Showing posts with label Flash Fiction 2020. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Flash Fiction 2020. Show all posts
Guest Editor’s Note: Setu Flash Fiction Special, May 2020
It is an honor to be the Guest Editor for the Flash Fiction section of Setu for the month of May 2020.
As a writer myself, I love discovering stories by new and established writers. I want to be moved, surprised, in awe, and not be able to put a story down. I want to share new work with others and talk about it with everyone I know. The art of the short story is often lost on many readers believing that they would much rather read a 400-page book. What I love about collections of specific work such as short stories, is that I am able to devour many more stories in the same amount of time. And I believe that it takes skill and deft attention to detail to create a complete story in a limited number of words. I have had the luxury of discovering new work and the authors have now become some of my favorite writers.
It has been a fantastic adventure receiving stories from authors around the world. Humor. Romance. Historical. Heartbreak. Discovery. Accomplishment. A change of perspective. All excellent storytelling. These stories will make you think, some will make you wipe away tears of laughter, or smile at a memory from days gone by. But all of them will make you want to read more.
I present to you Flash Fiction storytelling at its finest.
Bio: Kelli J Gavin of Carver, Minnesota is a Writer, Editor, Blogger and Professional Organizer. Her work can be found with Clarendon House Publishing, The Ugly Writers, Sweatpants & Coffee, Zombie Pirates Publishing, Setu, Love What Matters, and Southwest Media among others. Kelli’s first two books were released in 2019 (I Regret Nothing- A Collection of Poetry and Prose and My Name is Zach- A Teenage Perspective on Autism). Her 3rd and 4th books will be published in 2020 and 2021. Kelli is currently writing a book of fiction short stories. She has also co-authored 15 anthology books.
Her blog can be found at www.kellijgavin.blogspot.com
As a writer myself, I love discovering stories by new and established writers. I want to be moved, surprised, in awe, and not be able to put a story down. I want to share new work with others and talk about it with everyone I know. The art of the short story is often lost on many readers believing that they would much rather read a 400-page book. What I love about collections of specific work such as short stories, is that I am able to devour many more stories in the same amount of time. And I believe that it takes skill and deft attention to detail to create a complete story in a limited number of words. I have had the luxury of discovering new work and the authors have now become some of my favorite writers.
It has been a fantastic adventure receiving stories from authors around the world. Humor. Romance. Historical. Heartbreak. Discovery. Accomplishment. A change of perspective. All excellent storytelling. These stories will make you think, some will make you wipe away tears of laughter, or smile at a memory from days gone by. But all of them will make you want to read more.
I present to you Flash Fiction storytelling at its finest.
-Kelli J Gavin
Guest Editor: Flash Fiction Special Issue, Setu, May 2020
Her blog can be found at www.kellijgavin.blogspot.com
Attachment- Steve Carr
Bio: Steve Carr has had over 370 short stories published internationally in print and online magazines, literary journals, reviews and anthologies since June, 2016. He has been nominated for Pushcart Prize twice. His Twitter is @carrsteven960. His website is https://www.stevecarr960.com/ He is on Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/steven.carr.35977
Doris stopped in front of the plate glass window of The Old Refrain second
hand store and gazed at the items on display. Among a collection of junk stood
a statue on a wood base. Doris stared at it intently, trying to figure out what
it was a statue of. It had normal appearing ceramic arms and hands that reached
into the air as if grasping for something, a wire torso that was twisted like a
corkscrew, three plaster legs, each shaped like different geometric shapes – a
triangle, rectangle and oval – and a wooden head that resembled a walnut. She
left the second hand store behind and walked on to the coffee shop, but hard as
she tried, she couldn't erase the sculpture from her mind.
She entered the coffee shop, stepped
up to the counter, and took her leather change purse out of her pocket.
Carol Depsky turned away from the
espresso machine and leaned on the counter. “Russell was in here yesterday
afternoon,” she said.
Doris opened the change purse and
took out a five dollar bill. “I really don’t care,” she replied nonchalantly.
“He couldn’t commit to a relationship and I need something long lasting.” She placed
the bill on the counter. “Give me a double latte.”
A few minutes later she carried her
drink to a table by the window and sat sipping on the latte while thinking
about the object she had seen in the window of the second hand store. When she
finished the latte she left the coffee shop,
and went to the second hand store and gazed at the sculpture.
#
Months later, for possibly the
thousandth time, Doris walked around the statue that sat on her table. She knew
it was only her imagination, but the statue’s head turned, following her
movement, and its arms changed position, albeit imperceptibly.
She walked away from the object and
opened the clothes closet door. The aroma of Russell’s cologne that had gotten
on his shirts that once hung in the closet remained. She grabbed a blouse and
then shut the door harder than she had intended, sending a vibration through
the room that shook the statue. Its left hand fell onto the table. She rushed
to the table and gingerly picked up the hand and held it between her fingers
and stared, dumbfounded, at the small drop of blood on the object’s wrist.
#
A spring breeze that blew in through
the open window. Doris flipped through a stack of photographs in a shoe box.
She pulled out one of Russell lying in her bed and placed it on the top of
other photographs of him; one of him in her kitchen, one of him sitting on the
sofa, and more.
