Blog Posts

Voices In My Head, Doug Bartlett

21/9/2019

John was departing from his grandmother’s house. As he went across the dilapidated front porch and down the rickety steps, he was inundated with pleasant memories of being raised by this precious lady.
John had recently attended church and had an encounter with Jesus Christ. It was a life-changing experience for him. He had decided to share his newfound faith with his grandmother. This would allow her the same opportunity to have an encounter with Jesus and experience an abundant and eternal life.
However, he was disappointed in himself, as he could not find the courage to do this.
He was halfway to his car when he distinctly heard a voice telling him to return to her and share his faith. As he hesitated, he heard a second, different voice telling him not to worry and he could always share his faith at a later time.
Yes, he thought, he could always do it later. It would be embarrassing to go back right now.
As he wrestled with these two voices, he recalled as a child that the pastor in his church would try to scare people into going to the altar. He would say this might be their last opportunity to come forward to accept Jesus and secure eternal life. They may die in a traffic accident on the way home and be lost forever.
Well, that obviously never happened to him. He never even heard of that happening to anyone.
He felt confident that he had made the right decision by ignoring the first voice. He felt very comfortable by obeying the second voice.
After all, he reasoned, he would have several opportunities to share his faith with his beloved grandmother. He was young, quite healthy and would be around for a very long time. Unfortunately,… Grandma would not!

Father Knows Best, by Doug Bartlett

13/9/2019

“Dad, I don’t get this prayer thing,” my young son exclaimed.
“What about it?” I asked.
“Well, many of my prayers don’t get answered the way I have asked,” he responded.
“They don’t,” I chuckled, “There is a good reason for that. It’s like when you come to me with a request and I don’t allow it. You think it’s a good idea but I have a better plan for you.”
“I still don’t get it, Dad,” my son replied with frustration.
“Let me put it this way,” I stated, “Years ago I prayed long and hard for who I would someday marry. One day I finally met this wonderful lady named Martha and I began praying even harder that she would marry me.”
“But,” my son interrupted, “Mom’s name is Jennifer.”
“Exactly,” I said, “Had I married Martha you would not exist.”
“Wow,” my son exclaimed, “I’m beginning to understand. Thanks, Dad."

Dark Clouds, by Rod Drake

8/9/2019

JFK stood alone in the Oval Office, looking out a window at the pelting rain outside. October 1962. The Cuban Blockade. Would Russian back down? No one, none of his advisors, or he himself, really knew. An enormous gamble. The whole world
was at stake. The rain slackened for a few minutes, then picked up again. A cold, dismal rain blanketed D.C. today.
“Sir?” His secretary leaned in at the door. “The Attorney General is here.”
JFK turned around. “Send him in, please.”
RFK hurried in, looking tired.
“Any word?” the President asked him.
“I think,” the Attorney General replied,” that we may have a deal. But we have to agree to remove our 15 Jupiter missiles from Turkey aimed at the Soviet Union.”
Bobby sat down on a couch. “Not much to give up really. They’re already outmoded, not very effective defensive weapons anymore. I think it’s just a face-saving gesture for Khrushchev.”
JFK looked back out the window; the rain had stopped and a thin ray of sunshine cut through the dark clouds. “Agree to it,” he said.
RFK rushed out of the room, and the President wondered if the rain had really stopped now.

A Talk With Mother Nature, by Bruce Levine

7/9/2019

“It’s still cold out,” she said as soon as she returned from walking their dog. “Time to have a talk with Mother Nature.”

The calendar was nearing April, he agreed, and while the temperature was considered seasonable by the television and radio weather reporters, the meteorologists, it didn’t feel seasonable, at least not to Bree or her husband, Franklin.

Actually Franklin had always wondered how many of them were actually meteorologists at all, but rather aspiring television or radio personalities who hadn’t graduated to the reporter level and were relegated to the weather segment of the news. Perhaps, he thought, there was a hierarchy of the stages – weather person, in the street reporter, in the studio commentator and so on until one reached the eminence of anchor.

As to the weather person it seemed that it was a job in which being right had very little to do with job security. In point of fact Franklin had often suggested that, after a report of a sun-filled afternoon which was, in reality, actually filled with a continuous down-pour of rain, that the newsroom do better if it installed a window so the weather person could look out and get the forecast right.

