Blog Posts

The Lunch, by Bruce Levine

29/1/2019

The kitchen table was set for lunch. Nothing fancy, just a quick lunch with her two sons who were both home from college for the spring break, but she’d tried to make them things that she knew they liked to eat. The older boy, twenty, a senior at SUNY New Paltz and her younger son, aged eighteen, a freshman at UCLA.

She was proud of them both even though they were both very different: the younger wanting to be a filmmaker, thus UCLA, and the older a music teacher which was why he chose New Paltz.

They were always so close, she thought as she peeled a cucumber to add to the salad. Jeremy and his video camera making extravagant movies, or so he thought, when he was still in high school and Gerry adding music at the piano as the family watched the movies on the living room television.

They’d had a good life and she missed those days – the boys seemed to be drifting apart. Maybe, she wondered, it was just a phase because of the distance between their schools. But, this vacation they didn’t seem to have the need to be together as they had in the past. There weren’t any new movies shown on the television. There didn’t seem to be any excitement at the family being home together as a group – not like the “old days”.

She tossed the salad and took out the array of cold cuts to make each their specialized sandwich and wondered what she could do to strike up the spark of “family” in her boys.

As she finished her preparations and was about to place the plates on the table the doorbell rang.

Who could that be? She wondered. And where are the boys?

She wiped her hands and went to the front door and was surprised by the huge box blocking the door so she could
barely get out of the house to read the note that simply read –

“Movie night tonight at 8:00.”

She then noted that the box was labeled with the make and size of the television contained within. Far too large for her to move so she went back inside and to the kitchen only to find her sons happily munching on their sandwiches with a big sign overhead, hung from the kitchen cabinets – Happy Birthday, Mom!

She sat silently with her two sons at the kitchen table and watched them eat and smiled both internally and externally.

Happy Birthday, she thought.

Rainy Thursday, by Bruce Levine

27/1/2019

It was supposed to be a good day, a special day – it was his birthday. His wife wished him a Happy Birthday as soon as they got up. Everything appeared to be perfect until they looked out the window – the rain and dismal weather changed everything in an instant. Their errands for the day were not important so they decided to abandon them. Instead they sat down at their work-table – at least they were together and that’s what was important. Not that they weren’t together every day, but he felt, maybe because it was his birthday, that being together today was just a little more wonderful.

Even their dog spent the whole day lying near them as they worked at their own tasks: writing: submitting to various journals, updating new acceptances and rejections of previously submitted pieces.

Once in a while he looked out the window and watched the rain, which continued non-stop throughout the day. It was an unpleasant rain – cold and bone-chilling damp – the kind of rain that just made you feel “wet”. Of course, he thought, that’s what rain does – literally and figuratively – makes you feel wet, but this rain was even more. He turned away from the window and watched his wife for a minute before joining her again at their work-table.

He never liked the rain, except to watch it during an exciting storm, and today’s wasn’t an enjoyable one to watch.

No, it’s just a rainy Thursday.

A good day to be at home.

Apartment 404, by Sally Armstrong

27/1/2019

Alice sighed as she kicked the apartment door shut and placed the grocery bags over on the kitchen counter. She poured herself a glass of wine and gazed at the elaborate furniture, white walls and high ceilings. She’d found the place by chance, thought she’d lie low for a while after all that had happened. She rubbed her wrist, flinching as she remembered the argument with Tom. Alice was sure it was her fault, she’d been flirting with Mike at the party and Tom loved her so much he couldn’t bear it. She knew she shouldn’t have worn the red silk dress, it was too low cut. Before they went out that night Tom told her she looked like a prostitute and made her tie back her hair and wipe off the red lipstick.

Alice wandered to the bedroom, she needed a lie down to shake off the memories. At the bedroom door she froze, the double bed was neatly made, with the pillows all fluffed up and not a single crease in the bedspread. It wasn’t how she’d left it, she knew that. Alice never made a bed, it drove Tom mad, he’d always said a tidy bed was a tidy mind. She shook her head, told herself that the apartment block provided a cleaning service, that she’d missed it on the tenancy agreement. Striding over to the bed she messed up all the covers, threw the pillows on the floor and giggled to herself at the thought of how much Tom would hate that. She lay on the bed, pulling the covers around her when she was startled by the sound of the door slamming shut and the click of a key turning. She raced to the door, frantically grabbing at the handle, sobbing she called ‘Tom, Tom, is it you?’.

Karma’s Full Circle, by Sankar Chatterjee

24/1/2019

Ms. Mary Rosen, PhD a brilliant material scientist had been working in the nascent field of nanotechnology for past few years. Her research involved figuring out the practical applications of smallest-sized particles (thus the word “nano”), created in laboratory conditions by researchers from another branch of science. Due to interconnectedness of scientific fields, Dr. Rosen became aware of this invention through scientific literature.

This was also the time when the medical doctors started to observe an unexpected serious side-effect, while treating their cancer patients with a new generation of breakthrough medicine. Doctors in the field always had hoped for a novel technology of targeting an internal tumor with a pin-point blast of killer lethal rays without affecting neighboring healthy cells. A technique of “proton therapy” of directing charged hydrogen atoms, instead of X-rays, to annihilate a tumor had emerged in the horizon. However, the delivery apparatus for this new treatment to patients remained elusive. After painstaking efforts of several years, Dr. Rosen was finally successful building a prototype delivery device made up of a composite material (nanosized) that received fast-track clearance from the regulatory agencies.

