Blog Posts - Friday Flash Fiction

The Sacrifice, by Doug Bartlett

11/9/2020

Ten year -old Timmy proudly walked into the local cafe with a huge grin on his small face and found an empty booth to sit at. He had been consumed with the one thought every night and day for the last few weeks of eating his favorite food. He had just been paid for mowing a neighbor’s lawn. He could now afford to buy a hot fudge sundae.Mounds of vanilla ice cream smothered with hot fudge, squirted with a mountain of whipped cream, generously sprinkled with chopped peanuts and topped with a bright red cherry. He loved sundaes more than anything else to eat. He emptied all the coins he had in his pockets 0nto the tabletop and started counting them when the waitress came over to him.

“What will you have?” she said gruffly and impatiently. She figured this kid would cost her extra time causing her to lose tip money from other customers.

“How much is a hot fudge sundae?” he asked her as he counted up his change.

“You have just enough,” she growled after taking up her precious time to add up his coins., “but it will take all you have.”

“Oh, no, I can’t do that,” he exclaimed, “Then I’ll just have a single scoop of vanilla ice cream.” He knew that would leave him with money left over.

“ Yup,” the waitress thought,” he’s already wasting my time.”

She sure didn’t appreciate Timmy as a customer and was glad to see him leave.
She went over to the table to clear it when her heart sank and a tear trickled down her cheek.

You see, Timmy had left all of his money on the table. The waitress then realized he didn’t order that sundae he wanted so badly because he wouldn’t have had enough money to leave her a tip.

It's 4.00 a.m., by Angela Carlton

11/9/2020

It’s 4 am. My Mother wants to drive. There’s nowhere for us to go, but she wants to tell me about Jesus, the devil and music. I am almost 6 years old, my feet can barely touch the floorboard in the car. She has turned the radio knob up as high as it will go, and the sounds of pianos, guitars and horns fill the air.

My Mother used to be a sexy singer in a cocktail lounge, before her head got sick, all sour. Now, she collects checks in the mailbox, and we just drive. She begins to hum now, and in her deep, pretty voice, she sings “Wild...fire,” loud, intense like she’s back on stage again. My insides go all soft like red playdough, and I shuffle my feet for a few seconds. The Wildfire song is about a horse. I should know. I’ve heard it one hundred seventeen times. It makes me want to catch one fast and ride off and away. My Mom thinks she needs to practice her singing every single day. She thinks if she drives-drives-drives, sings enough, she will get her job back, and my Daddy might come home too. I think me chasing down a horse will happen first! I look for my horse in the fields, out the glass window, white ones, golden, brown ones, my favorite, are the black ones. They shine like they are almost blue in the sun.

When she’s not singing, she’s talking about Jesus almighty, the devil’s water and all of my Daddy’s sins, but I don’t say a word. You can’t fix a sour head. And when she starts to say all those curse words, and beats her fist against the steering wheel, her tears will come fast like bullets. I take a deep breath then like I might be blowing out all the candles that light darkness. The piano in the background soothes me for a minute or two, but she’s running through the red lights now. That is when, I have to pretend, we are on a magic carpet ride again, and I get to go to special places, like most kids do, maybe the skating rink, a bowling alley or that park with the six flags. We’re flying up high now, all over, looking down at the lime grass, and those itty-bitty yellow flowers, the ones Daddy picked once for my Mother back when her face was bright as the fat moon, and she didn’t need to drive down all these dead end streets.

At the end of the magic ride, I spot all those circles and circles of cool, turquoise water that make me want to hold my breath, jump in, kick and kick as fast as I can until my eyeballs burn, but I don’t. And I don’t get to chase my horse today, either.

Still, sometime tomorrow, after 4 am, I’ll get to go to the circus.

Heaven and Hell, by Sivan Pillai

11/9/2020

Four days in the ‘icebox’ in the mortuary. Two weeks in the hospital before that. Bedsores on the back, uncontrolled peeing and shitting in the bed. That was real hell, not the one somewhere deep below the earth, as I had been told since my childhood. I am happy the ordeal is finally over, and I am free from my body.
The beautician is busy getting it ready for the funeral later today, befitting a rich and powerful man’s father. Beauty creams are being applied, and the room reeks of perfumes. Hair, whatever is left on the head, is oiled and combed. There is a new pair of shoes on the feet, white gloves on the hands. While alive, I had never worn shoes or gloves. I was happy feeling the earth with my bare feet and hands while tending to the plants. A ring of flowers is there on the head, like a crown. Soon the body would be taken to the cemetery, and speaker after speaker would eulogize me before the coffin is lowered into the pit and handfuls of dirt thrown over it.
A regular church-goer, I had believed that the soul would go either to heaven far above the sky, or hell, to be eternally fried there, depending on one’s deeds while alive. I had felt heavenly happiness when my friend Jose sat by me, cracking jokes in between sips of liquor. Or when I heard the mooing of my cows and the clucking of hens. I had experienced unbound joy when the first bunch of flowers appeared on the mango trees and green bulbs burst out on cardamom plants.
Then came the bolt from the blue. A phone call just before nine at night, my usual time for bed, from my only son settled in a faraway city. Hurried pleasantries over, he had dropped the bomb. He had decided to relieve me of the burden of looking after the estate at my advanced age. The estate that I had bought piece by piece over the years with the sweat of my brow. And sell the house that my wife and I had built brick by brick. He had booked a room for me in a modern old age home with all comforts and enjoyable company of people like me.
The next thing I remember was waking up in a hospital bed with Jose’s anxious face over me. Unaware of my regaining consciousness, my son was discussing my condition with the doctor. Urgent business awaited him in the city and could hardly afford to spend more time here.
“There’s no hope of his recovery. The moment the life-supporting gadgets are removed, he would stop breathing,” the doctor was telling him.
There was a hush-hush talk between the two after that, and not much later, a couple of nurses entered and asked Jose to leave the room.
The ventilator and other gadgets were removed. My body was shifted to the mortuary.