Today though, Franklin could only respond by simply saying – “I agree. I’ll put it on my To Do list.”

The Investment, by Jim Bartlett

6/9/2019

“Yes, Mr. Jenkins, your IRA is doing quite well. As I told you before, I take your money personally. I only invest in the sorts of things I, myself, am involved in.” Pete Smithers shifts his phone from one ear to the other as he hands the boarding agent his ticket.

“Enjoy the Caymans,” the agent says with a smile, already looking to the next in line.

“No, Mr. Jenkins,” Pete continues, as he walks down the jet way. “It’s common for the SEC and other regulatory agencies to audit financial firms, even mine. It’s what keeps us honest. I wouldn’t waste any time worrying about that story on CNN.” Pete nods to the stewardess as he steps onto the plane, then turns down the aisle. With his focus on the first class seat numbers, he catches his wheelie carry-on against the divider. “Shoot!”

“No, no, that wasn’t directed at you, Mr. Jenkins. I’m about to step into a real important meeting - another great opportunity for your money – so I have to go. I promise I’ll call you later to—“

Pete stops, as two men in dark suits stand in his way. The closest, a tall young man, a serious look upon his face, holds a cell phone to his ear with one hand, and a badge emblazoned with the FBI logo and the agent’s name in the other.

“You promise you’ll call me later, Mr. Smithers?” Special Agent Jenkins says into the phone.

The Transparency, by Sankar Chatterjee

6/9/2019

Ms. Ludmila Vertov, a brilliant Russian exchange-student was attending a summer semester in the university in Berlin. Of all the courses she signed up, one was on the topic of “Factors Leading to the World War II”. Growing up, Ludmila learned the same event as the “Great Patriotic War”, since her country was attacked by the enemy. Among all her classmates, Mr. Tomas Bauer, a fellow blue-eyed German student stood out. Tomas was 6-feet tall, well-built and took part in two different sports, football and rugby.

Soon two became friends. Tomas confided to Ludmila that his now-deceased grandfather was an air-force pilot under Nazi regime. He learned that his grandfather was shot down over Minsk, while taking part in an aerial bombing mission. Though severely wounded, he miraculously survived after being infused with huge amount of blood in a Nazi-run hospital on the ground. Ludmila remembered how her now-deceased grandmother used to tell all the grandchildren about her wartime experience in an orphanage in Minsk, both parents being on the frontline fighting the enemy.

On a bright Sunday afternoon, Tomas invited Ludmila to show her the modern Reichstag (German Parliament) building, an architectural marvel. On the way, they passed the ruins of the old one. The spray-painted graffiti by the Russian soldiers could still be seen. They were the first Allied soldiers to enter Berlin, bringing demise to the Nazi-s. In the new structure, an enclosed glass elevator, protected by the security guards, took them to the roof of the building where the dome rested. With other visitors, they circled around the dome to experience aerial view of Berlin from different directions. Coming down, they were instructed not to avail the elevator, instead led to a walkway spiraling down and around the main chamber of the Reichstag. From each point of this journey, the entire hall was visible. Thus, when the parliament would be in session, the politicians would be aware that their actions being watched by the world citizenry. Tomas chimed in “Given the dark history of our nation’s past, this was the only way to make the political process transparent.”

Ludmila began to shiver. Suddenly, she remembered the black and blue permanent marks on both arms of her grandmother. Only when Ludmila became a teenager, her grandmother confided to her a dark secret: in her childhood orphanage, the German doctors would regularly separate out a group of healthy children to draw out blood to infuse into their wounded soldiers in the macabre belief that such infusion would make their recovery faster, while gaining strength. Ludmila looked at Tomas and wondered whether his grandfather was such a beneficiary in Minsk.

Ludmila then pondered whether the country’s history textbooks remain transparent to all the committed atrocities from past, not to repeat them.

The Face in the Mirror, by Linda Cornelissen

6/9/2019

Sometimes, the face I see in the mirror is my mother’s. When I notice or re-notice similarities in face structure, features, or posture. Even though I often struggle to visualise her clearly – looking myself in the eye can sometimes take my thoughts to her.