Soon after, Dr. Rosen, an active outdoors sportswoman, would decide to take her daughter and niece on a two-day hiking trip on the Bright Angel Trail in country’s famous Grand Canyon. On first day, they would descend all the way to the valley where the mighty Colorado River, responsible for sculpting the canyon was flowing. They would spend the night in cabins in the Phantom Ranch, after enjoying a steak-dinner as well as stargazing with fellow hikers.

Next day, the trio started their return journey in early morning. It quickly became clear to them that the return trip would be a strenuous one due to the nature of steep ascending. They would take frequent breaks. However, Dr. Rosen realized her brain was becoming foggy, while her thoughts were wandering all over. The team slowed down the pace allowing her more time. But nothing would help. Though she was physically up to the task, she felt a storm brewing inside her brain with thoughts becoming more dark and abnormal. Fortunately, with help from her daughter and niece, she finished the last several kilometers of ascend.

While returning home, exhausted Dr. Rosen visited her local hospital. Doctors there admitted her for the night in order to carry on some tests and scans. Next morning, sitting on her hospital-bed, she was drinking coffee, still with a foggy state of brain. There was a knock on the door. Chief neurosurgeon of the hospital entered and showed her several brain-scanning films. In one of them, a mustard-sized mass was circled red. The surgeon informed the precise position of this new growth was deep inside the brain-region, responsible for human memory and thought processes.

That afternoon, Dr. Rosen became the first human success of her own invention.

All Life Should Be by the Light of the Moon, by Bruce Levine

24/1/2019

A friend recently came back from a vacation in the Caribbean with a terrible sunburn. I asked him what had happened and he told me that he’d fallen asleep on the beach. He then asked if it had ever happened to me.

“Of course not!” I answered.

He looked at me incredulously so I continued and said that I don’t believe in going out in the sun – I believe that all life should be by the light of the moon.

Once again the incredulous look plus, this time, a look for total confusion so I took pity on my poor, suffering friend and asked –

“Have you ever known anyone who got a moon burn?”

A pause while he considered the question then shook his head “no”.

“Have you ever met anyone who got skin cancer from moon light?”

Once again the incredulous look overtook my friend’s face as he shook his head “no”.

“I rest my case.”

Berries, by Don Tassone

24/1/2019

As boys, he and his brother spent a week every summer in northwestern Pennsylvania, where their father grew up. The summers are short there. By July, the blackberry, raspberry and blueberry bushes which cover the wooded hillsides are heavy with fruit.

Their father would take them into the woods to pick berries. When their bushels were full, they would leave the cool woods and hike back in the warm sunshine through meadows of green and gold, back to the old house, where Grandma would prepare bowls of mixed berries swimming in cream and sugar.

Those vacations were an adventure because, as boys, the brothers lived in the city, and there were no hills or meadows or berry bushes there.

Now they’re grown men, and they live a thousand miles apart. Their lives are busy, and they seldom see each other anymore. Their grandmother is gone, and the old house in Pennsylvania was sold long ago.

But every year in July, they get together. They go to the local market and buy fresh berries. They bring them home, wash them and gently drop them into bowls. Then they pour cream over them and sprinkle them with sugar.

They sit down at the kitchen table, bring spoonfuls of berries to their lips and breathe them in. They open their mouths and close their eyes and let the sweetness and tartness of the berries dance on their tongues, and they go back to the hills of Pennsylvania, to their grandmother’s house, to a slower and simpler time.

The Re-Awakening, by Bruce Levine

21/1/2019

He was trying to discover himself. Or maybe it was re-discover himself. He didn’t know anymore. It all seemed a jumble of trial and error; a lifetime of shifting gears. Now, as he looked in the mirror he wondered who he actually was. Was he what the world saw or was there something buried deep within that was fighting to get out and was it something new or had it always been there and he didn’t realize it?

No, he decided as he got ready for another day, better to simply let his life play itself out and see where each day led him. Better than the anguish of looking inward in the hope of finding that one piece of information that would give him the key to end his torment. Someone once told him to stop looking so hard; he might not like what he found. Maybe they were right.

The Patient, by Mark Tulin

21/1/2019

It was time for the patient’s therapy session. I was the psychiatric aide who strapped her to the chair, making sure the buckles were tight enough so that she didn’t slip out. The doctor told me that the patient’s alter personalities could be violent and surprisingly strong, so I had to be on the alert.

At first, the patient seemed harmless. She spoke softly and appeared timid. There was no sign of resistance. The use of restraints seemed to be a needless precaution.

“I don’t want to be a bother to you, doctor,” she said. “I’m sure other people need your help more than I do.”

For the next fifteen minutes, the matronly patient was compliant.

“I’m going to help you integrate all of your personalities,” said the doctor, “so that you could function normally.”

The doctor began to hypnotize the patient, slowly moving his middle two fingers from side to side as her eyes followed

“You will be a healthy, whole person," the doctor kept chanting.

After an awkward silence, her face slowly took on a grotesque, contorted look and the mood in the room became tense.

“I’m afraid that will never happen, doctor,” the patient said with mad confidence.

Trip Trap, by Sally Armstrong

20/1/2019

Dusk was approaching in the deserted woods, as me and my best mate Janie sauntered towards home. We’d spent a long day in the blistering heat, getting up to our usual school holiday adventures. Swinging from the rope swing at the top of the old oak tree, daring each other to go higher. The air was, hot, oppressive, the only sounds were the caw of one bird to another and our broken laughs ringing out amidst the stillness.

