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Apps, by Barry O'Farrell

17/9/2021

10 Comments

 
My phone is running slower by the day. Audit and cull your apps the Troubleshooting page on the website recommends.

There are many apps. Lots of apps. Perhaps too many apps for me to wade through. Some apps I don’t remember buying. Others I do. A few I can vaguely remember why I bought them and what they are supposed to do but I didn’t get around to using them. I’m coming up blank on several. Perhaps they seemed like a good idea at the time.

The people who invent apps make money. The most popular apps generate a river of gold for the inventor and the phone company. The inventor becomes a millionaire. Billionaire maybe.

What I need is an app which tells me when I bought each app, why I bought each app, what it is supposed to do and how much I paid for it. Ooh, it just hit me. This could be the next big thing!
10 Comments

So Much for the Diamond Stud, by Susan Fairfax Reid

17/9/2021

4 Comments

 
"I'm putting a diamond stud in the hole in my nose," Olive told the Physician's Assistant, as she waited to learn if Dr. Quick's surgery had been successful. In less than five minutes, he had removed a basal cell carcinoma from her nose.
A short, stocky, fast-moving brown-skinned guy, Dr. Quick wore a white coat over slacks and a shirt. He giggled when Olive told him she accidentally blocked his number, thinking he was a "new friend" from Facebook.
While waiting for the biopsy results, Olive became restless.
She slid off the black lounge she had been lying on during surgery and wandered to the restroom. An abundance of hand sanitizers were on hallway walls because of Covid 19. She squirted one of many placed on the nurses' station onto her face. "Darn," she said, "The pump on that bottle is arranged to land in the hands of someone at least six-feet tall." She thought about going outside where a lone cricket had been singing an end-of-summer song in a lush flower garden.
Dr. Face Changer came in and introduced herself as Olive reclined on the black lounge. Wearing an above-the-knee cranberry dress under her white coat, Dr. Face Changer informed her the biopsy showed that Dr. Quick had gotten the cancer out.
She stitched the hole in Olive's broad nose. "I'm using cat gut," she explained. Olive said she wanted to spit in Dr. Face Changer's face, as she stood behind her, looking into Olive's green eyes. "I love cats," Olive wailed. "I have two rescue cats," Dr. Face Changer said.
Emotionally worn down from filling out medical history forms, waiting more than an hour for the biopsy, and learning she had part of a dead cat in her nose, Olive didn't have the fight left in her to say "no" when Dr. Face Changer asked if she could cut skin from part of her nose and use it to cover the hole. So much for the diamond stud.
After she left, the P.A. told an agitated Olive she could leave once he gave her an instruction sheet and scheduled her next appointment.
She left the skin care specialists' medical building at 1 p.m. She had been there since she and her friend Alice Ann arrived at 8:20 in the morning. Olive caught a cab and walked into her apartment about 2 p.m.
She called Alice Ann, who with her daughter Ali, picked up a prescription for antibiotics and packed a bag with Extra-Strength Tylenol, cloth and Band Aid bandages, medical tape, treats, and napkins.
Twice a day, Olive washed the area by dripping soapy and then clear water over the area. Then, she applied Vaseline and covered the area with bandages.
"Anyone who goes in for plastic surgery needs to see a psychiatrist," Olive said, ending our discussion about her outpatient surgery.

Writer's Note: Susan donated her last four rescue cats to science. She is glad parts of them helped people.
4 Comments

A Helping Hand, by Caitlyn Palmer

17/9/2021

3 Comments

 
Suzie screamed as Jack tripped her. She reached with both hands to stop herself from falling, but her tiny, malformed hand couldn’t grip the cafeteria table, and she fell to the concrete.
The other kids jeered and stomped their feet.

“Suzie the claw hand!” they chanted. Many of them curled and stiffened their fingers into an exaggeration of Suzie’s defect.

Suzie’s knees were grazed and bleeding, but her classmate’s words hurt more. She squeezed her eyes shut. Crying would only make things worse.

She pushed herself off the ground with her good hand, being careful to miss the hole in the concrete near the table, then stood straight despite the cruel faces surrounding her. Her brown, curly hair fell over her eyes and hid the pain she felt; something she was grateful for as Jack stepped closer.

“What’s the matter, Claw Hand? Aren’t you gonna fight back or curse me with your demon powers?”

She hid her hand behind her, out of sight from the bullies in the front row.

“Leave me alone,” she whispered.

The children laughed and Jack mocked her. He grabbed her arm and held it aloft for everyone to gawk at.

With her cheeks burning, Suzie struggled in his grip. She twisted her body around the table and forced Jack to step into the hole by her feet.

Jack howled as his foot became wedged, and he released Suzie’s arm.

The bell sounded, announcing the end of lunch. The kids sighed and reluctantly dispersed. Jack, however, remained with his foot stuck in the hole.

He dropped to the ground and moved his ankle in every direction, only for his shoe to become wedged deeper.

“Stupid hole!” He yelled.

But there was no one left to listen except for Suzie, who watched with a mixture of relief and curiosity.

Jack struggled to fit his hand into the hole. “Ugh, my hand is too big.”

Suzie considered leaving him to his fate, but Jack’s face showed no sneering or malice, only frustration and pain.

She moved without a second thought, knowing she’d change her mind if she waited too long.

“Here, let me help,” she said, kneeling next to him.

Jack startled, as if he’d forgotten she was there. His brows furrowed. “How? You can’t do anything with that claw.”

Suzie shrugged. “My hand is small. It might fit.”

The boy pursed his lips, then nodded. A moment later, she lowered her hand into the space between his shoe and the concrete and wiggled the sneaker free.

Jack blinked several times. “Um, thanks.”

He stood and looked at her crouched on the ground. His mouth formed a hard line, but his eyes were soft as he held his arm toward her. Suzie offered her malformed hand and Jack hesitated, but then took it gently and helped her to her feet.

“Don’t think this means we’re friends or anything,” Jack said.