How do people who’ve lost all of their photos, manage to recall the faces of those long gone? What did people do before the days of photographs, if they weren’t fortunate enough to have a portrait artist handy? Is there some skill those people had honed much sharper than we do? Is it one more skill that we are losing, because we have easy external substitutes to save us the effort?

As I’m walking out to my car, to go to an appointment, my thoughts race to all of the wonderful things our cars can do for us now. All of those must haves, saving us all the effort and stress of having to think for ourselves. Reminder buzzers about shutting our doors and putting on our seatbelts. Things to save us the toil of winding our windows up and down, changing gear, remembering how to park, safely change lanes, see what’s behind us. We can even have someone (not actually a someone, but a proximity of, sort of) who can tell us where to go, arrange our entertainment, ring someone for us so we don’t get lonely, tell us what the weather is, tell us the time, regularly remind us of how far we have to go in our journey, and the list goes on.

Who else can’t wait till our house can do all of these things for us as well?

I look in my passenger side door mirror to check for anyone in the lane I wish to merge into, and merge across safely. I had looked up the names of the two streets before the one I needed, and notice the first of those two, which gives me the heads up that I am close. While waiting at the traffic lights, I (manually) wind up the window of my car, knowing instinctively that I’m close to my destination. When I see the building ahead, I look for a parking spot nearby, indicate my intentions, and when safe reverse my car, using my rear vision mirror, into an empty spot.

Another quick glance in the mirror elicits a smile that surprises even me. I’ve just caught a hint of an expression my mother used to have, and the smile is when I think about telling Mum my thoughts. MUM. I’m going to write you a letter later, and let you know all of the wonderful advances in our lives – just to see if you think that all your wishes for my sister and I to have so much more than you did have been realised. I’m sure it will give you a laugh. Miss you. And I blew her a kiss in the mirror.

How About Murder? Doug Bartlett

6/9/2019

I had just explained to my new friend how much God loved him and that God wanted to have a personal relationship with him.
“But I’ve done some bad things in my life. Surely, God wouldn’t want a relationship with me. I’m not worthy,” he stated.
“No one is worthy,” I replied, “Those bad things that have been done are called sin. God is willing to forgive us of those sins if we are truly serious about wanting them to be forgiven, and we desire to not do them again.”
“No, you don’t understand. I’ve done some really terrible things,” he responded.
“Have you ever committed murder?” I asked.
“Well, no I haven’t,” he stated.
“Do you realize that over half the Bible is written by former murderers?” I asked.
“You have got to be kidding! Really?” he asked.
“Really!” I continued, “God can use anybody who is willing to be used by Him."

Knickerbocker Glory, by Tessa Edgecombe

25/8/2019

On a really warm English Bank Holiday Weekend, this seems the perfect accompaniment.

Uncle Jack was a brash but twinkly-eyed Geordie with a loud voice and massive joie-de-vivre. He had the same name as my father, who had always seemed larger than life to me. But my uncle easily eclipsed him. When he and my mother’s elder sister visited, our home lit up like the end of the pier. They brought with them stories and chat that tumbled around our house. Laughter, so wild and abandoned, that the adults were often verging on tears.

On one of their visits we went to the coast, I can’t remember where now. Maybe Polperro or Looe - it was so long ago – more than half a century. I remember the whole family sitting in one of the beachside cafes, all bright melamine tables and orange lustre ware. Uncle Jack’s largesse was renowned, and he decided that he was treating his family and ours – all ten of us - to a knickerbocker glory.

Knickerbocker glory. A name resonant of extravagant lusciousness. And a hint of naughtiness.

Mum had to find a cushion for me to sit on so that I could reach the top of the tall glass with my long elegant spoon. Gradually I worked my way down through the traffic light layers of neon-hued jelly, custard, ice cream and perfectly cubed fruit. At the side of the saucer sat a jewel-like glace cherry, an unfeasible shade of red, my most favourite part of the whole concoction being saved until last. I still remember the price of that delectable dessert. Half a crown. Five weeks’ worth of pocket money, now just twelve and a half pence. That glorious tower of deliciousness summed up my Aunt and Uncle and their visits.