The Foam, The Reef, by Jovan Ramzi

11/9/2020

Given that my mother committed suicide, under the most adverse circumstances I might add, safely can I say: "As my God was suicide, earlier in my life my mother killed herself, unto yourself, were you a world.". Now, as a pensioner, I want to welcome you to my remembrances. With forty years gone by, I now ask: "Why?". Once upon a time, we enjoyed our mother's company; she would read us fairytales. Allowing my mother to exist again, and unbidden as it was, coming from the depths of darkness of the forest of memory, other memories were stirred up by this memory. My mind was allowed to go back. Quietly did I uncover the memories. The memories I now beheld, made up of the most disparate things, tenanted walls, a fire's ceaseless roaring, began to constitute a new whole. Sleeping pills killed her. She waited till everybody else was asleep. This memory brought other memories to the fore.

Once life consisted of a rocking horse; as our possession, "our" would signify that it belonged to my brother. My mother would read to us at night; the Arabian Nights were the tales that most regaled us; in the process of being read to, the rocking horse had gone missing. Her colour was gold and blue. She was our silent ferryman. My mum had thrown it out..

The Forgotten City, by Niharika Gupta

11/9/2020

The underground tunnel had been dark. I looked right, left, up, down, waved my hands before my eyes, did not see so much as a
hint of movement. I blinked again. Nothing at all. The air was too
thick. I wanted to reach out with my hands, crush the air into little pieces, stuff them down my windpipe. I scratched a matchbox with a matchstick to light a fire on a gasoline soaked cloth. The cloth was stuck with a long bamboo made stick. Fire glowed red in the dark. Light! We could see each other.
We were flipping through a worn copy of a mysterious cave history. We followed a map and hurried through the tunnel to reach the cave. I was hired along with some army officers to solve the mystery of the cave. My eyes stung from the fumes of gasoline. As we were moving through the tunnel, the path became more narrow. One by one we moved against the wall of the tunnel. We left behind the fiery bamboo stick. We slid down and reached the other end of the tunnel. We snapped a tree branch and used it as a medium to reach the cave.
"It is not so bad now." One of the army officials said at the end point of the tunnel. Inevitably, the clean oxygen was not then grubby and stuffy. I looked around the cave. The dim light of moon entered there through lots of specks engraved on the round wall of it.
Long before, it was a part of a city. Long before the city was burned and destroyed. It became like a city of ghosts. We stopped near a door. We stepped in, turned our eyes on old sewing machines, one eyed barbie dolls, wooden furnitures, guitars with missing strings and old metal boxes.
"Fifteen years many people have been rying this but nobody ever entered into this cave." Our group leader said with pride.
we discovered some rusted meatal, shattered broken windows, balding tires. On the floor: some over turned magazine racks, broken jars and shards of glass were laid. Thus the whirlwind of gossips in our heads came to a halt when we discovered a past city.

Franklin O'Hare, by Heather Robinson

11/9/2020

Franklin O’Hare is a horrible interviewee, yet people seem to salivate over the YouTube videos where he’s queried and cuddled by noteworthy journalists. I don’t get it. He sits there in his ragged khakis and retrieves a hummus and carrot sandwich from his denim jacket, then nibbles and munches while the interviewer waits patiently. Instead of finishing the sandwich, O’Hare starts talking, mouth open – ugh – while he’s chewing. For no reason at all, and without any accompanying witticisms, he’ll just start winking at the camera. Then his nose begins to twitch and he appears to sniff the air. His blurry, beady eyes don’t focus on anything, but instead, hop across the room, then stare at the ceiling as if wisdom will drop down upon him like hail from a storm. He’s noted for his obscure quotes, like when he was asked what advice he’d give to a young writer today, and replied, with a slow, supposedly meaningful nod, “Even rabbits have habits.” Yeesh.

Spaghetti Soup, by Phyllis Souza

4/9/2020

Mable scooped up a tablespoon of shortening and dropped it into the frying pan. She turned on the burner and adjusted the fire. She added onion and garlic and swirled until browned. Next, tomato sauce and Italian seasoning. While pouring in red wine, she sang to the food. Mable felt happy—she poured in some more.

The sound of bubbling gravy and the aroma of the mixture coming together was comforting.

Mable brought a wooden spoon filled with the gravy to her mouth. She inhaled, she blew, she tasted.

"Delicious," she said and put down the spoon.

For a couple of hours, the spaghetti sauce simmered over a low blue flame.

***

No Parmesan Cheese.

Mable left the house to go to the grocery store.

One hour later she walked into the kitchen. Surprise— her husband was home early from work. Fritz was sitting at the table, an empty bowl in front of him.

He smacked his lips. "That was great soup!"

Haunt Bound, by Bianca Crenshaw

4/9/2020

Ava entered the graveyard and crept over the forms buried beneath her feet, wondering if those she used to see still remembered her as how she used to be. Time passed in a loop, not once missing a beat, and she moved along with it, unafraid but empty. The temptation to reach out, to seek, to connect grew steadily along with her desire and instinct to retreat.

Flight gave way to agonizing comfort and the need for the unfamiliar made her weep in her sleep. Dark unformed shadows followed her, chased her, barked at her from a distance that spanned years in a blink. Fear held her in life, in death, and in all the moments in between. One lone connection would be enough to douse the fire, satiate the hunger that consumed her when she had been alive and free, just as it did now in her captivity.