“I don’t know why I kept them this
long,” she said to the statue that stared at her with a blank expression on its
walnut-like face.
She carried the shoe box to the
dresser and placed it in the bottom drawer along with figurines wrapped in pink
tissue paper given to her by her grandmother. She thought she would one day
give them to her own daughter, if she ever had one; a daughter she once hoped
to have with Russell. She returned to the statue and gently ran her fingers
down its wire torso, smiling as it twisted into a new position.
She picked up the photographs of
Russell and tore each one in two and tossed the halves out the window and
watched the pieces as they were caught by the breeze and carried out of
sight.
#
Doris stood in front of the window
of The Old Refrain second hand store and gazed thoughtfully at the costume
jewelry on display. Holding the statue, with her arms wrapped around it, she
whispered into the side of its walnut head as if whispering into an ear. She
giggled and then went into the store. Ten minutes later she came out and walked
to the coffee shop. She placed the statue on a table by the window and then
went to the counter.
Carol Depsky turned around from the
espresso machine and let out a gasp of surprise. “Doris, I haven’t seen you for
such a long time. I thought after what happened with Russell you might have
left town.”
“I’ve been very busy,” Doris said.
“I’m in a new relationship.” She held up her left hand and wriggled her fourth
finger that was adorned with a faux diamond ring.
Anonymous- Umair Mirxa
Bio: Umair Mirxa lives and writes in Karachi, Pakistan. His first published story, ‘Awareness’, appeared on Spillwords Press. He has since had stories accepted for publication in anthologies from Zombie Pirate Publishing, Blood Song Books, Black Hare Press, Iron Faerie Publishing, Clarendon House Publications, Fantasia Divinity Magazine & Publishing, and The ReAnimated Writers Press.He is a massive J.R.R. Tolkien fan, loves everything to do with mythology, fantasy, and history, and wishes with all his heart that dragons were real. When he's not writing, he enjoys reading novels and comic books, playing video games, listening to music, and watching movies, TV shows, and football as an Arsenal FC fan.
Balthazar had never really been
attracted to redheads, especially ones with fair skin. Given the choice, he
preferred raven hair and olive complexions. The woman who sat before him now,
however, was the exception to every rule.
The first he’d known of her approach
was a hint of berries in the air. Odd.
He didn’t expect such pleasures in the pigsty he’d chosen for his watering hole
tonight. Still, he’d known life to be stranger.
“Buy a girl a drink?” she said,
casually taking the seat next to him. The perfume of her skin was intoxicating.
“Eh, why ne?” he said. “Wha’ll ye
have?” I’ll risk it.
“I’ll let you know,” she leaned in,
drawing his eyes. “In a moment. First, I’ll have your name.”
Her voice spoke to him of love and
warmth and happiness. Embraced him so as never to let go. Caressed, oh ever so
gently, the flames of his desire.
“Balt. Ye can call me Balt,” he
said, wrenching his eyes up to look into her own.
There, he found new treasures,
buried deep and shining bright. She could
finish a man with those eyes. The strain he felt in his breeches told him
he wasn’t wrong. Spellbound, he traced her features with his eyes. He could
almost taste her lips as they curled up into a smile.
“Short for Balthazar, no doubt,” she
said. “And that is what I shall call you. It is proper.”
“Call me wh’ever ye want, luv. Wha’s
a lass like ye doin’ in a shite-full dump as ‘ere, anyho?” Why is she here? Could it be
a trap?
“Oh, the same as you, I suppose. A
girl wants to quench her thirst. Days like these, there are few places she can
go.”
“Wha’s yer name then?” he asked.
“An’ ye still ha’e nuffin’ te drink. Oi, barkeep!”
“Hush. I shall have one presently.
Let me, for the moment, simply enjoy the pleasures of your company.”
She crossed her legs, and Balthazar
let his eyes wander. From the toe of her boot, riding up the hem of her dress
to her waist, and exploring the abundant delights on offer around her neckline.
She was voluptuous in ways no woman had any right to be, and the dress clung to
every perfect curve in all the manners a man can commit sin.
“Ye haen’t even given me yer name,”
he said. I’m bored, now.
“What, pray tell, would you do with
one, were it given?”
“Why, cherish it, ’course. Use it,
for te remember ye.”
“My, aren’t you the most charming of
devils. And you would wish to remember me?”
“’Course!” I remember them all.
“Even if I were to stand, and leave
right now?”
“Look ‘ere, lady. It’s jus’ yer name.
Give it or don’t.”
“Ah, but it isn’t, is it? Mama
always said be careful who you give your name. They have power, see? Names do.”
“Pfft! Le’ me a’least buy ye tha’
drink.” I think I like her.
“Oh, don’t huff! It ill becomes you.
In any case, what does it really matter? Call me Aurora for the dawn. Would it
change how you think of me? Think of the prettiest name you know. Remember me
by it. Aphrodite, maybe?”
“I’m ou’ta ‘ere, if teasin’ me all
ye’s about,” said Balthazar, dropping a few coins onto the bar.
“You did promise me a drink. I think
I’ll have it now. Not here, though.”
He offered his arm, and led her out
into the street. She directed him into an alley a ways down. Enough of these games already.