Later, ironically thirteen years later, there was a more sombre visit. Unknown to me, Aunty Irene was dying of lung cancer, her job and the free cigarettes at the Benson and Hedges’ factory reaping its hideous revenge. I can see her now, sitting on our sofa, slowly eating a bowl of my mother’s home-made soup, my mum next to her in her District Nurse uniform, heads bowed, talking in dulcet tones. Cancer wasn’t discussed openly back then in the seventies. Maybe it was too painful for my mum to explain to me. I had no idea. My aunt rocking in pain was lost on me, reduced as I was to an all-encompassing misery by an erstwhile boyfriend. I had no thought, no space for anyone else. I rowed constantly with my parents throughout that summer, oblivious to my aunt’s illness, my mother’s sadness.

Later that autumn, back at college, my mother called to tell me her sister had died. Suddenly I understood what had been washing around me all summer. Only then did I realise how selfish I had been. How unfeeling. But those knickerbocker glories stand like beacons to my vibrant aunt, to happier days, and what appeared to be simpler times when the sun shone forever.

Look Both Ways, by Doug Bartlett

23/8/2019

The young cowboy exited the Wells Fargo bank with guns ablazing. He tossed his saddlebag full of cash on his horse, jumped on and galloped away as fast as he could. He glanced over his shoulder and saw a wall of posse immediately behind him. He kicked his horse harder to get away from them but to no avail. It was an exercise in futility. It was like he was going in circles.
He then realized he needed to get back to the bank quickly or he would be in big trouble.
He slipped out of his stirrups and quickly dismounted. He hit the ground running. His equilibrium seemed to be off as he felt the terrain beneath his feet was moving at the same speed as his horse.
He ran like the wind toward the bank. He had to get inside before his mother finished her transaction with the teller and discovered he had crossed the busy street to play on the carousel

The Fishing Trip, by David Croll

23/8/2019

Jimmy could not know this would be the last time he would ever go fishing.
Since his parents’ divorce, the 10-year old went fishing with his father every other weekend that summer. He loved it. And he loved their rituals. The car ride as they sang, off-key, whatever pop song came on the AM radio station; the quiet of the lake; and the root beer floats and French fries they shared afterwards.

They were at their usual spot, downstream from the bridge. Jimmy was enjoying the calmness when he felt something big pull on his pole. His father offered encouragement.
“You got him, Jimmy boy, you can do it.”
It was big, bigger than anything he ever caught before.
“Whoa, son, it’s a big bass.”
“Or a turtle,” offered Jimmy.
His father helped him reel in the prize. Jimmy was the first to see it wasn’t a bass as he dropped the pole.

Later, the police would tell them the man went missing two days ago, and that he must have fallen off the bridge.
The car ride home was quiet. They did not stop for the customary root beer float and French fries.
For years, Jimmy thought about that man. He imagined that the man had a son his age. He wondered how that son felt about losing his dad.
He would never know that the son wondered how Jimmy felt finding his dad.

Another Cup of Tea, by Bruce Levine

23/8/2019

“I’m in a fowl mood,” Bryan said as he returned to the table in the all-you-can-eat Chinese buffet with his plate filled with an assortment of chicken prepared in a variety of ways ranging from fried wings to Chinese chicken and broccoli.

Linda laughed as she counted the variety. “I didn’t know you were so hungry,” she quipped.

“Round one. I’ve already plotted my next tour.”

“Are you trying to get your money’s worth or simply planning on not eating for the next month?”

Bryan gave her a look and continued eating without comment, but he watched as Linda finished her first plate and retrieved a second, piled high with an assortment of Chinese delicacies.

Bryan had gotten his second plate as he’d said, finished eating and continued to watch Linda as she got a third plate-full.

“That’s enough for me,” Bryan stated and poured a cup of tea for each of them.

“Not me,” Linda announced. “Aren’t you having dessert?”

“Are you trying to get your money’s worth or simply planning on not eating for the next month?”

“There’s always room for dessert.” Linda laughed as she headed for the dessert table.

Bryan laughed and poured himself another cup of tea.