Opposite her feet were people that still had their spark, their heartbeats, but no one visited her site, not since long ago, a century ago, an eternity.

Any form of remembrance, fond or fleeting, seemed a slim possibility. In life, she’d kept would-be friends at arm’s length, would-be lovers isolated and questioning.
After life, cemeteries formed bridges, allowed for ties and generated temporary links.

Headstones were like gates, meant to hide, obstruct and keep unwanted things at bay if one so pleased. Gates, however, could be climbed, peered over, and knocked down if need be. Her longing for a connection existed in her skeletal remains just as it did her ghostly body. But reaching into the land of the living was a deed done only on All Hallows’ Eve, as to leave the ashen world of decay and frigidity at that moment would be to cheat, even if she only meant to grieve.

Ava was bitterly cold, icy even, and the warmth lured her forward, towards the barrier of mortality. Her grey presence in the colorful realm was at once unwelcome, for she could feel the shift in the universal homeostasis and the sharp pull of her dismal reality.

Yet, she would walk the vivid world eternally, passing by unnoticed and unseen until a single touch fed her soul and satisfied her craving.

Mr. Smith's Class, by Pamela Kennedy

4/9/2020

From day one, Mr. Smith informed his students, "Writer's block does not exist in this classroom. It is a feeble excuse for a lack of creativity.

Some students wore that familiar baffled look on their faces. Others showed resentment as some effort would be required to pass this course. One student in a snarly fashion asked if he,
Mr. Smith, could be the subject of a composition.

With a steely stare Mr. Smith responded, "Certainly. Remember creative writing can be truthful or pure fiction." In a very ominous tone, he continued, "Just a suggestion...use lots of compliments."

"That idiot expects me to call him nice? Well, if I'm 'creative', then I'm not a liar," Sydney rationalized as he exited Mr. Smith's classroom. After much thought, he composed the following:

                                         Humanity

Humanity is like the terds in a toilet bowl, all the same but different. Mr. Snitty is a real loser. Who wants to be that tird? Flush him down!

Mr. Smitee is not a compleet turd. He tries to help his students. Keep him for organic fertalizer.

Sadly, every day we are surrounded by bullsh-t.

                                           Amen

Assignment completed, Sydney proudy handed it to a sceptical Mr. Smith.

*

Mr. Smith saved reading his "best" students' assignments for last. Upon reading Sydney's paper, he was flabbergasted. Who knew that snarly Sydney had such a creative mind. He just was very technically challenged.

"Class, I have graded each of you on two levels: one for creativity and the other for technical skills, e.g., spelling, punctuation, etc."

Sheer joy washed over Sydney's face as he saw the "A" for creativity but it was quickly wiped off when he noticed the "F" for technical skills.

At the end of the class, Sydney plopped his paper on Mr. Smith's desk after having written a huge "U" to the right of the "F".

The next day, Mr. Smith sent a very disapproving stare in Sydney's direction as Sydney stared back with daggers in his eyes. When the dismissal bell rang, Mr. Smith called Sydney to his desk.

"Sydney, your concept is very different. Keep it. However, your spelling is atrocious..'t-e-r-d', 't-i-r-d', or 't-u-r-d'? Use spell check on everything. Develop your characters. Why is Mr. Snitty a loser and how does Mr. Smitee help his students. Wrap it up nicely. It's most important that you resubmit."

Sydney huffed out of the room slamming the door behind him.

*

"Class, the school board had a competition based upon the students' every day work.   No one knew that a competition was being held."

"I am pleased to announce that a member of our class won the third prize worth $25 for his composition titled, Humanity. Sydney Snarles, please come up and claim your prize. We also want to hear you read your entry."

"..........May the goodness of humanity feed the earth and its evil be flushed away."

Those words had convinced Mr. Smith not to flush away an opportunity for Sydney.   Graciously, they shook hands.

Death Of The Pornographer, by Harman Burgess

4/9/2020

Autumn Steele was the femme fatale of a pornographer who hated women. She had none of the charm or beauty of a real femme fatale—the pornographer was capable of neither—but she was popular with people who also hated women. In her lewd crime novel the reader follows her as she seduces men, tracks clues, and solves cases for no particular reason except that the ‘writer’ wants her too. She even died cold and alone because an editor thought it would appeal to the religious market. (it didn’t).

But Autumn did not stay dead. No. She was made of steele, after all. Because this serious auteur brought her back for the sequel. Then killed her off again. And made her alive again. And on and on and on and on for fourteen fucking books! You see, Autumn’s lewd crime series was not so lewd anymore. The pornographer cum author had found a home for it at the romantic imprint of a major publishing company.

These were the halcyon days for the author. Every new Autumn Steele book was a bestseller. He could do no wrong with her; everything of hers was gold. He was happy. Until the author tried his hand at a historical novel and couldn’t get it published. And as he was now a FULL-TIME PROFESSIONAL AUTHOR, he had to write something new. An Autumn Steele story. And that novel was more successful than history could ever dream of.

And as Autumn’s popularity grew - she grew. Nurtured by the imagination of her adoring fans, Autumn’s voice grew louder. Became a permanent fixture in the mind of her author. The next book was in her voice. Her style. Her life. And readers loved it. They called it real. Compelling. Honest. The rights for the Autumn Steele Movie Franchise were sold to a large studio for a sizeable amount of money, that Autumn used to take a vacation in the Bahamas.

And the voice of the pornauthographer grew smaller and smaller and smaller. Until he was the one being tortured by Autumn in her bestselling novels. By now, he’s no longer sure if he’s alive or not. If he had always been just a character is somebody else’s story. Slipping away from life into the illusory netherworld of art, until he can no longer think at all. All his thoughts, all his desires, all of him controlled by the whims of Autumn’s pen. The birth of Autumn occurring as a result of the death of the pornographer.

