened, there you were, looking even more beautiful from the front. You smiled at me. Your teeth were perfect.

Your left hand was still on the edge of the door as it now slid fully open. Something on it caught my eye, something large, something shiny, something heartbreaking.

I looked into your eyes. They were blue.

“Sorry,” I said, turning around. “Wrong floor.”

The Legacy, by Doug Bartlett

15/5/2020

He enters the chapel slightly late as everyone seems to ignore him. He walks by the casket to courteously view the body. When he looks down he sees himself.
He then realizes he is at his own funeral. His life on earth has ended. His family is sitting nearby with tears streaming down their faces. His friends are there recalling specific, memorable events of his life that they had shared with him.
He thinks about the legacy he has left. He had labored hard for several years to build his estate to what it is today. He feels good about it as it is much larger than any previous generation in his family had accumulated.
He then begins to understand the real treasure he has left behind is not his tangible estate but something that is far more valuable. It is the precious memories his loved ones will take with them after the lid of the casket is closed. The most valuable legacy will be his example of a life well lived, the love that was faithfully and unconditionally given away daily. This will enable those who knew him to enjoy life even more fully than he did.

Broccoli Soup, by Moira McPartlin

8/5/2020

Before I have a chance to hang up my lab coat the guard shifts the gun, aims at my face and hooks the coat from my hand.
‘Now the rest of it,’ he says.
‘What’s going on?’ I’m used to being searched and decontaminated but not at gun point.
‘I’m sealing the lab. Your job’s done.’ The guard sounds bored.
Sally, the director, leans against the doors, her sad eyes speak before she does.
‘Ninurta are shutting us down, Lily.’
‘Ninurta, the agritech company? They don’t own us,’ I say.
The guard snorts and shakes his head.
‘Yes they do. We’ve been privatised, part of a trade deal,’ Sally says. ‘They want the super broccoli seeds.’
Of course they do. If the super-broc helps prevent cancer, global pharmaceutical companies would be harmed. If Ninurta hold the only seeds they can name any price.
‘Get decontaminated Lily.’ She sounds beaten. ‘Go home, have some soup with your mum.’ So she knows. ‘I’ll call you next week.’
I run to my car. Grab the phone from the glove box, speed dial home. No answer. Damn she’ll be in the garden tidying up.
I can’t risk speeding and the rush hour traffic is building. I may be too late.
I smell the rich broccoli soup as I step through the door. Another batch for the already bulging freezer.
In the garden Mum’s bent over the patch, the weak sun reflecting off her scalp where her hair hasn’t fully grown back after last year’s chemo. A pile of pulled broccoli plants lie on the grass
‘Mum, stop.’
She turns. Holding up a plant. ‘Why? These last few plants are going to seed. They’re no good. I’m clearing them out.’
‘Leave them,’ I say. ‘I know what to do with them.

Chasing Dawn, by Sean McGehee

8/5/2020

He knelt waist deep in the snow watching turn the world him white. He was tired and hungry and above all, he was cold. He was thinking about how he got here. He remembered the camps, where they were told what to do and what to think. Where he was bred and raised for war. Then the day came when the paper fell from the sky. Books and pages with fantastic stories and ideas. The marshals tried to take everything. All the stories about places where the sun rose in the sky and illuminated the ground. The stories about choice and decisions. The stories about life, love, heartache, and loss. People where beaten and the books were burned but the stories remained. Was there a place where they could get these things? Marshals never answered the questions and beat those who kept asking. He wanted to know. He wanted to see the sun, a place illuminated by anything other than floodlights. He was also not alone. Four of them schemed and conspired to find the sun, to chase the dawn, to not let the marshals win. They all fell one by one. The first was even before the escape. She died at the end of a rope for failing to follow orders. The second was torn apart by dogs just outside the fence. He never reached the safety of the forest. The third went mad. He screamed about the lies of the books and the beauty of order, before turning around and heading back. Leaving him alone to face the blizzard. The gunshots that greeted the third still rang in his head. Maybe the third was right and there was nothing out here but death and sadness. He was tired. It didn't matter, he had done what he wanted. He chased the elusive sun and though he hadn't found it, he was not destroyed by the marshals. He had won. There he fell asleep kneeling in snow, slowly being buried.