The Other Side, by Doug Bartlett

16/8/2019

The first time I noticed Joyce was in fourth grade. My class was playing her class in kickball. Before the game, I walked across the field and told her I would like to walk her home after the game.
I said, “I’ll be waiting for you on the other side.”
In high school she enjoyed going to dances. Me, not so much. One evening I walked over to her side of the gym floor where she was sitting with a herd of girls, and I told her I don’t dance but would really like to drive her home afterwards.
I said, “ I’ll be waiting for you on the other side.”
After we got married she liked to shop. Me, not so much. I would let her off on one side of the shopping mall.
I then said, “I’ll be waiting for you on the other side.”
Now, after a great life, I find myself in a hospital bed with all kinds of tubes attached to me. It will turn out to be the last day of my life.
I gently place her hand in mine. I inhale my last breath. I begin to exhale when I say my last words, “I’ll be waiting for you on the other side.”

Casting Runes, by NT Franklin

16/8/2019

The old woman cast the runes and frowned. “She mustn’t go on the voyage.”

My grandfather nodded and helped her up from the floor. “Thank you for the advice, Sigrid. We will heed it.”

Grandfather saw her to the door. Sigrid paused and looked Grandfather in the eyes. “Don’t let that child go on that voyage.”

He nodded and handed her money.

Grandfather was the patriarch of our family and I never knew him not to be in charge. My father always stood down. It was the way of the old country.

“Dad, we’re in England. I was born here. I’m not a child. I’m 23 years old. And do we really have to use ancient Norse magic?”

Grandfather sat at the table and looked at me. “Hush, child. Runes are very powerful. Sigrid is the most widely respected rune caster in all of England. We are fortunate to have her live close.”

“But the ship sails in under one month,” I pleaded.

Father stood up. “The answer is no, Ingrid. You will not be on that ship. There will be no more discussion on the matter.”

I stared in disbelief. This was the first time father weighed in on a matter where Grandfather had made a decision. The case was closed.

On April 10th, 1912, the Titanic set sail from Southampton, England, without Ingrid on board.

Dear John, by Paula Nicolson

16/8/2019

You said to meet under the clock at 12; just like in the Hollywood films.

I can see you, but you can’t see me; gripping a large box of cheap chocolates you’ve bought last minute from the petrol station.

I wonder if you’ll sneak a bite from its large selection while you wait? Perhaps the coconut ones will remind you of me as a fairground shy? Or will the hard fudge get your juices flowing, just like the many times you shoved my face against a wall?

Those photos I saw of you and her; the ones you accidentally streamed to the TV while you were working upstairs. You were undressed, together, and in our bed.

You think I’m going to forgive you, again. Say that it was my fault that I made you angry. That you couldn’t help getting drunk with all the trouble I put you through; especially with me falling down the stairs and losing our baby.

But I won’t, not this time. So instead, it’s time for me to leave, split, flit, whatever you want to call it, and for good.

I know you’ll always be looking for me.

And I’ll be looking for you; over my shoulder, making sure I miss every single pavement crack.

A Good Day, by Bruce Levine

16/8/2019

The rain had finally stopped. At seven a.m. the sun was already shining and trying to eradicate the water left by the night’s storm.

It had been extraordinary. They didn’t remember cracks of thunder like that in a very long time; it shook their apartment. Even their dog, normally oblivious to thunder and the like, jumped at each bang. At one point it seemed as if the lightening had actually hit their apartment building – unlikely even under the circumstances, but it felt like it.

They laughed as she told their dog not to worry about the thunder – it’s just God moving around some furniture, she’d said. He’d never heard that one before, but it seemed so appropriate at the time.

But today the sun was shining; the temperature pleasant and their dog was stretched out, basking in the sun. It already felt like it was going to be a good day.

Same Evilness: Different Times, Different Places, by Sankar Chatterjee

12/8/2019

[Photo courtesy: National Park Service].

Ms. Valentina Moscova, a Russian citizen was exploring the history of the Civil Rights Movements in Southern US. Her quest would bring her to Birmingham (Alabama), a notorious city of practicing ruthless segregation in the Jim Crow era. After visiting several museums on the subject, she arrived at the Kelly Ingram Park, centered in the middle of the city. Here, in early May of 1963, an organized nonviolent protest-march by young African-American students was violently crushed by local law-enforcement authority. Ms. Moscova was walking past various open-air sculptures depicting scenes from that fateful day. Soon she came face to face with a metal sculpture depicting a police officer, about to unleash a barking German shepherd on a protesting student. The sculpted dog’s mouth was wide open and the sharpened teeth were all visible. She felt an urge to touch the tip of a metal tooth. Immediately a long lost memory appeared inside her brain and she froze with a shiver.