We wandered on in the dusk light when Janie grasped my arm and pulled me close behind a group of trees. Coming along a path up ahead was Andy, the local heartthrob. Andy was a few years older than us, tall with broad shoulders and short curly brown hair. Usually he hung out with a crowd of mates and his sniffy boxer dog. Today he was alone. We watched him silently from behind the trees.

‘Let’s scare him’ Janie whispered.

‘No’, ‘let’s just go before he sees us’.

‘Don’t be a baby, come on it’s just a laugh, remember the raw egg?’

One time he’d cracked an egg on top of my head on the way back from the youth club disco. Egg had slid down my face, all stuck in my messy blonde hair.

‘Okay, okay’, I sighed as we crept towards the little wooden bridge that ran over the stream. Crouching under there we stifled our giggles, my heart was racing, pounding in my head. When we heard his feet thud thud on the bridge above, Janie boomed out in a gruff, deep voice,

‘Who goes there?’

We jumped out a mess of teenage giggles, which soon stopped short. I saw the fear clear on his face, a flash, and then the wrath that replaced it. We turned and ran as if for the last time ever, Janie in front, then me, then him. Jumping fallen logs, our arms scraping on branches. I could hear my breath clear in my ears and Andy calling out ‘bitches’ behind us.

He caught up with me in a clearing, Janie was long gone. He was laughing as he grabbed my arms and pushed me to the ground. I struggled beneath him, feeling his weight on top of me, smelling his hot beery breath as he pinned my arms down hard. He fumbled towards the zip of my jeans with one hand and I screamed loud, I know I did, but no sound came out.

Then, he just stopped, jumped up, wiped his face and let me go.
I ran, fast, faster than before, towards home, frantically wiping the tears streaming down my face.
As I got closer to my house I saw Janie, pacing in my front garden. She shouted out,

‘What happened? You’re so slow’.

‘Nothing’, I called back, ‘I just tripped that’s all’.

Frustration, by Bruce Levine

20/1/2019

He sat and stared at the computer screen. He’d been staring at it for almost an hour – waiting.

He hated waiting.

Waiting at ATM machines while the machine that was supposed to make things faster processed and made him wait while it fulfilled its destiny.

Waiting through computer glitches that shut down companies.

Waiting and wading through robotic menus – no human answers a phone. Humans were becoming irrelevant, obsolete – only machines. Waiting while the mechanical voice went through the entire menu, usually prompting him to the wrong result. Waiting while he returned to the main menu and began again.

Waiting in line at the grocery while a woman two people ahead fumbled in her pocketbook, trying to get out her wallet, then her credit card, and then figure out how to work the new machines, different in every store, so no one was exempt from that frustration. Didn’t she know that she’d have to pay for the groceries? Couldn’t she have taken out her credit card in preparation? Then the reverse process – credit card and wallet... No, that would have taken advance thinking, obviously beyond her and most people today.

Today he had no choice. No choice but to wait. To stare at the computer screen and wait.

They told him they’d send him an email as soon as they had an answer, probably in the next ten minutes. That was nearly an hour ago.

Now he was afraid that if he left his computer the email would come and he’d miss it and then the whole process would have been for nothing since he knew that if he didn’t respond quickly enough the gig would go to someone else.

They’d been so encouraging. They said that he was perfect. Said they’d let him know within the hour. Then there was the email that said it was down to two

Now all he could to do was wait.

He hated waiting!

He stared at the computer screen and waited.

And he hated the process. So much always depended on so many variables which were totally out of his control. No matter how well he did, no matter what everyone thought there were always those variables which could determine his fate.

Maybe, he thought, it was simply time to throw in the towel and shift gears. Maybe all of this was too frustrating. But what else could he do? What else would he want to do?

He stared at the computer screen.

There it was! The email he’d been waiting for; living through all of this frustration for.

"The producers are pleased to inform you that you’ve gotten the part. Please call your agent immediately to confirm your availability and acceptance. Congratulations!"

He stared at the computer screen.

Somehow the frustration disappeared as he picked up the phone and dialed the number.

The Clarinet Lesson, by Bruce Levine

19/1/2019

What did his teacher mean by woodshedding, he wondered? He’d been playing the clarinet for six weeks and thought, for such a short time, he was doing pretty well, but his teacher had said that he needed to spend some more time woodshedding. He lived in Manhattan, there aren’t any woodsheds. And even if there were he wasn’t sure what wood or a shed had to do with playing the clarinet. Okay, he thought, maybe it has to do with the fact that the clarinet was made of wood. No, he again thought, that can’t be it because then why would his teacher say that he needed to spend more time woodshedding?

For a six year old this was too complex a problem to tax his brain with at the time so he decided to simply go back to practicing the C Major scale and ask his teacher what it meant at his next lesson.

The week seemed to never end as each day he’d been obsessed with the question about what woodshedding meant.

Finally the day arrived. He’d be able to ask his teacher the one question that had been burning in his brain the whole week. So much so that it had consumed most of his time and he’d done very little practicing and kept thinking and thinking about woodshedding.

As soon as his teacher arrived, he’d decided, he was going to ask the question. But as the buzzer sounded and the doorman called to announce that his teacher was there he realized that he’d feel pretty stupid asking his all-consuming question, but told the doorman to send him up anyway.