He pinned her up against a wall, and
sank his fangs into her neck. The taste of her, the scent of berries mixed with
blood, the feel of her body pressed against his own - together, they made him
almost careless. Almost.
She had neither screamed nor
resisted. He was too good a hunter to allow it. Softly though, she now moaned,
sinking into his trance.
“Cassandra,” she whispered. “My
name’s Cassandra. Will you remember me?”
Balthazar smiled. At last, he could
control her. Compel her to his will. He decided to keep her - for a while, at
least.
“Of course, I will,” he said,
holding her up as she fainted against him. “I remember them all, darling.”
She was right. Names did have power. Her cohorts
could wait at the end of the alley all night. He gathered her up in his arms,
and vanished into the night. Alexandra
would like a taste. She loved redheads.Mark and Martina- Beate Sigriddaughter
Bio: Beate Sigriddaughter, www.sigriddaughter.net , lives in Silver City, New Mexico, where she was poet laureate from 2017 - 2019. Unsolicited Press published her poetry collection Emily in 2020. She posts other women's work on her blog Writing In A Woman's Voice.
Mark was the breadwinner, an attorney.
Martina was the dancer. It suited them well. He had great stage presence in
front of the jury, blond, handsome, suave. She twirled in the kitchen, on the
living room parquet floor; she danced with their two children, Haley and Tim,
and sent them to ballet school. Both children liked it and she was pleased.
Martina was lovely but also strict with the children and she kept a wonderful
house. From time to time she regretted that she didn't get as much spotlight in
life as she would have liked. Mark kept his thick blond hair way into his
forties, with a longish lock over his forehead that he had actually practiced
tossing in front of the bathroom mirror for alluring effect. Martina kept her
slender figure, despite the gourmet meals she cooked. The children were proud
of their mom because she was graceful and smart. They were proud of both their
parents, really. Mark was the easier parent, cuddly and permissive when he was
not annihilating his opponents in front of a riveted jury. At home Martina was
the bossy one, though, so it seemed to count more when the children were able
to impress her.
The one thing missing from Martina's life
was dancing, real dancing, not just cavorting with the children. Mark claimed
he was simply too clumsy and couldn't understand rhythm. From time to time they
swayed on the local dance floor to slow music in close embrace. It wasn't very
satisfying. In her family there had always been a lot of dancing and they all
danced well. Ricardo, Pablo, Fernando. Sometimes they danced with her in a
club, but dancing with her own brothers wasn't exactly satisfying either.
Besides, more often than not they were dancing with their own wives.
As defense attorney, Mark
occasionally had trouble collecting fees and ended up doing pro bono work. It wasn't that big a
deal. He still made a more than comfortable living for all of them. One time,
defending a young woman successfully on a spurious assault charge, she
tearfully declared she had no money left to pay the remainder of her fee when
the victorious verdict came in. Her sister, in attendance for the celebration,
had no money either, but she ran a dance studio and offered to give Mark and
Martina dance lessons to work off what her sister still owed.
"No, it's not our thing," Mark
said. But then he saw Martina's eyes, filled with longing. "Actually,
maybe we could try," he said.
Martina's face glowed with pleasure.
They signed up for a sampler series of
ballroom dances. In class he was clumsy at first, as he had expected all along.
Waltz wasn't for him. Rumba was a little better. Merengue was easy, but it
didn't inspire him. And then tango happened. It was his dance. He could be
flamboyant. He could be dramatic. He could be masterful. Martina was ecstatic.
This was how it should have been all along.
The
teacher complimented him. Their fellow students adored him. He was in his
element. He was willing to dance this dance for the rest of his life. Maybe go
to tango conventions. There seemed to be so many all over the country. Maybe go
study in Argentina. Why not? Or Europe. Paris, he learned, had been a hotbed
for expatriate tangueros in the early
days.
Soon
when it came to lady's choice, he was swarmed by eager partners. Soon Martina
was sitting out dance after dance while he was being courted and clearly
enjoying himself.
For Valentine's Day he bought the family
tickets to Buenos Aires for next summer's vacation. He told the children but
asked them to keep it a secret from their mother until the day came. All three
of them were excited.
Meanwhile
he wanted to take some private lessons. During their first private lesson he
noticed that Martina was quiet, irritated, it seemed. Must have had a bad day.
He'd ask her about it later. The teacher kept praising him, though, and it
warmed his heart. How far he had come, finally granting Martina's wish to have
a dancer of her own in her life.
Martina hedged about scheduling their
next lesson. She had too many other appointments the following week, and apparently
the week after as well. They finally left it that they would call.
He knew something was wrong but couldn't figure
out what it was.
"You've been
quiet," he said. "What's wrong?"
"I just think we are
getting a bit too old to dance," she said.
He wanted to protest. But
suddenly he understood. She was the dancer. He changed the tickets. The family
went to Athens that summer, one of the cradles of Western civilization. The
children never said a word about the change of venue.