“I know,” Suzie grinned.

Jack’s mouth twitched into a smile and they walked to their next class together.
3 Comments

Sugar 2128, by Greg Vander-Haeghen

17/9/2021

2 Comments

 
Good morning, afternoon, evening, night, or whatever other spot in the time-space continuum you are in. Or on.
Hello, my name is Theodore T. Tazbury III. I am a Portland-based historian, conspiracy-theorist and private investigator who is on a crusade to expose The Highly Classified History of Early Civilizations to an unsuspecting public. I am in the know and the Cereal Society would undoubtedly be delighted to see me in a gigantic concrete cereal box at the bottom of any ocean.
As I experienced before my very eyes, the history of Early Civilizations began in the future: 2028 and everything was bankrolled by the cereal industry. (Note: This would be the year that sugar was found to not to be linked to obesity, Captain Crunch received the electoral vote for the Presidency, and a celebrity Scientologist finally rocketed out of a volcano in a UFO built out of sugar cubes.) With President Crunch at the helm, nobody really ran the country as it was one big fun circus.
During a ten-hour drive from San Francisco to Portland, my sputtering, blue and white VW van suddenly drove straight into a pitch-dark hole or tunnel or portal of some sort, and into some land that looked so foreign to ours. Having seemingly dropped out of the sky, I was quickly summoned by the sun god named Osiris, as one of many ancient gods in Mesopotamia. I was particularly interested in the little-known things that were subsumed by mainstream history. I will share the few that I remember:
The ancient Sumerians in Mesopotamia, the purported originators of cuneiform script, actually used IBM Selectric Typewriters, while the Babylonian “Code of Hammurabi” was written on an iPhone. Comment: IBM and iPhone have since been purchased by the cereal conglomerate Apple Jacks.
The ancient Egyptian Pyramids were built by a time-travelling team from the Home Depot in Bakersfield, California. Comment: The laborers were fed a daily dose of Apple Jacks.
The Great Wall of China was originally built as a revenue-generating, climbing wall. Comment: A climbing wall on the back of cereal boxes is in the design stage, pending liability concerns.
In ancient Greece, there was such a thing as Greek Alphabet Soup. Comment: The new Alphabets cereal will include Roman numerals.
Lots to think about. I wanted to visit more, but I was considered to be a security risk. Allow me to conclude by saying that as 2028 nears, I can only wonder if I’m going to go on the same journey or even beyond.
2 Comments

Life and Soul, by Isabel Evans

17/9/2021

1 Comment

 
That hollow feeling. The bleak emptiness of the evening spreads ahead as inviting as drenching rain on plastic, as warm as the wind whipping through the bus shelter.

Janine teeters balanced on her stilettoes and applies herself: black and red, glossy slashes, again and again. She’s putting on her game face. To be who everyone thinks she is. Ready to rouse the troops and lead the way to the next dire, smoky, dark, smelly nightclub, with its impenetrable noise, its groping hands. And then the next, and the next…

Onwards to a final outpouring of vomit on some cold, grey pavement.

It’s who she is.

It’s who she’s not.

But for a trance-like moment at the end of the evening she’ll finally be in the place she wants to be. Nowhere.

“Ready Janine?”
“Yeah – let’s do it.”

Her lips stretch sideways in a wide rictus slash: the silent scream her friends think is pleasure.

She’s a laugh. She’s up for it. She’ll do… anything to fill her void.

She’s the life and soul.
​
1 Comment

Hope Was Hard to Come By, by John M. Carlson

17/9/2021

4 Comments

 
Ellen always hated seeing summer end. She loved summer. She loved the warm, sunny days. She loved eating seasonal fruits and vegetables bought at the local farmers’ market. She loved the scent of cotton sheets dried on her backyard lines after washing. She loved having windows open, with a gentle breeze blowing through her home. She loved all the flowers in her yard.

Meanwhile, she hated the cold, dreary days that set in during fall...and didn’t relent until spring.

That September day, she sat at the table on her back deck, thinking about how the end of summer in 2021 was harder than usual, thanks to the seemingly endless pandemic.

What would happen this winter? she wondered. Would winter bring new lockdowns in her area, as rumors kept suggesting? If there were, would the business she owned survive? Or would it go bankrupt, which would bankrupt her? She looked at the sheets waving in the breeze. Today might be the last day she’d ever have sheets dried on these lines. She might lose her home by next summer if her business went under!

And what would happen with her kids? They were a year behind in school, thanks to remote learning that was one step short of worthless. If schools shut down again, her kids would never recover academically.

She knew she could only hope for the best. That next summer things would be OK...and she’d able to sit out here again, enjoying a warm summer’s day. But after a year and a half of the seemingly endless pandemic, hope was hard to come by.
​
4 Comments

Moving Fast, by Isabel Evans

10/9/2021

4 Comments

 
The lichens have had enough of the situation. Intelligent enough to cooperate interspecies, and environmentally aware enough to understand how to manage an ecosystem, they were always going to take a dim view of the jumped-up monkey brains progressively despoiling and deadening the planet. Having already masterminded a succession of increasingly complex and aggressive pandemics, organizing multiple species cooperating across the biosphere to engineer viral jumps into the humans, without sufficiently reducing their numbers, it was time for direct and drastic action. Time for the lichens to start moving fast.

They’ve recruited one of the brighter humans who’d shown a deeper interest in them than usual, to work for them, their plan.

And now, the lichenologist’s work is complete. She’s done everything they had required of her, co-operated in their work, in return for the change to immerse herself in their world.

They are quiet now, passive under her gaze. Their lichenologist.
Crustose, foliose, fructicose - all still, each disc a silent eye. “Good lichen” she says, “Be still when watched, move fast when unobserved. Know your target. Don’t stop till you have enveloped everyone. Who is the master of lichen?” She closes her eyes, holding out her arms. The swarm undulates rapidly over her body, accelerating as she struggles involuntarily. Blocking her eyes, invading her mouth, insinuating into her nostrils, then leaving her, and speeding on through the forest, towards the city.