Ms. Moscova, now an octogenarian, was only a seven years old child when invading German troop had arrived in her village during the mayhem of the Great Patriotic War (the Russian term for World War II). Now, she began reliving those early childhood days. On arrival, the German soldiers began looting houses, subsequently setting them on fire. They began to arrest able-bodied men, line them up on the periphery of a mass-grave newly dug by soon-to-be victims themselves, and then shoot them. Afterwards, the surviving women would gather all their children and flee into the dark forest on the edge of the village. Ms. Moscova had two younger siblings. After two days in the forest with no food or drinks, her mother instructed her to look for some wild berries grown in the region. As darkness was falling, she found a berry-field and began collecting the fruits in quiet. Suddenly she sensed the presence of an animal behind her. She turned around. That’s when her right index finger barely touched a gnawing tooth of a vicious German shepherd held on a leash by a German soldier looking for escaped activists. He ordered her to keep quiet allowing her to collect the fruits, and led the dog deeper inside the forest. This memory now opened a floodgate of subsequent wartime memories.

She sat on a nearby bench and took another look at the same sculpture. A thought ran through her mind “Indeed, the universal evilness remained unchanged throughout human history, whether it was practiced in the context of mass-killing in a brutal war or in dehumanizing segregation based on skin-color.”

Alarming, by Doug Bartlett

9/8/2019

My next target would be the Crown Jewel of Dubai. It was on exhibit and valued at 3.7 million dollars.
The challenge of obtaining it was just as important to me as the money itself. I had intensely studied the layout for several weeks.
I decided to strike at one o’clock tomorrow morning. I adroitly scaled the outside of the building. I would have twenty-six minutes to accomplish my task. Once upon the roof, I entered the building through a roof maintenance vent. I scurried down to the seventh floor where the vault was located. I carefully circumvented the special security systems by methods I cannot disclose here.
There were a few close calls of being discovered, but that just made for a greater thrill.
I disarmed the final alarm system and swung the vault door wide open. I momentarily gazed at this amazing treasure. I then stepped inside the vault to grasp my amazing prize. Immediately an alarm went off.
How could that be? I had studied every square inch of this building. It’s not possible. What should I do?
I decided there was only one thing I could do. I slowly and carefully rolled over, fully extending my right arm and… hit the snooze button.

Number 7, by Rod Drake

4/8/2019

Mickey Mantle hid his limp as he walked from the on-deck circle to home plate. Richardson and Berra were on first and third. Two outs; time for a hero.

Yankee Stadium roared its approval as Mantle stepped into the batter’s box, flexing his bat. It was low and just barely caught the corner—strike one.

The wind was light, coming in from right field. The sun was bright, the day warm, buoyant. Mantle adjusted his stance, favoring his left leg which still hurt badly, even after the surgery.

He squinted at the pitcher, sixty feet away. Mantle hoped, prayed, for a decent pitch that he could hit over the right field wall since he knew he couldn’t run bases with any speed today.

Then another strike, high and inside. On the third pitch, Mantle grimaced in sharp pain as he swung mightily, slamming the baseball high and deep, deep, and finally over the wall, into the upper bleachers.

Mantle caught his breath from the pain, then jogged awkwardly around the bases amid thunderous applause, smiling at the crowd despite the throbbing agony in his leg and the slowly reddening stain on his uniform.

Out of the Mouths of Babes, by Jim Bartlett

3/8/2019

Running Wolf raises his head over the top of the rock, peering down into the ravine, where two men are setting up camp along the Creek of the Bluebird. One, the tallest, is trying to start a fire, while the other cleans their kill, and most likely their supper, a small deer.

Little Owl edges up next to his father. “Grandfather says the white men are cunning, and will use their rifles to take our valley. Their kind will soon fill the land all the way to where the sun sets.”

Running Wolf smiles and tussles his son’s hair. “Though he is my father, and I would not say such before him, I fear Gray Hawk may have stayed in the smoke a moon too many. His mind and eyes have become like the morning fog that lays silent across our great valley.” He juts his chin down toward the men. “Just look at them. They show no respect to the deer’s spirit, throwing aside the bones and hide. They make no thanks to the spirit for providing their meal, keeping them alive for another rise of the sun. They use their rifles rather than fashion the deer’s string for bows.” He shakes his head. “When they come in tribes, rather than teepees made from the hide, they cut down the very trees that hold back the wind and provide for their prey, to build their shelters, leaving the hills barren. A dark ghost of a forest that once was.” He points to a spot just behind the men at the edge of the trees. “See there? They make trails everywhere they go, making it easy for the hungry bears or wolves to find them.”