The Shine of a Sinful Heart- Ximena Escobar
Bio: Ximena Escobar writes short stories and poetry. Originally from Chile, she lives in Nottingham with her family. You can follow her progress on Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/ximenautora/
Her small chest woke her; the heart
rattling inside it. Like an alarm clock palpitating in secrecy, until the time
came that she could no longer ignore it. She searched for the key in her
pocket. She inserted it into the small brass lock. The smell of raw flesh
slithered from under the lid, stirring her self-adoring hunger.
One by one her sins, embedded jewels
in the breathing mass of her heart, stared at her like glowing eyes. Seven sins
twinkling; seven sins winking like guardian angels of darkness. One for every
day of the week, amulets for the lurking threat of each dawn. Each a treasure
kept secret, so she wouldn’t have to defend them.
She watched it beat like a throbbing
wound, a fish to swallow whole, eat to expand her being—wear like a heavy
medallion and without the minutest ounce of guilt, with all the pride and
shamelessness, stamp the weight of her uniqueness on this earth.
Beauty looked back at her in the
mirror. The shine of a sinful heart like the dawn of a new reign. The glow of
young eyes uncreased by a bitterness which, thanks to her immorality, she’d
chosen not to taste—even if she had every reason to make a passion of her
dissatisfaction, because everyone has reasons. Where, oh where, would she be
without her sins? Scathed knees of childhood lingering under the denim; so many
times she’d apologised to God for disagreeing with him.
She brought it to her ear so she
could better hear it; her nose, so she could better smell it. Rubbed the slimy
flesh on her lips, licked the delicious aroma of a rupture. Thanks to her sins,
shiny forbidden apples of wisdom, she was alive! A dagger in a huntsman’s hand,
she’d known to wrap her legs around him that a poor boar couldn’t escape the
bloodied fate she gifted him, when its heart replaced hers on a queen’s
dreadful plate… Sinking her teeth into its rawness, blood spilled on the stone
like a ceremonious farewell of her imprisonment.
She found herself coughing, swaying
like lamb on a man’s shoulder. She let him slide her down onto his chest, place
a kiss of forever on her lips. But as their faces parted to contemplate each
other, a spark that wasn’t in her eyes before, a spark at the forefront like an
incoming train, shone in his mirror eyes. She’d never looked so beautiful… A
happily ever after would never suffice her.
Blue, Grey and Lavender- Mehreen Ahmed
Bio: Mehreen Ahmed is an award-winning, internationally published and critically acclaimed author. She has written Novels, Novella, Short Stories, Creative Nonfiction, Flash Fiction, Academic, Prose Poetry, Memoirs, Essays and Journalistic Write-Ups. Her works have been podcast, anthologised and translated in German, Greek and Bengali. She was born and raised in Bangladesh. At the moment, she lives in Australia.
Grass had become dehydrated. Trees poured out saffron. Brittle straws clung to mother earth, a stream of orange lawn. The soil was made of sand. It caved in and became hollow land. A bowl for my soul where I hid like a mole. I felt nothing at first. Then a hunger rose. I ate my hunger, I walked in a dream. Dream of life. There was silence in my heart. It whispered an autumnal dirge. On the outpost of a war, a fallen soldier, noted lights of nuanced whites, and many ugly plights.
Then I stood before a ship. This, but a spectre of a ship, full of passengers on board. They held globed sceptres, and goblets which lacked lustre; drunken spectators, smiley faces of lime plasters. They were a flying apparitions of greater imaginations, once Kings and Queens, in powerful human bodies. They were here, fighting like crazy for the love of land, now pushed up daisies. I waited out on the shore, as the ship slowly anchored. Deep into the blues of an oceanic wonder, I watched to catch the Kings’ flounder. They rose from their seats and somersaulted, for they'd become sprites of glowing gases.
I wondered why they looked like this?
Also, the phantom ship, a vessel of uncovered ribs. A telltale sign of no
mortal needs, why did they drink and eat indeed? Then I realised, it was just a
flash of the worldly pleasures, unabashedly brash. The clinging of my
flesh under skinned mesh, I'd passed into the sublime and couldn't care
less; briefly without a cure, my mind wasn't too sure. But I could breathe
spots of fresh air, in this warfare, except there were no cries, only stilly
stares. The bullets were gone, the soldiers slept in peace, into their little
crypts. Some had shut eyelids, others in half-open slits.
In a daze, this fuzzy maze, was I caught up in another war craze? The dances of the lights led me on, but I felt like a dunce myself in tattered clothes and all. Because, I was still wearing a soldier’s uniform, but pretty sure I didn’t need one. Then I felt a rush of adrenaline. I was at boundary lane, until I heard a call, from my mom at dawn. She’d come into my room, a patched blanket hot off the loom, she was no loon, neither a shadow of doom.
“Wake up, wake up, you fool,” she then crooned.
Orphaned Once Again- Abu Siddik
Bio: Abu Siddik is a writer residing in Berhampore, Murshidabad, India, where he is an Assistant Professor. He has contributed to various e-journals and anthologies, and has also published three books. Website: www.abusiddik.com
“Who is there?” asked a stranger, gasping for a breath, in a nasal voice from a thicket at the outskirts of the forest.
“It’s me, the watchman of the cemetery. But who is the devil at this evil hour?” shrilly riposted the old watchman. “Uh…the winds rage and the clouds burst. The lightning blinds eyes. Boughs bend to the hedges, and the devil is after me, uh….”