A hunting pack, insatiable, focused on just one genome.
4 Comments

What Was He Writing? by Doug Bartlett

10/9/2021

16 Comments

 
It was the Sabbath and I went up the southern steps onto the Temple grounds.
I walked past a teacher presenting a lesson to his disciples just outside the courtyard gate when I first heard it.

It was the sound of a woman yelling and screaming. She was surrounded by a group of men pushing and pulling and at times even dragging her. It appeared they were heading straight for the teacher. That’s when I realized that he wasn't just any teacher but he was the Teacher. He was the one who claimed to be the Son of God and was giving the Pharisees and their corrupt religious system fits.

These men interrupted the Teacher by bursting into His group of disciples and flinging this woman down at His feet causing a cloud of dust to encircle the woman. When the dust settled I realized she was naked. I also realized that most of the men who put her there were Pharisees.

That in itself was strange but then things got even stranger. The Pharisees, with hatred in their voices, questioned Him.

“ Teacher, according to the law of Moses, this woman, who was caught in the very act of adultery, says she is to be stoned. What say you? “

That’s strange I thought. That was a half-truth. According to Moses both parties committing adultery were to be stoned. But these Pharisees would know this. Hmmmmm…...something strange is going on here. This is starting to look like a set-up. Then it got even stranger. The Teacher didn’t respond to them but instead bent down and began writing in the dirt.

This infuriated the Pharisees because He was ignoring them. They began picking up large rocks. I couldn’t believe it. They were going to stone this woman. The Pharisees were trying to get rid of the Teacher so they could get back to their comfortable lifestyle of corruption.

The Teacher told the Pharisees to go ahead and stone her, but the only guys that could do it would be the ones who had not committed this same sin.

Wow! There was some murmuring in that crowd and then you started to hear the rocks hit the ground as the Pharisees began dropping them. Then the Teacher asked the woman where her accusers were. There were none, they had all left. The Teacher told the woman to go and sin no more.

I went on to the Temple to worship and when I came back the rocks were still there. I picked one up to take home as a reminder, not just a reminder of what I saw happen that day. It would also be a reminder to me not to hold someone to a higher standard than I hold myself to.

Oh, were you wanting to know what the Teacher was writing on the ground? No one knows for sure but some say It was the names of all the Pharisees that had had a sinful relationship with this woman.
16 Comments

Sundogs, by David Milner

10/9/2021

3 Comments

 
Breakfast on the balcony again, she looks across the field of rowan and silver birch trees, over hawthorn and spindle, over the wee duck pond and, past the cobbled stone shelter of the bus terminus, to the cottage where the better part of her still lives. All locked and silent now, but for the creaks she still hears, at night, when the wind blows. The wooden sign, still hangs above the door “Welcome to the Melody House.” Not that there were many callers, save for utility peoples, the postie, and Freddie, with his fish on Fridays.

People said she should have sold the place. Ach, what do people know?

Oh, the money, the money rolled in these days. Only you couldn’t see it, never mind hold it. Just figures on a screen, decimals, points of interest, units not making a blind bit of sense.

She bought the newly refurbished, old manor house. As a small child, she thought the Queen herself owned it. Now it was… Now it belonged to her, Mary Foy. There were times she had to be reminded how many rooms there were! She knew well enough – and too right – how much at 1 point 3 million it had cost to buy!

And the money, rolled in. Mary Foy had never known such worry.

Arriane – her personal assistant – was suggesting she have smoked salmon for a breakfast. Whoever heard of boiled egg on toast with salmon? And purple asparagus, dearie me? Mary had to tell the girl, “Don’t start with that caviar, I retch at the thought.”

Life had changed.

“What time is this Thomas De Quincey due, Arriane?”

“It’s Quentin Twombly. He’ll be Zooming at Noon, Mary.”

Another well-groomed face on the screen. Arriane arranged these matters. All Mary wanted was to get her hands on a mountain of cash, then hide it, preferably in bricks, throughout the cottage. In case the day should come when she needed money. She kept this idea to herself. And cursed the singing competition that she won with its Mediterranean cruise first prize. She met Nyland J. Crabbe, the near blind, old Texan billionaire, didn’t she? who fell in love with her voice, didn’t he! then went and left her 40 million in his will. With a sizeable stake in a South American mining company, to boot.

It was all worries now. And advice from all directions. Invest in cobalt, copper, zinc, get into the Democratic Republic of the Congo… don’t miss out on Big Pharmaceutical opportunities…. don’t forget fossil fuels just yet…

Why did money have to work like this? What if… she should lose everything? What happens then?

Mary Foy buttered another slice of toast, poured herself a lukewarm tea from the Wedgwood pot, and stared, wistfully, in the direction of her previous life.
​
3 Comments

Sally, by Virginia Ashberry

10/9/2021

2 Comments

 
Sally sits as quietly as possible in her office chair, clutching her hands tightly in her lap, while Audrey rages above her, waving a pair of scissors horizontally, back and forth at her eye-level If she dared to look up.

Shit, Sally thinks to herself. I am definitely getting too old for this. Only three shifts left before retirement. Ain’t this a classic.

Then she takes a shallow breath and speaks.

“Hey Audrey”, Sally says in as normal a cadence as she can muster. “What are your plans for Easter?”

Audrey stops her movement with such abruptness that she staggers backward three steps, bumps into the chair she leaped out of just moments before, drops the scissors to the floor then relaxes down into the cushioned seat.

“I think my mom is going to pick me up on Good Friday at approximately 3:45 pm., or maybe 3:47 p,m, Do you need to know exactly what time she is bringing me back?”

“Sure, if you want to find out”, Sally sighs then adds, “it would be good to know for the weekend staff”.