As they sat down and the lesson began his sense of feeling stupid overtook him and he delayed asking and simply played the week’s assignments as well as he could, given the scant amount of time he’d spent practicing.

When he finished his teacher smiled and said that he’d obviously been woodshedding a lot this week since his playing had definitely improved.

There was that word again.

It was now or never, he realized, and he blurted out the question.

Practicing, his teacher answered. In the old days, when people had woodsheds, students would go to the woodshed because it was far enough away from the house that no one would hear them practice.

That was it! That was what he’d spent all of that anguish over? That was what had consumed him to the point that he hadn’t practiced much?

But then, it didn’t seem to matter whether he had or not because he’d played his assignment better without practicing.

As his teacher left he put away his clarinet and turned on the television.

I think I’ll woodshed the television instead of the clarinet this week.

A Pair of Sandals, by Sankar Chetterjee

15/1/2019

It was the Christmas Eve that also fell on a Sunday. By mid-morning, the market place in Chichi in Guatemalan Highlands was already exploding with sellers and buyers. Most of them, belonging to various indigenous Indian tribes came down from surrounding mountains. Everything, from home-grown vegetables to wooden handicrafts to Christmas decorative pieces, was getting traded at small makeshift stalls. Among the colorfully-dressed locals, there were a few adventurous foreigners. They learned about this “Sunday Market at Chichi” from various travel blogs. One of the visitors was the American exchange student Jim Harris who was spending a semester in the university at Guatemala City, nation’s capital.

After exploring the vegetable market, Jim was heading towards handicrafts stalls. That’s when the strap of one of his sandals came undone. He displayed it to a street-merchant and inquired whether it could be fixed at any nearby repair shop. Following the gentleman’s direction, he found a young street cobbler around the corner, busy in repairing other clients’ sandals and shoes. While fixing Jim’s sandal, the cobbler (who introduced himself as Jose Gonzalez), offered to make a new pair from recycled tires that he routinely made for the indigenous neighbors. Jim agreed. As Jose was finishing the pair for Jim, two young men on a motorbike stopped by and collected a wad of money from him. The young men kept on collecting various amounts from others. Once they vanished from the scene, Jose, with his hand gesture, explained to Jim that they’re the dreaded MS-13 gang members who terrorized several Central American countries. This event took place almost three years ago.

Recently, Jim was following the current immigration debate sweeping through his country on a flat big screen TV inside his home in upstate New York. He still used the pair of sandals that Jose custom-made for him. The narrators on the TV were reporting from two different locations, thus the screen was split right in the middle. On left, current strongman was giving a speech from a western border town. To the thunderous cheer from his xenophobic supporters, he termed all the asylum-seekers poor refugees as “criminals, rapists, and terrorists who, if allowed to enter the nation, would destroy our way of life.” On right side of the screen, several agents in a southern border town were pinning a young asylum-seeker against barbed wire. As the camera spanned, it showed a crying little girl grabbed one of the legs of an agent, while begging to let her dad go. When the agents twisted the young man’s head, his face became visible on the screen. Jim jumped out of his sofa screaming “Oh my God! It’s Jose from Chichi. He is neither a rapist nor a terrorist. He must be seeking a better life for his daughter, far away from those criminal gang-members.”

He then sat down, switched off the TV, hung his head down in shame, and murmured “How far we, as a nation, fell from our founding principles!”

The Dybbuk in the Café, by Mark Tulin

15/1/2019

“Oh no,’” I muttered to Shara, “It’s him, again.”

He was walking his German Pinscher along Market Street when he spotted us at the cafe´. I wasn’t sure if I should stay or leave. I knew in my heart that he was a dybbuk with no uncertainty. But Shara didn’t think so.

“He’s just a misguided soul who needs to be loved and respected,” she once told me.

I adore Shara, but sometimes she is too kind for her own good. She often takes in strays and believes that everyone needs a friend no matter how damaged or deranged they might be.

Poor Shara, I thought. She doesn’t know how much havoc that man has caused and will cause if given the opportunity.

I put on my dark sunglasses to block the penetration of his evil eye as the two of them talked. I didn’t say a word, just felt the man’s evil spirit, as thick as a dark fog rolling in from the Pacific.

I kept thinking what I could do to protect Shara short of grabbing her arm and removing her from the cafe´. Instead, I held tightly to my Hand of Miriam medallion and kept thinking that we should burn some sage as soon as we get home.

Failure and Triumph, by Sankar Chatterjee

9/1/2019

Professor Richard Wood of King’s College, London was attending an international conference on latest development on cancer treatment. An expert in the field, he along with his team of researchers had been exploring a breakthrough treatment method for past several years. In a serendipitous discovery, the team uncovered a new biological mechanism of activating body’s own immune system by a chemical agent. The activated system, in turn, targeted only cancer cells, destroying them in the process. Additional research produced a first generation experimental drug that was currently undergoing its first human trial. Prof. Wood was invited to deliver a lecture disclosing the drug’s journey from “bench to bedside”. The conference was taking place in Chennai (formerly Madras) in Southern India.

He was delivering the lecture to a packed audience, when his smart-phone pinged inside his jacket-pocket. Nonetheless, he continued with his presentation. At the end, he received a standing ovation for his brilliant presentation. Coming out of the lecture-hall, he grabbed an empty chair along the wall of the long corridor, took out his smart-phone, and began reading the latest messages. There was a long one from Dr. Barry Burton, the chief clinician of the human trial program. In a preliminary report, he had delivered the good news of observing the drug’s effectiveness in the majority of the participating patients. However, then came the disturbing part. Many treated patients were also succumbing to temporary dementia. And as the treatment had progressed, this dementia became severe. Stunned Prof. Wood realized that somehow this new medicine was also entering into a patient’s brain to affect the region responsible for one’s memory.