Maybe Tomorrow, by Doug Bartlett

4/9/2020

He sits at the table for quite some time sipping a cup of coffee while waiting patiently for Tamara. He thinks about how much he could do for her, even the feast he would provide for them both to share.

The waiter comes over. “Sir, is there anything else I can get you? We will be closing in fifteen minutes.”

“ No, I’m fine, thank you.”

The waiter feels sorry for him. Every night he comes in and waits for her but she never shows up. This has been going on for quite some time.

“Excuse me sir, but why do you continue to come here after all this time when she never shows up?”

“ Someday she may come to realize that she needs me and I’ll be here for her.”

Meanwhile, Tamara gets ready for bed. She picks up her journal on her nightstand and as she opens it she is reminded of her commitment to pray every evening before falling asleep.

“ Yes,” she thought.” I need to do that…….but not tonight, I’m too tired.”

When Two’s a Crowd, by Krystyna Fedosejevs

4/9/2020

“You can’t say ‘NO’ to Grandma.”

“Why? Grandpa does.”

Jeremy stared with shark-like eyes at Rubber Duckie as it twirled in the water.

Coaxing the five-year-old to take his evening bath was a bigger problem than Grandma had anticipated. She tried a new approach.

“You played in the sandbox. Do you want to bring sand into your clean bed?”

“You have a washing machine?”

“Who works the washing machine, young man?”

“Electricity.”

“Grandma made pickles today. They had a water bath, didn’t they?”

Jeremy reflected. “They were inside jars you put in water.”

Grandma’s face lit up, flamed by the get-nowhere conversation. She sought help.

“Hey, you over there. How about minding your grandson while I take a bath?”

“What? I thought he was having one,” grunted Grandpa.

Once alone, Grandma poured in her favourite bath oil and entered the tub. She belted out lyrics to ‘Tiny Bubbles’ barely noticing knocking on the bathroom door.

“Yes?” she queried.

“Why are you happy taking a bath, Grandma?”

“I’m having fun splashing about in the bubbles.”

“Grandma?”

“Yes.”

“Can I take a bubble bath with you?”

Fighting a Pandemic Scientifically, by Sankar Chatterjee

4/9/2020

Dr. Vikash Verma, an Oxford-educated medicinal scientist as well as the entrepreneurial CEO of a start-up pharmaceutical company in Bengaluru, India came out of his office to visit the science labs. Inside those labs, several young scientists, educated at the country’s prestigious IIT-s were working around the clock on an emergency project. Outside the building, it was another hot summer day; the dancing heat-waves were melting away in the atmosphere. The summer season was brutal this year, bringing misery to millions of poor people of this nation of more than one billion citizens. But, this year, the country was facing a new enemy: a pandemic spread by a novel respiratory virus originating in a neighboring country.

Surprisingly this new nemesis devastated faraway western countries in the early phase of its showmanship. Recently it gained its foothold in this densely populated country, spreading initially in a slum in Mumbai, country’s financial hub, now fanning out fast and furious throughout the rest of the country. Following the WHO’s guidelines, citizens had been advised to wear masks, maintain a minimum “social distance” while venturing outdoor, and wash their hands frequently with soap detergents.

Unfortunately, currently available masks were not preventing new infections, allowing aerosolized virus to penetrate, infecting the victims. In addition, no novel medicine for an effective treatment appeared anywhere in the world. Thus the henchmen of the current nationalistic leader began to peddle unproven and unsafe “miracle” treatments of all kinds, deliberately citing holy religious epics inaccurately. Dr. Verma couldn’t believe the development. A member of the so-called “Nuclear Power” club, the nation recently came close to landing an unmanned space station on lunar surface. But now his country was going backwards during a pandemic.

A few weeks ago, Dr. Verma was thinking about the principle behind the “hand washing” protocol. His own background in both biology and chemistry reminded him that the “quat” class of molecules in a detergent does severe structural damages to the outer membrane of a virus particle, thus hastening its disintegration. Indeed, this fact was the basis for the health authority’s advice of repeated hand-washing after spending reasonable amount of time outdoor and touching infected items. And a light-bulb suddenly turned on inside his brain.

Dr. Verma contacted one of his childhood friends, an industrialist in fabrics industry. At his request, his friend was able to supply him with a reservoir of finely porous fabric pouches. Each one was now getting filled with a layer of similar quat molecules followed by sealing and then attaching as an outer layer to a regular mask. The idea was to trap the aerosolized virus particles by chemicals, thus disrupting their journey into a human body.

This morning, he received national health authority’s permission to start a human trial with this unique contraption. Now he wanted to thank all those young scientists for bringing back science to the forefront to fight a pandemic.

Wildfire, by Niharika Gupta

4/9/2020

I opened the door which led down the creaky steps to the basement. Standing on the basement, I felt watched by some eyes blinking in the dark. I heard the sound of water drops trickling somewhere. Once my eyes adjusted to the dark, I discovered some deer hiding behind the basement were trying to cling their jaws so that no sound registered in them.
I caught the snippet of it. They came to this side to meet their thirst. Seduced by the water drops, their attention were drawn here. That night, the sky looked iron red as fire sparked in near by forest. Slowly I became aware of the situation. I heard groans of animals. Their nose caught fire with each breath, they could die in a place like this, I thought.
A scream was coming from the forest. Coming, coming... My hands started to shake, I was so afraid, not a word passed between me and my father. That's how it was between the two people who witnessed the moment. A breeze stirred the dry leaves and from the fiery area of the bushes towards the other end-we heard the sound of footfalls of the animals. I wished somewhere a dam would crack open and water would be spilled out. Very soon, big water tankers arrived there to smash the fire. Next morning, I looked up to the sky, the gray smoke was disappeared. Instead of fire, we found dirt and ashes left in the part of the forest.
A few days after the incident, rainy season started. The area of the jungle which witnessed the fire, were dotted with patches of green grass. My father and I started planting tulips in our area. I looked down and picked up a fistful of muddy cool soil. I hoped I would never experience that night. I was thankful to God because some animals were still alive, thankful to the luck of deer who huddled around the basement to drink the trickling water drops. My father said,"Nature is more tricky than luck in the wild life." They were saved from the incident because their thirst had drawn them out of the forest.