“Mental note, Sally thinks... we need to lock sharp office stuff in the cabinet too, not just things from the resident’s rooms and common areas. Can’t believe this never came up before....”
2 Comments

Model, by Barry O'Farrell

10/9/2021

8 Comments

 
Three police cars are parked outside Sky Preston’s block of flats. Precisely what she was not in the mood for.

It had been a typical day for a model; early morning start leading into a long day. Her driver had been a crude, rude, smelly boy. He was a terrible driver who enjoyed revving the engine loudly at every opportunity. Easy to tell it wasn’t his car.

After Sky had busted a gut to get to be on time, the makeup ladies were late, the hair stylist was even later. When she finally arrived, the stylist took her own sweet time doing everything and then decided it was wrong. Fiddle diddled around. Couldn’t make up her mind. Couldn’t get it right and redid everything at least five times. So, exasperating. Now to arrive home and find police on her doorstep was the last thing Sky needed.

#

“ID please,” demanded the policewoman blocking the entrance. Sky fumbled through her handbag until she found her Passport.

The policewoman scrutinised it closely. “Thank you. I am Policewoman Constable Seagrave. And you live in flat 10?” she posed. Sky nodded.

“I regret to inform you, today thieves systematically broke into every flat in this block. Every apartment has been burgled. Even worse, they have laiciously trashed or vandalised every flat. I further regret to inform you, your flat has been the most badly vandalised. Sky, we have a grief counsellor on hand for you. Let me say I am very sorry to be the one to break the bad news to you.”

“And now let me introduce you to Jane Wilson.” Another policewoman stepped forward. “Jane is the Grief Counsellor,” said Constable Seagrave. “I’m sorry we meet under such circumstances,” said Jane offering her hand to a stunned, silent Sky.

#

Both policewomen accompany Sky to inspect the crime scene. They hold open the door of flat 10 and shepherd her inside.

It is a distressing sight of manmade mayhem. Little containers of cosmetics some lids askew, others missing lids altogether, lay open on every flat surface and ledge. Shoes of all styles scattered higgledy piggledy across the floor. Wardrobe doors open, drawers ajar. Clothes flung over chair backs. More clothes dropped on the floor, interspersed with ripped open handbags. More clothes hanging half crookedly on coat hangers. Empty coat hangers randomly scattered everywhere.

“I’m sorry you have to see this,” utters Policewoman Wilson taking Sky by the arm, “has anything immediately obvious to you been stolen?”

Sky slowly takes in the shocking scene of devastation before saying, “Well, no. This is how I left it this morning. I was in a rush.”
8 Comments

The Love of Darkness, by V. L. Draven

3/9/2021

3 Comments

 
Everything about her was a lie. From the clothing she wore to conceal her true nature, to her painted on face; there was nothing about her that was real. She walked among people without anyone realising that she was not one of them. Had they seen her for what she really was, they would have run in horror.

Once, she was human. Born into a family that did not care, her childhood stolen by abusers and bullies. Laughed at, ostracised, ignored, pushed to the outside of civilisation her humanity had slowly slipped away. She was the discarded remains of a human being, used up by a society that took everything from her and gave nothing in return. By the time the darkness found her, there was so little left of the hopeful child she had once been, that she embraced it with open arms and open legs.

In the darkness, she found acceptance, kindness, love. Its icy touch was as welcoming to her as the warmth she had once craved. It cared, it desired her; it took pity on her; they were the same. She held it, drew it close, took it into her arms, felt it on her lips. She welcomed it into her body. She made love to the dark with what little life was left in her and surrendered to its loving embrace.

In its arms, she found the acceptance and love she had always craved. It was always with her, always nearby, hidden in the shadows by day and in the murk of the night. And, as she committed herself to it, the darkness grew within her, creeping through her body it took her: her loins, her thighs, her belly, her calves, her chest, her arms. It spread until her entire body had been consumed by it.

She was happy to be one with the dark. Every day, every night, they spent their time together. No words were spoken, no promises made, but she knew the darkness would never leave her, never tire of her, never desire another. The darkness was hers and hers alone. She was the concubine of the shade, the willing partner of the gloom.

She hid what she was from the world. Had people seen her red eyes and her featureless face, they would have screamed in terror. Covering herself with clothes that obscured the absence beneath, glasses that covered her eyes, makeup that covered her face, she remained invisible.

But she will not have to hide forever. Her belly is swollen and undulating with the children that grow inside her. Soon she will give birth, her progeny spewing forth from her body to spread over the world that treated her so badly. The world rejected her, but the darkness did not. Once the world is covered by its love, a new civilisation will rise. A new society that will embrace her once more.
3 Comments

Sometimes You Do What'cha Gotta Do, by Jim Bartlett

3/9/2021

30 Comments

 
With his foot pressed hard on the accelerator, his hands wrapped in a white-knuckled death-grip on a steering wheel that shimmies and shakes, he squints with reddened eyes through a cracked and dirty windshield. His breath comes in short gasps, his heart, like the car’s cranky old motor, races, as if it’s trying to pound its way out of his chest.

Yet he somehow keeps his mind and focus forward, the smeared glass offering a view of a black asphalt ribbon that slices a straight and narrow path through the cornfields, before disappearing into a sky cloaked in dark angry clouds.

He takes in a deep breath. There’s a storm brewing. Rain. Thunder. Lightning.

Yet he knows it won’t be like the one he’s just left behind. Nothing could ever be like that one.

Another deep breath. He shouldn’t have to be doing this. He’s fifteen for God’s sake. He should be worried about the algebra test he was supposed to take today. Worried about pimples. Worried about how to talk to MarySue in Biology without sounding like a putz.

Instead he worries about--

A moan from behind pulls his eyes from the road and to the mirror. His mother, tucked into a fetal position, lies shivering in the rear seat as if the car is filled with ice. Her swollen eyes are still closed, but at least the blood around her nose seems to be crusting over. She, like him, breaths in deep gasps, though hers carries a slight wheeze. Of pain or hope or fear, he’s not sure which.