Dejected, he came out of the building and decided to explore the city. He remembered his late grandfather, early in his career, was stationed in Madras in colonial times and kept a detailed diary of everyday life. Specifically, he had mentioned about a colorful market on Mahabalipuram Road. Prof. Wood managed to locate the market, entered through its main gate, and magically got transported to a past world. Every little stall, selling anything from needle to haystack, appeared the same way as his grandfather had described. He found the flower shop with a young lady inside, writing on an old-fashioned ledger, while sitting exactly in same pose, described in the diary. The only difference was her simultaneously watching a show on her smart-phone screen.

They exchanged pleasantries, when the young lady introduced herself as Seema Rajan. She was a college student helping the long-running family-business in her spare time. Prof. Wood mentioned his grandfather’s diary. Seema responded that the lady in the diary must have been her late great-grandmother. Then, with a chuckle, she pointed to her smart-phone and announced “The difference you see lies in this gadget of modern invention of communication that now binds our ancient civilization.”

Later that evening, Prof. Wood would begin to formulate new scientific theories how to circumvent the side-effect seen in the clinics in the battle against a scourge to humanity.

The New Guy, by Jim Bartlett

8/1/2019

He watches as the new guy steps into the room, a green wave of envy, jealousy, even a slight edge of anger, washing over him as he notes the bounce in the newbee’s step, the twinkle of hope in his eyes, the smile of all that can be imagined stretched across his face. Oh yeah, he remembers his own first day on the job, carrying that very same smug look. Anything was possible. The world was at his feet.

But over the course of this last year, his last year, that sparking hope had faded. Too many expectations coming from too many directions. And unlike times past, these requirements came with no tolerance. Not a smidgen of room for compromise. Making matters worse, they came with the demands of immediacy. Not next month, not next week, today. Now.

The stress, the strain, the intolerance left everyone divided and bickering. Barbs were tossed around rather than answers. Fingers pointed at who might be to blame rather than working together for a solution. These days no one – except the new guy – came with a spring in their step, good will in their pocket. Somewhere, somehow, it had all fallen to the wayside.

He takes in a deep sigh, and moves to the line to shake the new guy’s hand. Maybe this is all his fault. He just took the wrong tack. Expected the better of his contemporaries. This young kid will pick up the pieces and make things right. Make it so folks have something to look forward to again.

The person in front of him moves away and now it’s his turn. He reaches out, but the youngster is awestruck at his presence, taking a moment to meet his hand. When he finally speaks, it’s with a sincerity that takes him completely off guard.

“2018, I’m so impressed to finally meet you. I have some pretty big shoes to fill.”

He feels a warmth rise, his face flush. “You’ll do fine, 2019. You’ll do fine.”

A Baked Potato, by Bruce Levine

3/1/2019

The air was infused with joy

Just the smell of the potatoes in the old, blackened, potato baker on the stove made him happy. He hadn’t had a baked potato that smelled like that in years.

And it was the little things, like a baked potato, that could make Bryce happy. Not that his life was so bad, but it wasn’t all that good either, On a scale of one to ten his was a five – neither good nor bad, just "medium".

But to Bryce medium seemed hardly enough; hardly even adequate.

Bryce dreamed. He didn’t know what the dreams really meant nor did he envision their fulfillment which left him in a rather sorry state of not knowing who or what he wanted to do with his life. The only thing he knew for certain was that he’d felt this way since he was seven. And now, at twenty-three, he still floundered like a boat tied in a marine slip during a hurricane, bouncing from side to side against the bumpers.

He’d been traveling around the country, backpacking, hitching rides whenever possible, or simply walking along the perimeter of whatever road happened in his path.

When he got to a town he’d stop long enough to eat and get refreshed, but only if he met someone interesting or there seemed something of special interest would he stay for much longer.

He’d met a lot of nice people along the way and, being an outgoing person and good conversationalist, Bryce found himself invited to dinner or to simply have a chat in someone or others’ house. Bryce periodically took the people up on their offer, but not often. He didn’t want to be a bother and felt that the offer was made without real meaning. Better, he felt, to have a few good minutes than an awkward couple of hours.

So he trudged on; happy in his quest to see the country.

Eventually he made it – full circle. Back at his parents’ home which, officially, was his home since he had no other permanent address.

His parents had greeted him with reserved reassurance of his welcome home and his mother set an extra place at the table. Not much more.

His mother wasn’t much of a cook so he never expected much when it came to dinner.

Tonight seemed different though. Tonight there was the smell of baked potatoes.

Tonight he felt at home.

Like Vines It Grows, by Ada Pelonia

2/1/2019

I pulled another sack on the corner of the alley with my head looking towards Jean, my neighbor’s son who wanted to help me work. A few seconds ago, this kid told me his dream of becoming a garbage collector just like what I’ve been doing for the past years.

“Dream bigger, kid. There’s so much more than this pile of garbage you’re seeing. When I was like you, I dreamt of becoming a doctor. I even pictured myself receiving an award for discovering the cure for cancer. I’ll be the best doctor, and my name would be known around the world.” I smiled, reminiscing those days. Jean only scooted towards the bins, and segregated the recyclable and not.