Gone Fishin’ (A Minute Mystery), by Keith Hoerner

4/9/2020

They found him beside an ice hole with pole in hand, slumped over as if nodding off while fishing. He was dead. No apparent accident occurred; a quick, simple heart attack was the prevailing assumption.
Zak was a hearty, 54-year old, athletic, watched-what-he-ate type of guy. He even exercised, so this didn’t measure up in the minds of family and friends.
Ice fishing had been his passion since teenage years – and finally, Zak had found the means to get as far as the Arctic for a three-week fishing trip in the clean, crisp air of ice caps among the polar bears.
At least he went out doing what he loved, thought his buddy Joel.
The autopsy proved unexpected. Homicide was deduced, and the two others on the trip were considered key suspects.
“What in the hell do they think we’ve done?” asked the third of the fishing group, Cody, speaking to his wife on the radio phone.
“Something about… anti-freeze poisoning,” she said, hesitating.
“Oh, for God’s sake; we slipped him anti freeze in his thermos? I’d have better ways of killing Zak! Gimme a…”
“I don’t know why they’d say such a thing. I’ll call when I know more,” she assured him, disconnecting.
Joel and Cody were questioned separately: the routine among police to gauge consistency of stories, individual observations, and opinions. All checked out.
Crime Scene Investigator Steve Euclid studied the evidence once more and went back to the doctor who conducted the autopsy.
“Doc, are you sure about the anti-freeze?” he asked.
The doctor nodded.
“It’s just that these guys check out,” Euclid added, “Could it have been suicide?”
“Possible,” the doctor answered. “However it was ingested over a number of days, and I would think anyone committing suicide would have a greater sense of urgency.”
Euclid walked out shaking his head; he knew in his gut this couldn’t have been suicide. Having gone back to his office, he laid out the crime-scene photographs. There were photos of all three friends, handsome shots of the white, crystalline mountains serving as backdrop to supper-time campfires roasting the day’s catch.
He walked away with the notion to hit the city aquarium and go diving for general information about fish. Frankly, his knowledge in this area went little beyond McDonald’s filet sandwiches.
He spoke to resident experts about aquatic life forms, everything one could want to know, and saw nothing.
As he began to leave, he turned on his heels and asked, “Mrs. Michaels, do you have Arctic Fish on display?”
“Yes,” she answered and waved for him to follow her down the hall.
Multi-shaped creatures, colored the sheen of oiled gun-metal, moved rhythmically behind frost-covered glass tanks also displaying the warm palm prints and fingertip touches of young children. A small, black plaque with routed-out white letters delivered him his culprit.
“The Artic Cod: a rare Notothenioid biological mutation able to survive frigid climates by producing anti-freeze proteins in the bloodstream to prevent freezing. NOT recommended for eating...”

Interview, by John Ivan

30/8/2020

-Can you state your full name, just for the record?
-No, I can’t. But if you allow it, I would like to be called blossom.
-Actually, we will require your name, can you write it down.
-Of course not, I am illiterate. There were no schools for girls of my age, any age, any girls, half a millennium ago.
-How did you end up in the midst of all those events?
-I was minding my own business, walking the woods, picking flowers, staying away from dubious men, any men if you know what I mean.
-You were a virgin?
-Yes, and very proud, only one man for me is our Lord. He addressed me that day in the forest.
-You have seen him, in your vision?
-First of all, it wasn’t a vision, he was there in all of his might. Not really he, but one of the deputies, as I discovered later. God can’t take the shape which we assume. He needs some other creature to pass on his message.
-How is it up there?
-It would be fine if there aren’t restrictions. Don’t do that, don’t do this. Stand up straight, walk with one leg after another and so on. Borriiiiiiiiiiiing.
-But you have unique human experience?
-I would prefer it not to be so unique. Going to a mall on Thursdays and Saturdays for a change would be … amazing. Little Pilates, instead of kneeling on cold and rough floor for ages until the bishop finishes Morning Prayer. No time to rest, as Noon one is immediately after. I wish I am Muslim man, they only have five short prayers.
-Your finale here on Earth didn’t go that smooth? Instead of fireworks it was just fire and smoke.
-You are a very cunning inquisitor. All men are. I am just a poor girl. They tricked me, as we are living in men’s domain. Girl power is what I can say to women worldwide.
-You should be careful or you will be returned to the bonfire!
-Apparently, nothing has changed.
-Tell us something about your trial?
- Well, something, ha. They tricked me of course, as I was a poor, simple, country girl. It wasn’t really a trial, it was, how to put it, with my humble vocabulary…
- It seems very good for me. Maybe, you are the one with the tricks. The witches of your time, of any time, use their pretty eyes and lovely hair to mislead reluctant men.
- I could tell you, how it is quite the opposite, but that won’t be good for me, right.
- No, that won’t be good for anybody, especially you, child.
- Anyhow I hope you are satisfied with my answers, I need to go, they are waiting for me. Another huge Mass is on the cards.
- No girl, you aren’t going anywhere. Nobody will ever hear about you. You are France’s ultimate humiliation. You must come with me, down to the pits.