He won’t let himself look at her arm, how it’s bent in that unnatural angle. Instead, he turns his gaze to her bare legs, where new bruises blanket over old.

Only twelve more miles. The sign said only twelve more miles.

Though the telephone poles fly by like fence posts, he presses harder on the gas. But the petal has nothing more to give, leaving the engine to growl in discontent, and the tension inside him to finally boil over.

The vented steam comes in the form of tears, a luxury he’s not been able to afford to this point. It would have resulted in a slurred and angered, “Girlie boy,” shouted to his face with a hurricane-force wind of cigarette and beer-laced breath followed by an open-hand slap that would have sent him reeling to the floor.

That’s behind him now. He needs to leave it behind. He HAS to leave it behind. Just like the house he used to call home. And that man...that man he used to call a father.

He turns his focus back to the horizon where the black clouds continue to gather. This new storm has been waiting for him. He’s long felt its cold digging into his gut. But, it’s okay. She’s gonna be okay. He’s gonna be okay.

Because his conscience remains empty, like the chambers of the still warm gun that lies beside him.

Sometimes you do what’cha gotta do.
30 Comments

A Berlin Summer, by David Milner

3/9/2021

3 Comments

 
This morning he woke up laughing. God help us, here of all places, going mad with quicksilver dreams. When he had asked for her hand in marriage, she had said, “Yes, of course.” The ‘of course’ pure comedy ringing in his ears. Comfortable as putting on a pair of soft woollen socks. His mother liked her. That is how it works. Waking up laughing, as the dream reminded him that Myrtle would have said “yes, of course” to just about bloody anyone.

Tuesday (Dienstag), middle of July, itching from backside to armpit with lice. Parasites, tireless germs bringing slow death. Oh, dear mother best tha’ doesn’t know…. he picks at a piece of sausage gristle, caught last night, between his molars. Can’t say, hand on heart, that he misses home. Here among the rubble of a thousand bombs, the ruins look the same as anywhere else. Just the dust, mother, playing havoc with my bronchial tubes! Like powdered glass trapped in the khaki wool and smeared into my pale, sensitive skin. I shouldn’t complain.

Here, in Wilmersdorf, Berlin, to clear up the mess. And bear witness.

Don’t know when I’ll next be…

Myrtle deserves more than a letter.

He traded with the street urchins, some as young as ten, no trace of Nazi on them. Though what would become of these kids, these refugees from the innocence of childhood, was anybody’s guess. They’d get under the feet of the Trümmerfrauen, the women who rummaged in the rubble and waste. He’d managed to get a Leica camera, a pair of superbly crafted motorcycle goggles (kept the dust out of his eyes), swapped for Woodbine cigarettes, mint humbugs, even his mother’s home- made rhubarb jam. It was trade, a sense of obligation; also, Private Eric Watts was a natural born collector.

He kept himself to himself. Bearing witness. If nothing else.

He’d seen the fat French pimp. Everybody’s friend, with his clean smelling tarts. Seen him violently beat one of the Trümmerfrauen half to death. Nothing he could have done to help.

Particularly irksome was the fat pimp’s waxed goatee. Funny that.

Myrtle deserved more than a letter. Let her know, tenderly, that life would never have worked for them. Tethered to tradition, or something….? Something like.

He would use the Hitler Youth Butterfly knife. Yes. Resolute in his thoughts. Knew the Pimp’s daily routine. His mother, his muckers at the barracks, and anyone’d ever known him, would all agree he wasn’t the impetuous type. Would be over soon enough. Just an animal sinking its teeth into another animal….

Someone had to pay.
​
3 Comments

The Don Lazia Distillery, by Alex Blaine

3/9/2021

3 Comments

 
The Don Lazia Distillery. The only distillery still going since Prohibition. We are glad to say people are no longer eating lead. Or going blind for the rich smooth taste. But the Don is an old-fashioned kind of guy: he insists it's made underground, in secret. Prohibition may be over but our competitors will stop at nothing to get their hands on this pre-Prohibition recipe. Trust me, nothing comes close to the rich sweet taste of the Don Lazia Distillery.

However, Don Lazia would like to remind you that he is not responsible for your misfortunes. So if you wake up in an alley with a bad case of Chicago Amnesia or if you've been sleeping with the fishes (though I don't recommend you do that), or if you feel like you've been written off by the Chicago Typewriter, or your old lady is chewing your ear off . . . remember: the Don just wants you to have a good time and enjoy the fresh smooth rich sweet taste - like it's your sweetheart's kiss. And if all else fails: Forget about it. With the Don Lazia Distillery. ​
3 Comments

Loved That Car, by John M. Carlson

3/9/2021

2 Comments

 
“I hated having to sell my Mustang. I loved that car! But it was old, and I couldn’t afford to keep fixing it.” Jane sighed. “It’s been six months, and I like my new car—but I still miss that Mustang!”

“It’s hard giving up a car you love, but you have to, sometimes,” Barb, Jane’s sister, said. “Hopefully your car went to a good home.”

“I hope so. Apart from that one dent on the fender, it looked pretty good. I thought it would be a nice car for a teenage boy to get to fix up.”

Chad, Barb’s thirteen year-old-son, came into the living room and turned on the TV. His favorite show was on. It was a cop show, which appeared to feature an endless parade of car chase scenes.

“Hey! Aunt Jane! Isn’t that your car?” Chad said, pointing at the TV.

“It looks similar,” Jane stared. “It is my car! It’s got the same dent!”

“Cool! Your car is on TV!”

Jane’s old car was currently racing down a twisting mountain highway, with a police car in hot pursuit. Suddenly, it skidded off a curve. It crashed through a guard rail and went down a steep hill, flipping three times before it landed on the bottom. The driver crawled out the window and began running away—just in time to avoid a violent explosion, as the car burst into a mountain of flames.

“Wow!” Chad yelled.