“What happened to your dream then?” he asked without looking at me.

His question lingered in my head for a few seconds before the acrid smell of muck got stuck inside my nostrils.

“Got thrown in these bins.”

My answer probably addled him that he looked straight at my eyes.

“Why?”

“I grew up.”

A Goldfish in a Bowl, by Bruce Levine

2/1/2019

“I have a goldfish memory,” she commented.

“What?”

“A goldfish goes around and around in a bowl and each time thinks it’s a new time.”

“It is.”

“But they don’t know that.”

“I didn’t think that goldfish think…”

“It’s actually very cruel.

“What?”

“Goldfish in a bowl. They should be in a tank.”

“Why?”

“Then they can swim up and down and in and out of castles and all sorts of things.”

“Oh.”

“True. Just swimming around and around in circles is cruel.”

“Okay.”

“I had a tank filled with all sorts of fish – I named them all… One was flash because he darted all over the place very fast… And another was berry because he was very red…”

I looked at her.

“And they can get sick and if one gets sick they all get sick and you have to give them antibiotics…”

“I can see you trying to get fish in a tank to take their antibiotic pills.”

Her turn to give me a look.

“It’s powder or liquid… They eat it…”

“Oh… How do you know they eat it?”

“They eat it,” she repeated disdainfully.

“What if one gets more than the other?”

Another “look”.

I don’t think I’ll ever look at a goldfish in a bowl the same way
again.

Fresh Pine Scent, by John M. Carlson

24/12/2018

Colin’s late mother would have hated the artificial Christmas tree in her old living room. “Real trees have character!” she’d always said. “Fake trees always have that fake-looking perfection. And a fake tree never has a fresh pine scent!”

As Colin looked at the new artificial tree he’d just unboxed, he had to admit she had a point. This tree did look a little too perfect. The only scent this tree had was a plastic smell. Probably some chemical leeching out that wasn’t good for one to breathe.

At the same time, though, this fake tree was cleaner than a real tree. He wouldn’t be vacuuming up needles for the next six months. And it was certainly more sanitary, which appealed to a germaphobe like Colin. No telling what might have happened to a real tree as it was growing on the Christmas tree farm. Birds might have relieved themselves on it. Filthy rats might have crawled over it.

This artificial tree came from a nice, clean, sanitary factory. It had seen no birds. It had seen no rats.

Unless they had rats in the factory warehouse...

And what about the people working in the factory? Had someone perhaps sneezed uncontrollably on the tree as it went past on the assembly line? Had the tree been grabbed by someone who hadn’t properly washed his or her hands after going to the bathroom? Had the tree--

With these thoughts, Colin headed to the kitchen, and grabbed a can of disinfecting spray. He took it back to the living room, and carefully started spraying his artificial tree. It might not be sanitary out of the box, but this spray would fix that.

As he worked, he became conscious of a pine tree scent. Like a real Christmas tree. What on earth? He looked down at the can of disinfectant spray. The label said: “New! Mountain Pine Scent.” He smiled. So much for artificial trees never having a fresh pine scent!

My Life, by Bruce Levine

23/12/2018

I wondered about my life. What was I doing? Where was I going? It was a puzzlement and I had no answers. I’d been places; I’d done things – but what did they amount to? I wasn’t alone, but that didn’t matter. My life seemed sustained as if by a wooden hanger. Nothing surrounding me had any relevance. Only the ticking of the clock told me that my life was passing by and yet the days, months and years added no sense of fulfillment.

I searched my memory for those golden moments that are supposed to signal turning points in one’s life and found none.

I didn’t ask for much. I wasn’t hoping or looking for stardom or any special place in the sun. I knew my place as a trusted, faithful companion. One to be counted on. One to be looked upon as a true friend.

Friends come and go and yet I’ve remained constant. That alone should give me some satisfaction. But it doesn’t.

And so I look at my life and I calmly resign myself. An average life. Not unique. Not outstanding. But true to my calling. True to the life of a corduroy jacket.

Keeping it Real, by Don Tassone

22/12/2018

Mickey Stanley belted out the last line of his band’s most famous song, “Portland Forever.” The crowd screamed it out with him, holding up lighters, their fists in the air.

He might be as old as the older ones in the crowd and old enough to be the father of the younger ones, but Mickey still had it.

“Good night!” he shouted as the crowd roared for an encore.

Mickey had been the lead singer for Oregon for more than 30 years. The band had toured extensively in the 80s and 90s, and Mickey had made a fortune.

In his 40s, he started producing music for others. In his early 50s, he was surprised when Oregon’s songs began to enjoy a resurgence.

Now the band was back together and on the road again, promoting a new album. They’d just finished a series of West Coast concerts and landed in Portland. A driver was waiting at the airport to pick Mickey up.

On his way home, he looked out the window and smiled as he thought about the size of the crowd at the concert at Stanford the night before, how much he enjoyed partying with college students afterwards and how favorable the media reviews were that morning.

The limo pulled into his driveway, and the driver got out and pulled Mickey’s suitcase out of the trunk.

“I can take it from here,” he said, handing him a fifty.

Mickey’s wife, Patti, appeared at the front door.

“Welcome home,” she said, smiling.

He wheeled his bag up the front walk and gave her a kiss.

“I missed you,” he said, embracing her.

“I missed you too,” she said.

It was dinnertime, and Patti had made them hot dogs and french fries. As they sat down at the kitchen table, she filled their glasses with cold water from a plastic pitcher.