A few hours later the sun rose and began melting the snow. The light fell upon a kneeling frozen boy. In his cold pale-blue hands was a small book with a faded picture of the sun printed on the front.

Benched, by Ed N. White

8/5/2020

Billy paused at the bottom of the stairs, looking up toward the roof of what had once been a handsome Victorian residence. It was still well maintained except for a sagging gutter across the front of the porch, but old age was creeping up, and it was beginning to look Gothic. The fading gray paint matched the dull day.
He climbed onto the porch, carrying two cloth shopping bags, and pressed the ornate brass doorbell with his thumb.
When the door opened, he said, “I’m Billy, I need to come in.” His abrupt speech startled Administrator Doris, but he had pleasant features and smiled as he spoke. “I asked the guy at the Mobil station where the dying place was, and he sent me here.”
Doris wasn’t sure about this one. “And you’re dying?” She asked him quietly.
“Sure, of it.”
“Billy, our clients come to us through a doctor’s referral. Have you been referred by a doctor?”
“Just the guy at the Mobil station.”
“Billy, I don’t believe he’s a doctor.” Doris smiled as she would with anyone who came to the door.
“I didn't say he was. I asked him straight out where people went to die, and he sent me here. Pretty sure of himself.” Billy put one bag on the porch and smiled back as was his way.
Doris wanted to end this. “Billy, you seem like a nice man, a nice healthy man. Not someone who appears imminently near death. However, if you can get a doctor to provide a referral, we could consider your admission.” She thought that would end it.
“I don’t have a doctor. I’m just looking for a place to die, and I was told, this was it. I’ve got money.” He lifted the right-hand bag and offered it.
“That’s nice, and what’s in the other bag?” Doris nodded toward it.
“That’s all my stuff, I travel light.”
Doris had to bring this to a close. She was concerned about Billy’s mental state and was getting worried, only Nurse Sandra was on duty with her. Roy, the maintenance man, had called in sick. “Billy, I must say, no. This is a hospice for terminally ill patients who’ve been referred here by a doctor. You, obviously are not, So, you’ll have to leave. I’m sorry.” She began to shut the door.
Billy extended the bag and said, “You can have the money, I won’t need it?”
“Thank you, no.” Doris closed the door, turned the deadbolt, and put the latch chain in the holder, closed her eyes, and exhaled deeply.
Billy picked up his bags, went down the steps and across the yard to an ornate cast iron garden bench needing paint. He put the money bag at the far end and rummaged through the other bag for his father’s old .32 single-action Colt. Not a big gun, but probably big enough.
It was difficult to explain this to the police. Doris only said that it seemed the man got his wish.

Third Time is Not the Charm, by Doug Bartlett

8/5/2020

The newly married farmer was out in the middle of his field showing his wife how to plow.
He'd hooked the plow to the ox and off they went. After about one-hundred yards the ox stumbled. The farmer stopped and said,:That’s one.”
The ox got up and continued for another fifty yards and stumbled again.
The farmer said, “ That’s two. “
The ox finally managed to go another thirty yards before stumbling again.
The farmer said, “ That’s three.”
He then walked up to the ox, pulled out his pistol from his waistband and shot the ox in the head causing him to die instantly. He went back to his wife who began bombarding him with a barrage of disparaging remarks.
“Now look what you’ve done. How will you get the field plowed now? We won’t have a crop, what will we have for food in the future?” On and on it went. She eventually had to take a breath and when she did he calmly turned to her and said, “ That’s one.”

The First Date, by David Croll

8/5/2020

She was giddy with excitement and nervous too, but he seemed so nice when he asked her out for a date. And he was handsome too.
They went to a fabulous bistro by the shore. Everyone, even the wait staff, ignored them but she didn’t mind. He didn’t ignore her. Later they walked on the moon-lit shore.
She wondered if he would hold her hand and smiled shyly to herself when he did. He walked her home.

“Which one is yours?” he asked.
She pointed at the tombstone. He read the engraving.