Zulu Maid, by Tommy Tarken

30/8/2020

“Cannibal King on a south sea isle making love to a a Zulu maid,
Til one night, in the south sea light, this to her he said...
I'll build a bamboo bungalow for you...big enough for two, my darling, big enough for you.
We'll be married, happy we'll be, under the bamboo, under the bamboo tree.”

“And you'll be M–I-N-E mine, I'll be T-H-I-N-E thine, and I'll L-O-V-E love you all the T-I-M-E time...”

Linda's crying, and so then am I, as the sun rises and smacks me in the face. Another day, another race.

The yard wasn't a big one then. But Linda was home. Maybe with Lassie, maybe in the VW bug. I was small then. I loved Linda, so of course I ran to her and wrapped her in my biggest boo bear hug. She swung me in a circle, tightly in her boo bear arms.

I can't count the days that I haven't missed my baby sister. From my earliest day's, all I wanted was for Linda to come home. Of course nothing has changed. The greatest challenge in missing my sister was everyone else was missing her too. Everyone.

Of course she wasn't my baby sister, she was the sister who caught me as I came into the world. And the only thing she ever did wrong was not putting me back, getting rid of me, or otherwise saving me from this. But I can't blame her, the game seemed worth playing at the time.

But this day, Mom was wresting in the hospital. I had driven down from the big city, a successful puff of hot air. I knew I wasn't anyone, but the thought still gave me a grift. Mom was dieing, but no one would admit it. She was in a hospital for mid-landers. Not here, not there.

Linda was there. Of course. And then so was I.

I remembered the love Mom and Dad shared, the times in the car singing, the joy we shared in the simple things, and I started singing a Cannibal King.

Mom was dieing of bladder cancer. Slowly, every day, bleeding out. And everyday they fixed her. Cauterizing her, stopping the bleeding. She was in the hospital with pneumonia, and bleeding. I remembered as they stuck the needle in her back to drain her lung. I remembered waiting to see how the procedures went as they burnt her bladder.

That day, I think she was low in blood. Her lunges were ok, I think. I started singing that song, and Mom joined in, weak but happy. She was my Zulu maid. Singing, she had a heart attack, but she never missed a beat. That was my Mom.

A few months later I kissed her good bye, but in my mind she'll always be singing that song.

If I'd asked for a better Mom, well, there just couldn't be.

An Ill Wind, by NT Franklin

29/8/2020

Charlotte shivered as an ill wind blew through the park. This was the day that lives would change. Less hers that others, but change it would.

Randy, her husband of 12 years, was a cheat. This time with a baby-faced floozie from a hotel. While that was bad enough, their last time was in Charlotte’s own bed. She came back to a crisply made bed with tight hospital corners. Like Randy would even know what hospital corners were. In a defiant act to her upbringing, she refused to make hospital corners on her bed.

Her overnight conference wasn’t that far away and not that interesting. However, the ice sculpture centerpiece to chip away at for mixed drinks was a festive touch. She felt a little more festive when she pocketed one of the icepicks.

The darkness of the late-night drive from the conference to her home was somehow reassuring. Quick, quiet, she was unobserved.

Finally, the intruder car left her driveway. The nosy neighbors that called her in the past would surely notice the intruder car again. Randy would be sound asleep and dead to the world in less than 15 minutes.

After 15 minutes, Charlotte rose from the park bench and walked across the street and into her house. Soon after, she left. Quick, quiet, she was unobserved.

Something about an icepick sticking out of Randy’s ear spoke of finality. Who even has an icepick anymore?

The wind died as she crossed the park to her car. Perhaps the conference would improve.

It's Down Again! by Deborah Shrimplin

28/8/2020

Barb poured her cup of coffee, walked over to her desk and booted up her computer to check her e-mail.

"What a way to start the day! The internet is down again!" she complained to her cat.

After searching for the phone number for the internet provider customer service, she growled and punched the required buttons.

"Press 1 for *****, press 2 for *****, press 3 for *****"

"Where is the human?" she scowled into the receiver.

"Press 4 for *****, press 5 for *****" the machine continued.

Finally, a human voice......"May I help you?"

"I can't get on the internet!"

"What is your name? Can we contact you at this number? One moment please."

"I lost my human!" she said as she tightened her grip on the receiver.

"We have no problem on our end. It must be your computer." the voice said.

"You need to talk me through this. I'm a dinosaur." she warned the voice.

After ten minutes of clicking on a dozen icons, they found the problem.

"I've been in quarantine for five months! I haven't left the house. How the heck did this computer slip into airplane mode?" Barb said.

The human voice laughed.

The Birth of an Idea, by Sankar Chatterjee

28/8/2020

Prof. John Durham, an infectious diseases expert at MIT looked outside through his third-floor office window. Another glorious day was slowly turning into dusk transforming the empty campus below appearing like a surreal ghost zone. The restrictions related to ongoing pandemic sent the students back home, taking courses online. He noticed masked Ms. Margaret Robinson from nearby neighborhood walking her two dogs. While on leash, the pets were exploring all kinds of objects, especially smelling them thoroughly. Prof. Durham suddenly remembered reading a scientific paper of Prof. Melanie Shepherd of Max Planck Institute (Germany). She theorized that some animals like dogs and pigs must have byzantine nasal passages that could trap and retain tiniest natural molecules, thus making them biologically “super-smellers”. Prof. Durham wondered why that theory suddenly appeared in his thought.