“So tell me about the tour,” she said.

He had just begun to tell her about the size of the crowds when the phone rang.

“Do you mind if I get that?” she asked.

“No, go ahead.”

Mickey squirted ketchup on his plate, picked up a french fry and dipped it in.

“Sorry,” said Patti a few minutes later. “That was Jane. She just got home from the hospital.”

“How’s she doing?”

“Pretty good,” she said. “I baked some cookies for her today. I’ll bring them over after dinner.”

“That’s nice."

“By the way,” she said, “it’s garbage night.”

“Oh, yeah.”

“And it’s supposed to rain tomorrow afternoon, and the grass is about a foot high. Do you think you could cut it in the morning?”

“Sure.”

“Now, what were you saying about the tour?”

Derek the Great, by Susan Carpenter

19/12/2018

Voted most likely to be a school shooter, Crowfoot Mall rat, Derek packed his high school-shyness deep in the tickle trunk of memory to attend U of C. He’s launched another identity like the latest app. Derek 2.0! He’s a Pscyh student and Dungeon & Dragons Dungeon Master weaving tales for his players. He’s interactive and user-friendly.

But Belle must remember the acne-scarred, loner, pre-alpha version of Derek because her sour-pickle gaze follows him as he takes a seat spitting distance down the row in lecture. She’s still blonde, smooth as vanilla frozen yogurt, a flavor to please everyone. Why does she condescend to attend a Social Anxiety lecture? Cue eyerolling and gum snapping sans her usual entourage.

Hairy-eared, bespectacled Dr. Lieberman intones, “Let’s refer to our notes on Jane Chamberlin’s article referencing Dr. Wilcox’s study. Hands up if you worry what others think.” Hands flutter skyward. “If you avoid speaking in class.” Derek raises his. “Have had trouble making friends in this new environment.” Belle’s French-manicured hand shoots up, a flashing beacon for shipwrecked sailors.

“Good, you’re human.” Laughter, hands drop. “Let’s talk nature versus nurture and how anxiety has kept us alive as a species in these scary times.”

Derek taps away on his Mac. Belle hunts and pecks on her Surface laptop. Lecture over. Derek slips his Mac into his backpack, slings it over his shoulder, rises to file out. Throat cleared behind him.

“Derek, right?”

He turns. She flicks her wispy bangs from her face. She’s dipped the bottom of her bob in pink and it matches her Chinook-chapped cheeks. “I didn’t get all the notes. Not as fast a typist, I guess. Can I borrow yours?”

His heart in his mouth, like he’s chewing on the sun. Coughs. “Sure.”

“Guess I owe you.”

“You can buy me a tea. $0.50 goes to United Way today.” He’s grown cojones, even as his hand shakes holding the door for her.

“I did NOT picture you as a tea guy.” Belle and her perfume lead the way down labyrinthine corridors to the food court.

Derek waves to Eric, or Eldak the Black Guard. Eric gives two thumbs up so hard he might’ve sprained them. His tray hoisted, he jogs over. Derek turns his back on Eldak and finds a cozy table for he and Belle.

“My goddess.” Eric puts his tray down and bends at the waist.

“You know him?” Derek asks.

“Stats. He borrows my homework.”

Derek can’t breathe. Wants to smite Eldak with his Battleaxe. The walls close in, any moment the floor will open, and blackness will suck him down into the Infinite Layers of the Abyss.

“He calls me Resting-beyatch-face.”

“And she calls me Nerd-eric the Lesser.”

Derek fades nearly away, his powers drained as a wall rises between him and them. He conjures Liebermen’s CBT spell. Breathe, replace negative thoughts with realistic ones. Exposure.

“I guarantee you a better name if you join us for D&D,” Derek the Great says.

Nine Lives of a Fiver, by Ceinwen E Cariad Haydon

17/12/2018

One Friday, a fresh fiver surfaces in a miner’s pay packet. After tea, it’s split for a pint in the Working Men’s Club. At last orders, the barmaid gives it in change for the Deputy’s tenner. Next day, his lass pays for funeral flowers; the florist reduces the price from guineas to pounds. The dead man’s a collier, one of their own.

The florist’s young brother likes a night at the dogs. He follows his fancy and bets on a hound, hands his fiver over, lucre destined for loss. The bookie’s lust for ladies is very well known and on late summer nights he pays for delights. His fiver goes far, gets him kisses, on top.

The tart with a heart handles money more wisely. Five quid feeds her bairns every day for a week, though the need to go and hustle makes her widow’s eyes weep. The canny grocer, likes her, gives her extra cheese. In truth he’d like to wed her, take her off the streets. Sadly, he knows the local worthies would beat a retreat and boycott his business by voting with their feet.

The cook from the Big House comes to purchase for her boss, and the fiver goes back with her, to the coffers of the rich. Her Master owns the colliery, lock, stock and barrel and pays the miners’ pittances for shifts of dangerous toil. At Sunday service, the owner ostentatiously donates, places his worn fiver on the brass collection plate.

Next month, Master’s share price has plunged right down, so he docks his men’s wages by a mere half-a-crown. He thinks they won’t notice, or kick up a fuss, ‘After all, it’s loose change to workers like us.’ The loss ripples outwards, into every home, except for the Big House where Master eats prime steak alone.

No money for ale to quench a pitman’s thirst. No flowers to mark another death; a man killed by coal dust who suffered his last breath. No betting nor whoring, no food for hungry bairns, the struggling grocer’s takings slide perilously down.