“But Father, when Grandfather took me for the sweating, he said the Souls of the Spirits warned him of yellow-haired men with iron sticks of fire. And what of the village by the River Tatanka? They—“

Running Wolf puts a finger to Little Owl’s mouth, stopping him from saying any more. He had gone with the Elders to the village, and his son’s words send both a cold chill...and the sharp edge of doubt into his gut. “Grandfather must have been listening to the trickster spirit, Iktomi. There’s no need to fear these men, Little Owl. They will be gone with the first snow. And like my father, his father before him, and his father before him, we will have this land to ourselves once again. The Spirits will prevail. Let not Gray Hawk put needless worry into that head of yours.” He taps Little Owl on the nose and they crawl back from the rock, moving away from the ledge. “Let’s find our supper,” he says, as they head into the thicket.

Though Running Wolf’s eyes are down, searching for the trail of the rabbit that led them here, his son’s words continue to torment, and a single thought fills his head.

While we still can, Little Owl. While we still can.

The Paint Box, by Bruce Levine

2/8/2019

A paint-box full of colors and yet she couldn’t decide which one to choose. Andi was exasperated both with herself and with the picture in front of her. She’d chosen such a simple subject and yet it consistently eluded her; would she ever get it right? This was the third time she’d set out to try and it would probably be the third time she’d tear up the paper.

When she’d begun painting she thought that water-colors would suit her best rather than oil or acrylics, but now she truly wondered.

Her goal was to achieve the variables of color in nature, a lofty goal in and of itself, she knew that before she began, but she was determined to face the challenge.

Today it was the trees behind her apartment; a small forest which, she hoped, she’d capture, but the more she worked the more frustrated she became. There were so many variants: silver-green, blue-green, gray-green; on and on it went. And the more she mixed the colors on her palette the further away she seemed to be from what she saw.

Maybe tomorrow, she thought, as she swished her brushes in the water, turning it into a perfect blending which she wished would, magically, appear on the paper.

“Okay, Barnaby,” she said to the basset hound who had suddenly awakened and decided that he wanted to go out. “Just a minute.”

As she turned to take him out she accidentally knocked over the water glass, spilling it on what should have been her painting, flooding the page with colored water.

Andi mopped up as quickly as possible with paper towels before turning to Barnaby and heading toward the door.

When they got back from Barnaby’s walk she got a phone call and then got further side-tracked so, eventually, the soaking wet paper remained on her painting desk, forgotten, as she went to bed.

That night Andi dreamt that she had finally achieved conquering Mother Nature’s palette and put it on paper.

At exactly seven-fifty a.m. Barnaby howled his daily alarm clock wake-up call. How he managed to be precise to the minute Andi never figured out, but he managed it daily and Andi got up, threw on some clothes and raced to take Barnaby out for his morning walk.

Twenty minutes later, having given Barnaby his breakfast, Andi returned to her painting table, expecting to clean up the mess she’d left the night before.

She’d hoped for magic and dreamt a magical transformation, but never expected to actually see a Jackson Pollock version of her forest, perfect in every manifestation of color. She’d worked so hard and never achieved her goal. Now all she had to do was to frame her "masterpiece", smile, and take all the credit.

Don't Sweat the Small Stuff, by Doug Bartlett

2/8/2019

It was a wonderful time at the beach, but it always is.
Unfortunately, it was time to head back to the July heat of home. We were halfway there when the water pump on our car went out. We rode the rest of the way in a tow truck.
Upon arriving at our home we discovered the air conditioning was not working. The repairman told us it couldn’t be fixed and it would have to be replaced. If that sounds expensive, it is!
The next day our double oven goes out. We call the appliance repairman. He checks it out and tells us we need an electrician. The electrician says we need the appliance guys (again). This is getting frustrating!
The say things happen in three’s. We should be done, but apparently we are on our second set of three’s. Before I could finish writing this story, my wife now tells me we have no hot water in the house.
Later that day, I am reminded that this is all just small stuff as I walk through the doorway of Room #339 of the intensive care unit of our local hospital to visit my dear friend who recently experienced a massive stroke.