KIMBERLY FRANKS
BELOVED DAUGHTER
2004-2020

“It’s beautiful.”
“Where’s yours?”
“Just over the hill. Mine isn’t as fancy as yours, but I have a nice view…of yours,” he said smiling.
She smiled too then kissed him on the cheek.
“I had a nice time.”
“Me too. I’d like to see you again.”
She was happy he said that.
“I’d like that.”
They kissed then returned to their graves.

Where the Rivers Meet, by Deborah Shrimplin

8/5/2020

When Sofia's governess told her the ancient legend of the two rivers, it struck a personal chord. That night, she whispered the story to her secret lover.

In nineteenth century Venezuela, their love affair was strictly forbidden. She was the beautiful, raven-haired daughter of a wealthy, Spanish plantation owner. Carlos, of mixed ancestry, was cautioned to keep his place.

One day, in the soft morning light, Sofia climbed into her family's boat and set sail down the Caroni River. Carlos shoved off in his canoe from the banks of the Orinoco River. They guided their crafts over waves, around rocks and whirlpools and past villages perched on stilts. Determined to reach their meeting place, they pushed on.

Where the two rivers met, Carlos crossed from the brownish, opaque waters of the Orinoco into the transparent waters of the Caroni. Carlos saw Sofia waiting for him on the banks of the river.

From there, they set out together, sailing on the warm ocean currents.

Under the Ombu Tree, by Deborah Shrimplin

3/5/2020

Many years ago, you might have seen Santos strumming his guitar under the glassy, green canopy of the Ombu tree. Or, perhaps you'd have seen him riding his gray horse in the manner of all Argentinian gauchos. If you had asked other payadors about his talent in a payada competition, you would have heard them say he was unbeatable.

Yes, Santos seemed invincible. For years, his wit, heart and prose were unmatched until the day a payador, dressed in a long, black robe, challenged him.

You would have been amazed. They sang in eloquent verse, answering questions, insulting each other and bantering in poetic, musical form. They dueled in verse and sound for hours until Santos admitted defeat.

If you had heard of Santos' suicide, you would have wept, too.

Tonight, when you lie down under the Ombu tree, you may see and hear the mournful spirit of the legendary payador, Santos.

A Delayed Proposal, by Sivan Pillai

1/5/2020

Alone at home, nursing a sprained ankle, I glance at the lengthening shadows of coconut trees. My wife and son are in the city, visiting a sick relative.
The wind starts blowing suddenly, steadily gathering strength. Dark clouds appear from nowhere, floating across the sky hurriedly. Intermittent flashes of lightning and rumbles of thunder ensue. Summer rains seem to be a week early.
I can see my paddy field in the distance, the crop ready for harvest. The harvesting machines would be available only a week later, I was told. The memory of farmers losing their entire crop due to unseasonal summer rains a couple of years ago is fresh in my memory. Panic builds up inside me but I tell myself that the wind would blow away.
I see Thomas, my neighbour, and his sons moving about, doing odd jobs in their compound. Gone are the days when we would sit chatting till late in the night, while the women busied themselves in gossip. Things changed when George told me one day that he was in love with Lizzy, Thomas’ daughter. I was in a dilemma: on the one hand, I wanted my son to be happy with the girl she loved and, on the other hand, I wanted to keep my word, given years ago, to my distant relative John. We had agreed that his daughter was a perfect match for George. One day, in the heat of the moment, I had even accused Thomas of conspiring to create discord in my family. I suspect that the womenfolk still maintain the old relationship, though clandestinely.
The frequency and intensity of lightning and thunder increase steadily. I am almost blinded by a flash of lightning, followed by a peal of thunder. The top of one of the coconut trees standing on the edge of my paddy field starts burning and the fiery leaves fall into the field. Smoke and columns of flames rise upward. It would only be a matter of minutes before the entire crop went up in flames.
Suddenly I hear shouts and see Thomas and his sons running towards the field, followed by the womenfolk, carrying buckets and large vessels. There is a pond at the edge of the paddy field and they start dousing the fire with bucketsful of water. Soon there were only some whiffs of dying smoke rising from the spot.
“Don’t stand there like a startled ghost,” I tell my baffled neighbour, gaping at me and John walking towards him the next day, “I’ve come with a marriage proposal for my son.”

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