An aged, rickety bearded man, shabbily clothed, scurried through the nettles and pleaded with folded hands, “Pardon me, sir! O, the howling winds, raving clouds! Have pity on the orphan, sir! I’ve lost my way in the wilderness.”
“Eh! Who are you?” agitatedly asked the watchman while twitching his slackened cheeks.
“An orphan who has lost his way in the storm,” repeated the stranger in the same nasal voice. He looked harrowed.
“No orphanage here, man!” gibed the old caretaker and next he indulgently assured, “But don’t worry, friend. You are at home! Feel cool in my cozy corner. Moreover, I’m a keeper of a friendly home, an acre of burial ground. Cheer up, friend! Welcome to an untrammelled patch of long grass and scented weeds.”
The watchman took the stranger to his crooked hut. The stranger bent and entered the shack and stealthily scanned the gloomy corners. The hovel was empty. A hurricane was furtively flickering at one corner. There was no furniture or utensils, and no traces of living. Strange!
Both sat on a sack on the floor and smoked. Rain pitter-pattered on the tin roof. Outside it was dark and winds groaned and moaned. The forest flashed with lightning.
“So, friend, how did you lose your parents?” soberly asked the watchman while placing a pinch of snuff into his nostrils.
The stranger coughed, waved his hands in front of his face and grudged, “Who says I have lost my parents. O, heavens! They are hale and hearty! They run a chicken farm with the aid of a local boy and make money in all seasons. O foul-mouthed, evil-eyed old haggard! God saves your nasty soul!”
“But you say you are an orphan,” feebly protested the watchman with a baffled look.
“So I am!” claimed the stranger with animation. His face flushed and eyes gleamed.
“How?” the watchman plainly asked and argued, “An orphan is a child whose parents are dead. Am I wrong?”
“Am I a child?” the stranger quizzically asked and thoughtfully stroked his grey, short beard.
“No, you are almost close to the grave!” solemnly said the watchman.
“My words you borrow,” plainly put the stranger and then demanded, “touch me and say a mere truth. Perhaps you are afraid of pure truths which God prescribes. Why do you waste your life juggling with man-made words? Pooh!” He looked irritated and casually asked for another smoke.
“Stop babbling at my sacred yard!” blared the watchman. “Do you think I am a fool? Once I was a gentleman, polished and perfumed, serving men of power and pomp in big houses. But because of fate, I am destined to watch a graveyard now.” His voice choked as his eyes moistened.
“I don’t differ,” nodded the stranger and poorly protested, “I only claim that orphans need not be only fatherless or motherless. At my age a widower is an orphan! My parents are fine with their farm. But my heart, my love, my life reached heaven yesteryear.” He looked ashen and extremely weak. His eyes were teary. He hopelessly flung the dead butt of the biri (a common and cheap smoke among peasants and working class people of Bengal) to a corner and asked again for a smoke.
“Get out of my hut,” the watchman yelled in fury, “who is an orphan, you or me? Eh… if you are an orphan, triply I’m so! My parents are dead, wife is dead, and my children drove me out of my house. The village headman showed mercy and kept me to guard this damned yard. And here in this cheerless maze a lone sulking soul is stinking! How many years? Have you any idea?” boomed the watchman contemptuously and he looked fiery.
A silence followed.
As the winds ceased, the rains also slowed. The sky was still overcast. Frogs croaked nearby, fireflies danced over the shrubbery and yonder beetles shrilly sang without an end. A skulk of foxes squeaked somewhere in the forest.
“But, brother, don’t mourn for your loss. It’s normal,” the watchman broke his silence and sought to palliate the stranger’s pain, “or in another way, there is nothing to grieve. And in God’s world nobody is an orphan. At our age we can’t marry again! So keep quiet and coolly pass the rest of your days. Moreover, here waits our welcoming home. It’s luxurious, fenced with long grass and fragrant flowers. There is also the shade of overhanging yew trees.”
“Are you a priest or a watchman?” huskily asked the stranger and darted the dead butt and inspected the dim hut again. “Not even a bronze glass or a plate or a stack of logs!” he muttered and moaned.
“Are you parched?” the watchman affectionately asked.
“No,” the stranger curtly said.
For a minute nobody spoke further.
The rains again began to patter on the tin. Suddenly a torch flashed nearby and a man whistled. The stranger sprang to his feet and hastily ran towards the forest.
“Hey, where are you parting at this ruffled hour? Hey! Ahoy! Don’t move.” The watchman gawkily followed the stranger skirting the soggy weeds with his stick. His legs were unsteady.
“Ruffled night is our friend, man. Keep watching your home. Again we meet if God wishes!” the stranger shouted from a distance and speedily receded into the forest.
The watchman panted and fumbled for his way. The wick of his sooty lantern abruptly died. He smelt evil in the dark.
He lay sleepless the entire night. A thousand vicious thoughts crowded his restless soul. When cocks crowed in the village, he hobbled to the yard. And one by one he checked the graves.
Yes, his fear came true! The nubile girl who hanged herself a week ago was dug out of her grave.