With no effective vaccine available, the current pandemic was spreading globally like a blazing forest fire. Citizens had been advised to wear masks and maintain a minimum “social distance”, while outdoor. But the repeated utilizations of the same masks followed by decontamination especially in healthcare facilities were making them vulnerable to failure. On the other hand, the inferior qualities of the currently available regular masks within many countries were not preventing new infections, allowing aerosolized virus to enter, hide, and then infect victims.

Suddenly a novel idea hit Prof. Durham like a lightning. He contacted Prof. Shepherd to get an update on her “super-smellers” theory. She informed him that she was able to collect data applying advanced computer tomography (CT) scans technology on the nasal passages of both a dog and a pig. Subsequently, she sent those data to Prof. Kim Lee at the Seoul University (Korea), an expert in feeding that kind of information into computational modeling, generating three dimensional (3D) image of an object. Prof. Lee was successful in generating and printing out desired 3D models. Both displayed torturously complex nature of both animals’ nasal passages.

Three days later, three scientists from three different continents met in a virus-free virtual world. Prof. Lee displayed the 3D model of a dog’s nasal passage, reminiscent of an ancient complex Mayan art object. Prof. Durham proposed that Prof. Lee ship several copies to him so that his research group could attach antiviral laden fabrics on those computer-generated passages, followed by attaching the medicated mask to a regular mask. The idea was to trap and annihilate the virus particles on complex passages of the detachable combo-mask, followed by decontamination and recycling the outer part only. Prof. Shepherd reminded both of them of the recent protests in different southern states in the US for not wearing a regular mask even in a pandemic, as part of one’s constitutional right. She wondered whether anyone would agree to try on this kind of pseudo dog-mask.

Fortunately, the human trial has just begun in a northern liberal state. So stay tuned for the outcome.

The Writer, by Doug Bartlett

28/8/2020

“Here we go again,” Johnny thought as he stepped on campus for the first time
not knowing how long he would be attending.

He had attended more schools this past year than he had candles on his last birthday cake.

Johnny really wasn’t a bad kid. Some would say just the opposite. He had high morals and was quick to take a stand for what was right. However, at times that could cause him problems.

The week wasn’t even halfway over when he found himself in the middle of a skirmish. Half a dozen boys were picking on a small, scrawny youngster and had taken away his sack lunch. Johnny had gotten his lunch back for the boy and had stood up to the bullies.

Realizing there was no teacher in sight the number of bullies quickly doubled. They were encircling Johnny, drawing themselves closer and closer to him. Adrenalin was coursing through his veins when the angry mob was about to pounce.

He drew back his fist when he first noticed it. His fist began to disappear into thin air. In reality, it was his entire body that was fading away.

“Oh no, not again,” he thought.

Unbeknownst to Johnny, in an alternate dimension, was Gordon, sitting in front of his laptop.

Gordon, ever the perfectionist, was reviewing his latest story which he was currently composing. He noticed something in his story he thought he could improve upon. He began his modification by highlighting a section and then hitting the button labelled “delete”.

Shelle's Rise and Shine, by Kim Favors

28/8/2020

Locals didn’t know what to make of the huge paper sign on the empty storefront. In rainbow hues: “Coming Soon — Rise and Shine.”

Bakery? Hair salon? Head shop? Even vacant, the place already had this small town abuzz.

Then, one sunny morning, the paper was gone, the door wide open, and the Rise and Shine revealed.

It was a feast for the senses:

Yellow daisies in jars atop odd-shaped tables. Mismatched chairs. Aromatic coffee and baked delights. Items one might find at a flea market covering walls and ceiling. Couches and floor cushions surrounded by shelves filled with books. Board games to play.

Then there was newcomer Shelle, the owner. With grey curls and bohemian style, was she a transplant from the 1960s? A reimagined Earth Mother?

Rise and Shine opened early, closed midafternoon, then reopened at night. It attracted townspeople of all ages. And because Shelle had no employees, customers began assisting — serving food, washing dishes, cleaning tables and floor.

The place quickly became locals’ home away from home. No one was turned away. Political discussions were taken outside. The few squabbles — mostly among family members — resolved with hugs.

“I want to live here,” a burly teen told his friends.

“Wish my childhood home had been like this,” a woman whispered to her female companion.

Still, Shelle remained an enigma. “Oh, I’ve lived various places,” she said once about her past. “My cats loved me,” when asked about family. And when Rise and Shine closed on holidays, she declined customers’ dinner invitations.

They celebrated her with biannual Thank You, Shelle potlucks in a park.

Then came the day Rise and Shine didn’t open. “Sorry” read the sign. No daisies. No lights. For days.

Where was Shelle? Worried customers pestered town officials for her home address. Her secluded mountainside cottage was locked up.

They kept pestering: She had been hospitalized. They caravanned to visit. No patient by that name. They refused to leave.

Finally, a man who looked to be a relative emerged. Shelle was there but not seeing anyone. She was having “psychological problems.” He would meet them back at Rise and Shine to explain.

“I want to respect my sister’s privacy. But I will share these newspaper clippings — they’re public record.”

Gasps, shouts and sobs filled the Rise and Shine as Shelle’s regulars read the accounts of horrific childhood violence and neglect. Now they understood why she had been so secretive about her life, even changing her name.

And the likely reasons for Rise and Shine’s loving home-like vibe.

They spent the evening planning. And the following day returned to the hospital.

“You have visitors — they’re out on the lawn. They’re insisting they won’t leave until you look out the window,” Shelle was told.

Nurses helped her up.

Outside were her regulars with a huge rainbow-colored sign, yellow daisies painted on both ends.

“We’re your family now. Come home. Rise and shine, Shelle.”

Song to the Siren, by Antonia Rachel Ward

22/8/2020

My father killed himself on his twenty-eighth birthday. It wasn’t until I turned twenty-eight myself that I understood how short his life had been. Each subtle change I saw in myself reminded me that every day I lived now would make me one more day older than he had ever been.