“My car,” Jane moaned. Then, she began crying.
2 Comments

Snow Globes, by Angela Carlton

3/9/2021

7 Comments

 
When we were teens, you ripped up my break-up letter and tossed it in the garbage. Years later, when we were twenty-something, you called me again to meet up, but I was distant and with someone else, a new kick. Then I remembered we always sat tucked away in booths at restaurants, we seemed to align, mesh. Nothing else really mattered. You always held the door open for me and made me laugh over the small stuff. My brain was like one of those snow globes, everything inside swirling- swirling until things shifted.

And so it began, days and days-days with you. They turned into months with picnics and hours inside cool, cozy pubs. The sun in the sky seemed brighter, hot, for October until the chill.

I don’t remember November or much of December, the accident consumed me, the screech of the tires, and that oak tree was all I could see.

Still, sometimes, there are days, when the sky is cloudless, a beautiful blue and the sun tickles, it warms my skin. I know it’s you.
7 Comments

As Black is to White, by Amal Tahir

27/8/2021

2 Comments

 
I gazed up to the bright blue, evening sky and the alluring orange streaks of light that seemed to have been intricately painted, on this canvas. The sky was peppered with small, white bolls of cotton, slowly floating along the blue expanse. The sound of the faint clicking of my heels against the stone ground, was overpowered by the lively music that flooded through my ears, entranced me and spread warmth through my body.

Crowds of people flooded the expanse, walking towards the sea, the shopping centers to the left and the food street. There was the sparkling, crystal blue, shimmering sea ahead, narrowly separated from the crowd through a brown mahogany fence. Occasionally, the water would creep forward, sweeping the feet of its admirers in gratitude, resulting in shrieks of laughter and excitement from the children. Raising my wrist towards me, I read the dreaded time on the watch; 5:30 PM. Hurriedly, I continued to walk parallel to the sea, towards the food street. My stomach churned at the mouthwatering smell of salads, popcorn, juices, potatoes. In addition to the calming sound of water gently rubbing against the fence, the delightful warm music, I heard the sizzling of vegetables as the chefs tossed their pans in quick, impressive movements.

I joined the crowd gathered in front of the chef, intently watching the quick dicing and cutting of vegetables. Delighted at the prospect of a warm snack, before I embarked for the library to study, I grabbed a dollar bill from my pocket and passed it to the chef, who handed me a plate of warm fries in return. Feeling the weight of books on my back, I walked hurriedly towards from where I had entered. With a backward glance, I bid my adieus, leaving the music and merriment behind me.

The port library was a few minutes walking distance away. I paced forward, hurrying on the stone steps leading towards the library. The library soon emerged, sheltered by the trees and with an air of tranquility around it. Within seconds, I had reached the cold, glass door of the library and swung it open.

Instantaneously, the world seemed quiet and still. I glanced at the dozens of bookshelves ahead of me, to my left and to my right. I noticed students were browsing the shelves, just as I was to do. I noticed people on their laptops, furiously typing away, their faces tense. I felt my feet sink in the soft brown fur of the carpet as I unloaded my bag and walked towards the bookshelves. I felt their cool, hard touch and the smooth, crisp paper of the books. My eyes scoured the bookshelves, from science to history, and at last I found the book I desired. I pulled it out, hearing the crackling of paper. As I walked back to the soft, inviting sofas, I realized how I had visited two places today, each as different as black is to white. ​
2 Comments

Courgette Fatalis F1 (Approx 10 seeds per pack), by Ian Mitchell

27/8/2021

6 Comments

 
Isabel felt something oddly comforting about the old courtroom. Maybe it was the way the small stain glass windows high in the walls threw colourful shafts of light across the room, or perhaps it was just knowing that today would bring closure to this whole sorry situation. Sadly, like so many marriages, hers had ended up here. Not because of any of the usual things like infidelity or domestic abuse. No. It was because of the courgettes.

Paul’s conversion to vegetarianism hadn’t been a problem at first. She’d actually been happy to see him get enthusiastic about something for once. However, that seed, like the courgettes, had grown fast, fruiting and swelling into full on ‘Save The Planet’ fanaticism. Her beautiful garden had been dug up, with every conceivable space turned over to veg growing.

“Nothing must go to waste” was his mantra. The car was replaced with a tandem bike, holidays with an allotment, new clothes with charity shop cast downs.

Sitting down at the kitchen table that fateful night for her birthday meal, how she’d wished she could have her old Paul back, serving up his usual idea of a treat, a supermarket meal deal for two with cheap in house plonk. That would’ve been bliss.

Isabel scrutinised the plate in front of her.

“What is this?”

“It’s courgette, five ways”

“What!”

“There’s Courgette Bonbon, Fritter, Tartare, Roast and Courgette Surprise. I’ve opened a bottle of our nettle wine as a treat. Tuck in, but save some room, I’ve made a caramelised Courgette Tart for pudding. You’ll love it!”

Isabel assessed the contents of her plate, the fritter was swimming in a pool of grease, the tartare was simply raw courgette spirals, the roasted courgette was burnt beyond recognition. As for the gloopy brownish slurry, that must be the courgette surprise. The only surprise would be if she didn’t projectile vomit after eating it! The bonbon was the only edible looking thing on the plate. Perfectly round, with a crisp looking, lightly toasted breadcrumb coating. Isabel stabbed her fork into the bonbon. It exploded like a lanced boil. Pustule like lava hot courgette juice squirted up her bare arm.
Screaming, she rushed to the sink, thrusting her arm under the cold tap. Although the tears in her eyes blurred her vision looking out the window, she could swear the courgette flowers, spilling out of her once beautiful rose beds were laughing at her. That was when it happened. She snapped. Charging out into the garden grabbing a spade, she attacked the courgettes, their laughter now turning to screams. Paul flew after her, frantically trying to grab the spade. One huge courgette swore at her. She grabbed it, twisting it free from the triffid like plant. Turning to face Paul she knew exactly what she was going to do with it!

The judges booming voice snapped Isabel’s attention back to the present.