In the afternoon the headman called an urgent meeting with the villagers. A decision was unanimously taken. The poor watchman was readily dismissed.
He became orphaned once again.
Flight:1990- LA Lantz
Bio: LA Lantz is a graduate of the Vermont College of Fine Arts. Her fiction has appeared in literary magazines including Gargoyle, the QPB Literary Review, Thrice Fiction, and Sandbox. She has also been published in the Mondo Marilyn (St. Martin's Press) and Kiss the Sky anthologies (Paycock Press).
Once Kevin
had learned to fly—trampolining off his mother's mattress when she left the
apartment for her fix—he wanted nothing more. Who would? By age seven he knew
that pleasure was temporary: the short-lived bounce from bed toward ceiling,
the number of jumps before he smacked the floor. The bed frame itself was
fleeting, sold by one of his mother's enterprising boyfriend/dealers. Kevin
didn’t find another way to fly until, during high school, the Job Corps people
sent him from D.C. to a training center in rural Oklahoma.
The fat man
who taught them advanced data processing said he'd never seen a black boy go
for horses in such a big way. But the health instructor, whose soft voice made sexually
transmitted diseases sound better than he intended, countered. "You never
heard of buffalo soldiers?" Kevin didn't listen to their argument any more
than he listened to lessons on keyboarding, drug abuse, and prophylactics. He
didn't have to understand why he loved horses.
Kevin aged
out of the training at 21. Back in D.C., he didn’t find a job. He didn’t know
where his mother was and found himself in many strange beds until, deep in Rock
Creek Park, he found a surprising forest in the city and the Park Police Horse
Stables. He slept in a corner, grooming horses for his keep, until someone
decided his presence didn't look right. At night, yes, Kevin had ridden horses
through the park, but he'd stayed off the traveled roads and the golf course.
He'd startled only deer.
Next,
sitting the lip of the dry fountain at Dupont Circle, Kevin watched the bicycle
couriers resting their bicycles in the shade between jobs. He didn't try to
talk to them, but watched how they waited, how they cursed each other, how
they wiped clean and
abused their bikes. He felt a familiar ache and anticipation.
Eventually,
next to a dumpster, Kevin found his own scratched black bike with 10 speeds. It
was a Schwinn. Kevin got a job. He was not a good courier. The bicycle, although
sturdy, wasn't intended for such work. The heavy frame wasn't suited to darting
in and out of traffic, or avoiding opening car doors.
By this
time too, he was sick, although he was just realizing it. He'd always been
thin. Now he was thinner. When he hit thinnest, he would have to find out what
was wrong. In the Metro train entrance where he slept, a few guys had gotten
thin until they died. He didn't want to think, only ride.
The
couriers laughed at his bicycle. It took money to strip a bike's heavy, clunky
pedals or handlebars and outfit it with bare, lightweight parts. Their bikes
must fly, but Kevin couldn’t ask to borrow one. The best he could do was sand
off the scratched black paint, the decal, until he hit the shiny metal frame.
It was, of course, scratched, but Kevin felt better.
He was as
daring as any courier. Daring was no challenge when you were fed lack of
self-regard with baby formula. The couriers still laughed. His daring was
stupid because his bike wasn't equal to the challenge. Common sense said that
physical boldness should be balanced by equal advantage in your steed.
The bike
was to Kevin like his mother had been. They served him as best they could. He
loved the bike more: she was kinder, let him fly more. He'd loved his mother
most when she’d fallen back on the bed, directing him to release the tie around
her arm. She'd said, "Up here it's beautiful." When he'd once climbed
up with her, she'd smacked him for rocking her too much. She meant up in the
sky, wherever she was floating.
One day the
bike carried him to a healthcare clinic for homeless people. Kevin was
thinnest. He had difficulty making runs, had to stop to catch his breath, might
forget where he was going although he usually had a good memory for streets. He
asked for a test.
Sometime
later, he and the bike were skimming the sidewalk perimeter of Dupont Circle,
watching the chess players. A van rolled beside him, as if following him, and a
woman called his name.
At the red
light, she jumped out and let a man slide into the driver's seat. She ran to
Kevin; he didn't go to her. Her nose ring was familiar.
"I'm
Barbara. The PA from the clinic."
Kevin
nodded. Couriers, watching, leaned on bikes. Other bikes rested on the grass.
Kevin didn't have to look to know this.
"You
didn't come for your test results."
Kevin had
forgotten. Without a calendar or clock, he often forgot.
Barbara
said, "It's important. Come see me at the clinic tomorrow." She
touched his arm in a way that was comforting, but her eyes were not reassuring.
When he
pedaled back to the couriers, he felt the bike's padded seat cut into his butt.
"That
your girl?" asked Roscoe, removing his courier bag, drinking from a Coke.
Kevin
blinked, sensing a trap. "Nah. She wanted some, but I had to cut her
loose."
Roscoe
snorted, "Yeah?” He raised his eyebrows. “Why’s’at, man?" Roscoe was mean, but Kevin couldn't hate
anyone who rode a bike.
This was a
conversation Kevin'd overheard the other night. He took it for his own:
"I
told her to meet me at the Space, but she never showed. She said she came by
but hadn't seen my bike.