Yet somehow, on Sunday, another fiver’s found, to show the Master’s godliness, to the people of his town.

Cake-Pops, by Dan A. Cardoza

15/12/2018

She was born on a creamy Tuesday full of grace with a big O angel lip yawn. Sharing the widest of smiles, in what was to become her typical Tiffney Cake-Pop style.

Her childhood rarely sprinkled with ubiquitous luck, let alone grace, yet she made each day her own sugar coated surprise, in spite.

Her dearly loved grandmother Elizabeth taught her the alchemy of baking. At an early age, Tiff made marvelous butter cream cakes full of sweet lemon and light for her imaginary Queen Liz named Grammy, and scones so plain, even a Brit might delight. But in her amalgamation of all things yummy and decadent, it was the revered Cake-Pop that enticed her imagination. From the very start, everyone raved of her gift of the bake.

If Cake-Pop’s were an Olympic event, no doubt she would have been standing tall for the National Anthem, with a Cake-Pop shaped Gold medal dangling from her neck.

Yes, Tiff was in love with her life and of course her beloved Cake-Pops that she made for every occasion, including her grandmothers royal departure, to her most final of destinations. Her grief was short lived, as instructed by Queen Liz, with only one bitter-sweet residue of sadness. It was then when Tiffney made a difficult choice to never revisit grandmother’s kitchen again. It had all to do with, or nothing at all, with Grumpy Grandpa Nicholas, in his faded denim overalls. Wrongly everyone assumed that over the years, his silence and grouse was the result of his assigned dark-chocolate Cake-Pops, subsumed of course in their distinct black sprinkled tops.

And as goes time and baking, with each new Cake-Pop, tick then tock, she made a new friend, as her unbounded love continued its warm oven glow.

In the center of her life, she would create summer Cake-Pops of Water-Melon tops, with black currant seeds afloat all swimming in red. And too she would bake Pineapple Cake-Pops for all her valued welcomings, and include the best gild of gold exploiting her pallet of candied hues. Even Tiff’s Lemon-Raspberry-Cream Pop, stood atop her very own wedding cake. And all her children, so well rounded, were never without her yummy yellow hug-pops.

***

It’s been twenty-five years and not one cake-pop day passes that love is not arranged, at the base of her Cake-Pop grave. Often displayed, are frequent Cake-Pop bouquets, at times garnished in roses all chrism pink, and mums, not to mention green baby tears.

And In the open bird mouths of springs, you may find the blooms of the eye catching Hydrangea, and Billy Button’s dressed in their best dressed-up vests. Our Tuesday’s Child would not have it any other way.

As fall was her special time of year, she would have enjoyed baking gratitude, yet in her passing she shared the lace of her Amaryllis, as well as her Cake-Pop forget-me-not, all woven in blue garlands.

Every winter invisible White Roses lay, near her grave, in the frosty cake-pop snow.

The Continuum Of A Civilization, by Sankar Chatterjee

14/12/2018

Professor Mario Botti of the University of Bologna, an expert in analysis of ancient objects, had been leading an international research effort. The research object was the ancient mummy of a little child, unearthed during an excavation in Egypt, far away from the royal pyramids. Various research groups shared samples from one tiny thread of the embalming cloth to run experiments in their areas of expertise utilizing modern high caliber scientific instruments.

This afternoon, his research team convened a team meeting to discuss latest developments. The members would report to him that they had definitely identified eight different chemicals in that shred. They were the similar ones found in various other analyzed mummies of the royal pharaohs. From past several years of international effort, it had now been well-established that the Egyptian pharaohs unified and ruled their kingdom starting 3100 BCE. The initiation of the mummification process began as a ritual, in the belief of preparing the royal body for its journey in afterlife.

Prof. Botti’s cell-phone rang. At other end, Prof. James Barrett of Harvard, an expert in radioactive-carbon dating process, had a new result. His team concluded that this particular mummification had occurred definitely around 3700-3600 BCE. Prof. Botti then shared their result. Based on combined data, both professors would conclude that this mummified-child would extend the practice at least 500 years back from existing knowledge. In other words, the practice was already in place among prevailing civilizations, when the pharaohs appeared in the scene.

But the mystery deepened next day. Prof. Max Otto from the University of Cologne, an expert in medical sciences, would report that his team had identified an antibacterial chemical, previously unreported from analysis of the royal mummies. But, this material could only come from a special resin, utilized in embalming process. However, there had been no historical evidence of the availability of that particular resin in the area where this child-mummy was excavated. Historical texts would place the availability of the material in places where modern lands of Israel and Palestinian Authority exist today.

Next day, the new results were presented in an international conference-call involving participating scientists and historians including the Egyptologists. Soon, it became clear to all that long before the appearance of the pharaohs in Egypt, a civilization with Pan-Egyptian identity involving shared cultural identities and customs had existed encompassing a huge swath of earth. That also raised the possibility of existence of a well-developed trade route for commerce and cultural exchange.

As the conference ended, Prof. Botti, like a skeptic contrarian, began to ponder “Are we scientists stretching our data to an extreme just to propagate a theory?” Suddenly, he remembered his past visit to a historic museum in Cusco in Peru. There first time he had learned how different identities and cultural practices of various Indian tribes of Nasca, Mochica, Chancay and Chimu in entire Peruvian peninsula through ages contributed to the evolution of advanced Inca civilization.

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