Perspective, by Doug Bartlett

28/7/2019

John was a very successful businessman. Some would say at the expense of spending time with his only son.
One day John decided to forego going to the office in order to take his son fishing. They spent the entire day together but did not catch a single fish.
When they arrived home, John wrote in his diary – “Today was a totally wasted day. I went fishing with my son and we did not catch any fish. The worst day of my life.”
Several years later, John’s son was killed in a car accident. John was going through his son’s possessions when he stumbled upon his son’s diary. Skimming through it he came upon the entry of that uneventful day John had considered totally wasted.
It read – “I went fishing with my dad today. I got to spend the entire day with him. It was the best day of my life.

God Be With You, by Steven Holding

24/7/2019

Is this what it is to be an angel? To be this free, to be unshackled, to be this pure. To know the now so intimately. Who would have ever thought that it could be this simple; to find such bliss and finally embrace it with arms open wide. You can hold your breath if you want to. I promise you. This won’t take long.
Strange, really, the elasticity of time. A cliché, of course. One we are all acutely aware of and yet, right here and right now, a concept that still seems to resonate. We share this linear experience of life. Our only choice; to constantly push forward. Blindly navigate onward into the unknown as we maintain the illusion that this movement is a form of progression. But the speed of each individual journey is never constant. One man’s second is another man’s year. The drag of the watched clock can quickly become the deathbed prayer for one more tiny breath.
But not for me. Not now. Not anymore.
We used to mock those who frittered away such a precious commodity. How about a haiku?
“All we do is sit.
Look at pictures of ourselves.
We miss the moment.”
Peculiar, the avenues a mind can wander down when rushing headlong towards the abyss.
You said goodbye.
Such a common phrase, shared so freely, used so often and still we never really know which one is to be our last. Not until you seize control, shaping your own destiny with confidence and courage. Time enough for just one more platitude; what’s so ‘good’ about them anyway? There’s no answer to that, so, instead, let us consider then comprehend its origins. Recognise the word for what it is; the sneaky, bastard offspring of ‘God Be With You’. Is that truly what you meant? To make that final collection of consonants and vowels a blessing? So many questions, but here’s at least one truth for you.
Your last farewell was like a lance of ice that pierced my beating heart.
Still, despite all of this, despite everything, it’s what I want for you. It’s what I wish for you. I feel I owe an apology to all of those who ever knew me. I was never myself. Not until now. True moments of clarity really are so few and far between.
Goodbye.
It is that which has given me the strength to step out into the heavens, to feel the subtle caress of the wind upon my skin, to do that which we have all at one time dreamed of, to dive towards the end, to finally fly!
To be the something in the sky that turns the whole, damn world into statues.
You used to laugh and say that I was born to make an impact upon this crazy planet, and if the last kiss is to be the cold, hard kiss of concrete, then I welcome it.
Wait. Hang on.
Stop.
No.
Oh no.
I think I’ve changed my………

Pockets, by Jake Zawlacki

24/7/2019

I heard the world from pockets. Minted in 1964. I was at JFKs inauguration. I heard the ‘dudes’ and ‘mans’ and ‘heads’ in Frisco. Ginsberg dropped me one day but Kesey picked me up, flipped me, and put me in his tattered denim. I bought beer and smokes and ice cream mainly. I made it to a piggy bank in some brat named Bezos. He wouldn’t let me go. Cheap bastard.
I finally made it in a roll. Inequality meant fifty of my kind were traded for two of theirs. I stayed in solitary confinement for thirty years. If Sartre thinks hell is a room with two others, what would he think of fifty in a cylinder?
A young man traded me and the others to look for geriatrics. I guess hearing JFK wasn’t rare enough. He forgot about me, but the keys on the desk helped me into his pocket. We went to Finland. I didn’t know until I got there.
My copper chilled. The cold froze the oxidation of Abe’s face, his beard green. Transformed me from the zinc out. He climbed somewhere to some name of some mountain with runic letters and dropped me there, for good luck. He dropped me there to freeze in the Finnish snow for eternity, a long way from 64.

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