"My
bike? I told her, of course it was there. I said, what's it look like? She
said, don't be stupid, it's blue."
Roscoe
laughed without looking at Kevin's bike, as did the other couriers.
He
agreed. "You had no choice." In the wash their laughter, Kevin
granted the bicycle a victory lap around the sidewalk encircling the park,
raising his arms to the ceiling of sky above his head. Up here, for now, life
was beautiful.A Trail Revisited- S. Collin Ellsworth
Bio: In the writing world, Sarah Collins is known as Minnesota based author, S. Collin Ellsworth. She published the novels, "Answered", "Finding the Route 40 Phantom", and "The House Joey Built" under her pseudonym. Ms. Ellsworth also hosts the podcast, "10000 Lakes, 10000000 Books", featuring interviews with other Minnesota authors. Although born in Dayton, OH, Ms. Collins has called Minnesota home for over thirty years. She is a graduate of Minnesota State University Moorhead. Along with her life partner, Matthew, Ms. Collins raises her daughter and son along the trails of Nine Mile Creek and Moor Park in Bloomington, MN.
Rebecca drove one of the few assets the judge granted her away from the courthouse. The proceedings ended quickly. After a decade of fighting, there was nothing left to say.
With the kids still in school, Rebecca drove aimlessly until it was time to get them. She mindlessly drove around downtown, uptown, and into the suburbs. Somehow she ended up at the nature reserve outside the city’s border, the same nature reserve where she met Him. “What am I, a masochist?” Rebecca said to herself.
Rebecca got out of the car and walked the trail. Her suit and designer flats were ill-suited for the wet, muddy terrain. Brown water seeped into her shoes. Isn’t this great, Rebecca thought, after being dragged through the mud in the divorce, I am covering myself with it!
Rebecca saw a heterosexual couple holding hands ahead of her . The sun generated a sparkle from the girl’s left hand. Isn’t this great, Rebecca internally retorted. I came to forget the past.
The only way to get in front of the couple on the narrow trail was to break through their hands. She squashed the urge to be obnoxious. The couple stopped at the dock overlooking the pond. “Here would be pretty,” the female said.
The male nodded in agreement.
This would have been the perfect time for Rebecca to continue onward and be rid of them. Instead, she stopped as well, looking out at the view she used to admire with Him.
“It will be a small party,” the female said. “I am sure the guests won’t mind standing if we offer them a pretty view.”
“Maybe,” the male said.
“There’s a tree that grows sideways to the left,” Rebecca called out. “A bride and groom can walk up the trunk. It makes for great Instagram.”
The couple looked at her. Rebecca gasped. She stood in front of Herself, nearly fifteen years ago, with Him! They walked through her. Rebecca followed them to all the spots they had considered: the pond, the hill that overlooks the prairies, and her favorite spot they considered, the fallen tree.
Rebecca shouted at them to get their attention as they chattered about how perfect their wedding pictures would look at each spot. Rebecca needed to tell her younger self not to be blinded. Her younger self remained fixated on the meaningless details of creating a wedding that demonstrated the magic of the love she and her ex shared. The wedding didn’t happen the way they planned that day. Rebecca’s mother-in-law influenced her son to have the ceremony at his family’s church and the reception at a nearby hotel.
“Not only that,” Rebecca yelled, “One of you will have to sacrifice your career for the children. It won’t be him! You’ll find yourself the only one willing to compromise to make anything work! It will be all for naught!”
The ghost of her younger self and Him disappeared.
Rebecca walked back to the pond. Her sad reflection broke into two, forming into the faces of her children. Rebecca shook her head as she realized she nearly tried to erase their existence. The marriage wasn’t all bad. Her children made it worth it.
Rebecca walked to her car. It was time to pick them up and begin their new normal. In this normal, she wouldn’t have to compromise.
The Potato Chip Incident- J.A. Guynn
Bio: Living in the Houston, TX area, J.A. Guynn started writing in 2015. He writes sci-fi and fantasy with occasional trips into literary fiction. Currently, J.A. is unpublished but working on the Branded trilogy, an epic high fantasy story. Plans are to publish Book 1: Skald this year.
My eyes jumped, repeatedly, from the potato chip pinched between my thumb and index finger to the carnage now dominating the room. Red blood-spattered odd patterns on the wall, body parts of various sizes scattered about, and a disturbing amount of yellow-green ooze spread slowly from near the center of the room. I struggled to make sense of what happened.
It started simply. Craving a snack and knowing the vending machines had recently been restocked, I set out. After several wrong turns through the maze-like hallways, I found my prize… a bag of chips. Munching on the way back to my desk, I never suspected how bad it could be to open the wrong door.
More focused eating than watching my surroundings, I stepped through the door. Someone cleared their throat, startling me. I looked up to see four men in white coats, three with their backs to the door and one turned toward me; NASA credentials easily visible.
“You aren’t authorized for this area,” he barked.
About to apologize and back out of the room, I caught sight of what was behind him; three beings, each about one and a half meters tall, with dark green skin that glistened under the fluorescent lighting.
They were vaguely humanoid in shape except lacking obvious arms. I stood there, mouth open and potato chip in hand, as one of the beings moved toward me in an odd, sliding motion. As it passed the line of men I noticed it left a streak of clear viscous fluid on the floor.