“I repeat. How do you plead. Guilty or not guilty?”
6 Comments

A Living Museum, by David Chek Ling Ngo

27/8/2021

4 Comments

 
On instinct, I google him and what I read sends an uncanny shiver down my spine.

Years ago, I visited John in his office, familiar to me, a place we had spent countless of hours working on my thesis, covered in stuff, a place I could always find new inspiration and stimulation.

A desk piled high with stacks of paper. A whole wall of built-in bookcases packed with books and journals. A collection of early computing items that was begun in the 50s. Chess sets encompassing a range of different styles and periods. A poster commemorating the 100th anniversary of Queen Victoria's death. Old photographs including one showing his right arm reaching to receive the IBM 1620 through a window on the first floor of 21 Lincoln Place. It’s a museum of five decades of collection of computer artefacts from the digital revolution he started.

But I didn’t see the bicycle he cycled to work every morning for as long as I knew him since the 80s. Hearing the reason in his voice was terrible. John had been attacked by a burglar at his home, which left him traumatised and heartbroken, from which he never recovered---as I was told later.

“Without his vision and determination, it is highly unlikely …” These words bring tears to my eyes. Is it too late to say farewell?
4 Comments

The Truth Is, by David Milner

27/8/2021

3 Comments

 
I was putting the finishing touches to the Chinook–CH46. Along with cups of instant coffee and lemon puff biscuits, it had kept me occupied through the lonely hours of a humid night. Model aircraft and military ordinance has been a lo-tech hobby since childhood.

A little after 10am there’s a familiar knock at my door. A moment later Speedy enters on his right-handed crutch.

“What’re you working on?” he asks. Faking interest comes naturally to Speedy. And I tell him the Chinook CH46 was used to airlift people out of Saigon in 1975. That he’s probably seen newsreels from the time, or depictions of the event in the Vietnam war films he purports to like. And, of course, Speedy nods along (like a true friend). I tell him a similar type of aircraft is being used presently in Kabul, Afghanistan.

“Does the glue come free with the models, Jack?” He puts this question to me every flaming time.

One of our friends in the hostel was moving out. Though no less of a ravaged doll, Lexi looked younger than her forty years. Speedy was dead keen on her. He’d taken her to a nearby patisserie for breakfast.

“What time is Lexi due to leave?” I asked.

“Had those sticky buns, she’s crazy about, French coffee, baguettes. Cost me some, Jack….”

“And what time does she go?”

“Cost me some. I need a hand with the sofa-bed she’s given me.”

It was a prime piece of furniture. Sturdily built. I’d offered to help. It was all smiles. Maybe we had a little something to smoke. Cushty.

An hour later and Speedy is swinging that right-handed crutch of his – “She’s stitched me up” – at anyone or anything that happens to get in his way. “Like a kipper, she done me.” In a paroxysm of rage… the old romantic fool was hopping mad.

Lexi had already left. And the sofa-bed was in some other geezer’s room.

“Over forty pounds, she’s cost me – the breakfast and the smokes! She goes and sells the bed to someone else? The Snake is what she is!”

Weary eyed I watch the news. The rolling mess of Kabul airport. Desperate humanity. I don’t see many wearing masks. The Taliban (Taleban from the Arabic verb talaba, to seek) forbid professionals to leave.

From my open window I see Speedy. Hopping mad by a disused water fountain, he remonstrates with someone I do not recognise. I lift the model Chinook from the table. Hold it through the open window.

“The truth is…”, a voice begins, as I let go.
3 Comments

The Hospital Stay, by Doug Bartlett

27/8/2021

19 Comments

 
I groggily woke up and looked down at my abdominal area only to see, much to my chagrin, a twelve inch incision. This meant. The surgery was supposed to be done arthroscopically which meant I should be seeing three small holes not a foot long gash. I realized there must have been complications during the operation..I had been sliced open like a Christmas goose. Well, there goes my hope of going home today from the hospital.

Hospitals were for sick people and people died there. I was not sick and I was not ready to die, especially in there. I was ready to go home now but that was not to be. Upon leaving the recovery room I was wheeled into a room that was already occupied by an African-American gentleman by the name of Gabe, who would be my roommate.

Needless to say, I was not in the best of moods. In fact I was despondent and depressed. Perhaps I was even borderline suicidal but Gabe was really nice and I enjoyed his company. Every negative thing I had to say he would counter with at least two positive ones. I knew I would not have recovered so well or so quickly if it wasn’t for Gabe. He always had the perfect thing to say.

There was a Bible that had been left in the room on my nightstand. I needed to kill time so I picked it up, opened it at a random place and began reading it. It was talking about angels and how God sent them to help people, not that I believed in them mind you but it helped pass the time.
Four days later the doctor released me. I said goodbye to Gabe but got no response. I pulled back the curtain that separated Gabe and myself to thank him for his company and his words of encouragement he had given me.

I was surprised to see that he was not there and his bed was neatly made. I couldn’t believe that he would leave without saying good-bye.

A nurse walked into my room at that time to take my vital signs and I asked her where Gabe was. She looked at me rather strangely and told me I was in this room by myself my entire stay.
19 Comments