It felt like a transgression.

Two years have passed since then. I came to the lake house for solitude, but the loneliness of this place is overwhelming. The only movement is the moonlight flowing like quicksilver over the water’s inky surface. The only sound is the gentle lap of the waves on the pebble beach. There is no phone line. No internet. I could drive for miles and pass nothing but an empty gas station.

The water sings to me. A siren’s song.

I never knew him. My parents had me young. Things didn’t work out. I was eight when I learned he had died. The loss was formless, yet infinite. It made barely a pinprick in the fabric of my life, but the more I tried to examine the hole, the more the edges frayed, until the emptiness became too vast to comprehend.

When I reached twenty-nine, I thought I had escaped. I met you and became lulled by your warmth. The last time I was here, you were with me. The house - my inheritance - had been boarded up for years. You gave it life. I remember you standing knee deep in the lake, golden hair shining beneath the sun, turning back to me, inviting me in. The light glittered over the water like scattered diamonds. But the heat wouldn’t penetrate my skin. I couldn’t bring myself to join you.

“You could be his reflection.” Growing up, it was all anyone ever said to me. Old friends of his would catch their breath. When I found the photographs hidden in the attic of the lake house, I understood why my grandparents could hardly bear to lay eyes on me. Their grief was still too raw. I clung to the pictures; took them home; added them to my own.

Sometimes I forget which photographs are me and which are him.

Did I push you away, after that visit to the lake? I know that’s how you tell it. Really, I think you were only protecting yourself. You sensed the inevitable. Now, everyone else has begun to detach themselves too. They look straight through me, to the space that he left behind.

Genetic memory. The ties that bind me to him are deeper than blood and bone. I sit by the lakeside, feeling the foam wash over my feet. Tomorrow I turn thirty. Each stolen day is another weight.

I watch the waves, each ripple an echo of one that went before.

The siren’s song rises to a wail.

We Are Obituaries, by Claire McKernan

21/8/2020

“Avery Taylor died of strangulation in 1908”

They say a blotchy red line had always been imprinted upon his neck. He became acquainted with the circumstances of his death in a hedonistic drunken brawl when a stranger gripped his neck so forcefully. This regressive discourse was common. Our modern society familiarised itself with reincarnation; our birth marks were physical proof of how we died in our past life. Those born without birthmarks may never comprehend their previous existence. For me, my past life came back to me in nebulous waves. I was tremendously seasick in this life without any anchor. I had my own island etched into my skin above my heart; a penumbra of my skin. Was it a heart attack? Presumably, yes.

It was a crisp and cloudless autumn evening that begged me to believe it was winter. My body was bundled up in a layered fashion; a thing of practical purpose and not beauty. This life was a solitary one for me, characterised by solo pursuits for hot whiskey and when the world caved in on me, I would trade it for tea. This was not the city, but the city like lights lured me down a cobbled path to a decrepit, archaic pub. In this life, I inhabited a strange contentment with my surroundings and sought solace in my own company. The fire, lit by a very disillusioned bartender, set the scene for a string of dismal melodies; neatly presented. This place rented out my heart that night and I was so in love with it.

You will know

Without warning, my birthmark stung piercingly. I surveyed the room freely until I was aware that my heart beat again with purpose in this life. There he stood in all his vivacity as if his surroundings were green screened and he; the only tangible, resplendent being, as though everyone else were merely concepts or figments. It was a look of knowing he cast to me and I returned it so painfully. These memories seized me; paralysed me. It was me in a straitjacket, anchored to this tableau and me, being the receptor of his mournful gaze, I remembered.

I remembered when the world started again with him in it, when growing old seemed like becoming a child again. I remembered adorning his graveside, when I resembled death more than him. And when I looked into those eyes he owned now, I felt a requited yearning for a life gone by. And it registered how in this life, I was subconsciously filling a void I never knew I had. In our disguises, this moment was both engulfing and miserable. In this life, I was a perpetual stranger to love but not death. Here we were, two figures knowingly estranged. Walking, living, breathing, but not loving anymore. We are obituaries.

“Debonaire Taylor died of a broken heart in 1909”.

Haste, by Ellie Rose McKee

14/8/2020

Mama always said, “Lest haste, more speed.”
“Now, Genevieve,” she would say. “Don’t go rushing around so much. It’s unladylike. And, what’s more, the bad men will get you.”
Genevieve chose to translate the advice as, ‘don’t get caught.’ Which was all together much easier to follow, because there wasn’t much danger of that. Little time jumps weren’t all that risky, really, and Geni was good at them.
What Mama didn’t understand was, certain situations just called for supernatural intervention. Like right now, as Geni headed to the bakery and could see there was only one peanut éclair left. Kristen was a little way ahead of Genevieve up the street, destined to reach the bakery first, and Geni just knew she would take the treat for herself.
Well, not on her watch. There was only a matter of meters in it, surely not enough of a displacement to set off the trackers searching for magic use.
Geni made the jump, arriving at the front door just ahead of Kristen. She couldn’t help but do a little dance. That éclair was hers!
She ran up to the counter and placed both hands on the glass, her mouth-watering. Then she looked up, expecting to see the baker stood there, tongs in hand, awaiting her coin.
Instead, Geni was faced with the leader of the Wild Hunt. He stood behind the counter, grinning through his skull mask at her.
“I have travelled for millennia, across many plains, and this day I finally come face-to-face with the mighty Chosen One!” He laughed, deep and throaty. “I knew you could not resist the pull of your magic for long. What is it you have to say to me now?”
Geni crossed her arms and blew her fringe out of her eyes.
“Well, crap.”

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