A Memory as Colorless as White, by Amal Tahir

20/8/2021

4 Comments

 
I held the paint brush, gingerly, between my fingers. My eyes traced the motion of my hands as I brought the brush upwards, towards the canvas, and with a slow dabbing, painted the last strokes of dull color. I searched for hints of color, hope in the painting, but found none. I had used all the possible colors to create it, yet it was pallid, too similar to the day of the event.
All had been still on that dreadful day in 1863. Not a single leaf fluttered, not a single bird chirped, and the chatter that once engulfed Georgia was silenced. Hushed, grim and expectant, the crowds flooded the streets. The malicious expectancy seemed to cover the bright gaze of the sun, until people looked up into the sky, incredulous that it was clear instead of covered with dark clouds. No one dared to speak, unless to support and comfort the other or to remind that those dead would be martyrs for The Cause.
“Casualty lists, casualty lists, casualty lists” a loud voice repeated. The crowd turned its heads to a young man who hurriedly threw newspapers, freshly smeared with ink, to those nearest in the crowd. There was a scuffling, as people craned their necks to catch a glimpse of the list, in the hope that their loved one had not been enlisted. The silence was broken with loud wails, cries and soft, relieved laughter, as each person became aware of the fate of their beloved. I waited for my mother to bring the list, fright and curiosity gnawing at my stomach. I felt my body go cold, iron fingers strangle my neck as I stared, stunned with shock, at the sight of my mother crying. Something was wrong. I ran, shrugging past people, not caring who I pushed. I had to check the list.
“Mama!” I cried out. She thrust the list into my hand, tears streaming down her helpless face. Hurriedly, with quivering hands, I scanned the list. The name stood out, as white does on black, ‘Joseph Gartner – Killed in action’. It was father. ‘But no… he’d written to us last week…he’d said he’d be home soon…surely nothing could have happened to him…it had to be a misprint…’ My mind flooded with the memories I had of my father. I clung on to them desperately, as though, grabbing fleeting birds, afraid to lose what was left of him. Beads of emotion slipped rapidly from my eyes, staining my face, each tear, an ode to the love that I possessed for him.
As I heard the shrill chirping of a bird, my thoughts were brought back to the present. Feeling aware of the hot Georgia sun underneath which I was basking, I wiped my tears with my paint-stained hands. Even after thirty years, the grief of loss had not left me. It would never leave. The memory would always be accompanied by the sinister color of death; white.

​
4 Comments

Hide and Seek, by V. L. Draven

20/8/2021

4 Comments

 
“Ready or not, here I come,” it said. The game my daughter and I had played on many occasions, only now the sweet girl I had once known was dead, and this thing, this replicant had been transformed into a homicidal killing machine.

It had joined our household back in 2042, when our daughter had died. The death had been sudden, a quick encounter with a fast moving hover car had split her 6 year old body in half, splattering her intestines and organs over the road. Sarah had seen it happen.

She had never been the same after that. Every time she close her eyes she saw it happen. She woke up each night screaming, she tried to end her own life in the bathtub. There was little I could do to help, other than hold her, reassure her that things would be okay. But now, she is dead. The replicant we were given to help both of us cope with losing our daughter killed her, crushing her in an embrace that broke bones. Sarah died in my arms. The machine told me that it cared about its mother and only wanted to see her at peace, so it gave her a hug. Then it asked me to play hide and seek. I refused. I tried to call the police, but I couldn't. I was trapped in the house with this thing that wore my daughter's face.

Standing there, still covered in Sarah's blood it sat in my daughter's pyramas on my daughter's bed counting. I wanted to break it, to disable it, but I couldn't. The baseball bat was still in the kitchen.

It opened its eyes and looked at me. “That’s not how the game is played — Daddy.” It glared at me with its dead eyes. “You go hide and when I find you, I hug you.”

It all sounded so innocent. But I knew what that meant.

“Do you need a hug right now?” It asked.

“No,” I replied.

It returned to its countdown. I had no choice. I was locked in the house with it with no way to call for help. I hid, knowing that it would find me.

It did. Even though I went to my office and hid in one of the cupboards, it didn't take long for it to figure out where I was.
Now, the replicant lays broken. The ugly resin ornament my wife and daughter bought me when we went on holiday is rammed into its face. The ornament they had insisted I keep on my desk. The ornament they had carved a single word into -- love.
​
4 Comments

Question and Answer, by Michael Roberts

20/8/2021

5 Comments

 
You always get that question, right?
You know the one.
The smart ones dress it up in different language, but it always comes back to….
“Where do you get your ideas?”
And there’s that groan from the audience and then laughter.
I feel sorry for the person asking, because yeah, it’s an old chestnut, but hey, everyone wants to know, right?
I asked Slash—not to name-drop or anything——where he came up with his riffs and that’s basically the same question.
And he shrugged.
Which is a perfectly legitimate answer, at least to me.

So, when I get asked, I tell them—like I tell anyone who asks this, from little kids in libraries to little old ladies at book signings—the same thing.
Everywhere.
They are everywhere.
You just have to tune your antenna to receive them.
Sometimes, you’ve tuned it too well to ever turn it off again.

Same with, “Why do you write?”

Years ago— this was right at the time that my Romance Novel-writing ‘alter-ego’ Vivian Brooks had been outed by some rag— I was onstage with a bunch of other Romance Writers (I didn’t want to be there but they threw a wad of cash at me) and we were having the same old Q&A that’s inevitable at these things.
And we got The Question.
And we all tried to answer it, in our own way,
Writing is like breathing, one of them said, it was just natural to her.
“And you?”
“It’s like being a heroin addict” I told them to gasps and clutching of figurative and literal pearls.
( I was going through my ‘rebellious counterculture’ phase then, even though I was in my thirties and married. I’ve since mellowed out.)
Needless to say, I wasn’t ever asked back.
It’s true,though (And I say this as a former Oxycontin addict—hey, it was the 80s— so I know.)
Writing and Oxy are great for a while, then the thrill wears off, then it becomes a chore and you decide to take a break.
And you start getting itchy after a day or so, to use a cliche analogy.
You see things out there in the world and you automatically think, “Man, that’d go great in a story” and then “Oh yeah, we don’t do that anymore.”
And you go back eventually, because that’s all you now know; you’ve trained yourself to look at the world through a certain lens, be that Junkie or Writer.
And people seem to find that romantic or Byronic or something.
And it isn’t.
It’s a huge pain in the ass.
If I could have looked at the world through the eyes of an Investment Banker, I would’ve preferred that.
At least that pays pretty well, in most cases.
I can’t complain, though.
My ‘playing pretend on paper’—my Conservative Dad’s words—- has given me a lake view and a writing hut where the kids’ swing-set/slide used to be.
Not so bad.
5 Comments
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