I held out my hand. “Potato chip?”
A thin appendage darted from near the top of the creature’s head, wrapped around the salty snack, and yanked it from me. I grabbed another chip to demonstrate eating it. Flaps of skin on, what I assumed to be, the being’s neck started to vibrate. A noise somewhere between static and screaming filled the room.
I wasn’t ready for what came next.
Another appendage shot out, grabbed the bag from my hand, and whipped it toward the wall. Potato chips flew everywhere, several of them landing on the strange beings. The creatures joined in a shocking symphony as I noticed their skin discoloring everywhere a chip stuck to them.
“Everyone out! Alert the decon squad!” someone shouted, as we rushed toward the door.
I managed to make it out before something grabbed the back of my shirt. I looked back into the terrified eyes of the NASA researcher.
As he lost his grip on my shirt, his priority shifted from escaping to securing the room. The door slammed, muffling the shrill static-like scream now joined by the shrieks of people in mortal terror.
I ran, looking for a phone, or a weapon, or a person … anything that might help. After several turns down endless halls. I spotted a red phone, with no keypad, on the wall. Grabbing the handset, I ranted, “Help! They need help! I have no idea where I am, but they need help in there!”
Slumping to the floor, I breathed heavily while trying to grasp what was happening. It seemed like an eternity before a small squad of security officers appeared.
“What’s going on?” one of them asked.
I flinched before looking at him. “A room, nearby, I think. Four men… umm… researchers, with three other… things. There was a… a… a… umm… misunderstanding, I guess. One of the things freaked out. I think it killed everyone.”
“Where?”
Shrugging, I did my best to explain. “I don’t remember exactly. I took a wrong turn. I… I’m lost. All I wanted was some chips.” I looked at my hand, noticed I was still holding a potato chip, and giggled.
Someone slapped me. A pair of hands grabbed my shirt and hauled me off the floor. “This isn’t funny. Get it together. Retrace your steps.”
I nodded vigorously then shivered, adrenalin wearing off. Everything looked the same. Stark walls and flat white doors conspired against me, forcing me to guess where I’d been. I was about to give up but noticed an odor and headed toward it.
As I moved, the smell became more pronounced and offensive. The guards, noticing the stench, murmured behind me. I was too focused on finding the room to pay attention to what they said.
I noticed a closed door with the handle turned down. It had to be the right door. I pointed. “In there.”
The lead guard approached the door, baton in hand, and pushed. “Something’s blocking it.” He motioned for me to move back then pointed to two men, “You left side, you right. Everyone else, fan out behind me. If anything comes out, beat it down.”
Backing up a few steps, he charged and planted his boot near the door handle. It moved slightly and the odor became an almost physical presence. Continuing his forward motion, he bashed into the door. It opened wider. Whatever rested against it made slurping sound sliding across the floor.
The men with a clear view of the room immediately vomited.
The lead guard choked out “clear” before he threw up, stumbling back with his eyes clenched shut.
I took a deep breath and summoned the courage to approach the door, to see the aftermath.
I’ll go to my grave with two things etched in my brain. One, the sight of all that gore. The other is the first thought that entered my mind. “The incident report I will be forced to file will start with a very specifically worded warning against giving potato chips to unknown creatures.”
Joe’s Trip to the Library- S.B. Borgersen
Bio: Internationally published, S.B. Borgersen writes, knits socks, and walks her smashing dogs on the south shore of Nova Scotia, Canada. Her favoured genres are short and micro fiction, and poetry. She has fourteen draft novellas gathering dust.Sue’s collection of 150 micro fictions is to be published by Unsolicited Press in 2021.www.sueborgersen.com
“I’ll be okay, thank you,”
Joe says, with a smile. He’s packed according to his routine list.
Emergency contact number:
check. Torch: check. Library card: check. Travel card: check.
Water bottle: check.
Peppermints: check.
He shuffles down the front
garden path, brushing his hand along the pink geraniums. The
gate squeaks. He wishes
he’d oiled it yesterday. Joe almost stops and goes back for the oil
can. But no, he carries on
to the bus stop.
*
Imelda worries from the
moment the gate squeaks shut. As Joe disappears around the
corner into Penzance
Avenue, she’s pretty sure he’ll get himself lost again. She’s written
down step-by-step
instructions: Number 11 bus to the town centre. Left and left again to
the library. Railway books
are under ‘transport - aisle 14. On leaving library turn right
and right again for the bus
stop. Number 12 bus to Penzance Avenue. Turn left for home.
She makes herself a pot of
tea at 4 o’clock. Joe should be home by now. She slowly
dunks her digestive biscuit
but, with her preoccupation for Joe’s safety, it disintegrates
and sinks to the bottom of
her Royal Albert. Imelda pushes aside the net curtains,
watching for him, her ears
pricked for the squeaky gate.
*
Joe sits at the train
station. He knows it isn’t the library. He knows that he didn’t turn left
and left again. This is so
much better, he tells himself, breathing in that railway smell.
Hunting through his
backpack for Imelda’s instructions, he feels the water bottle and
hears the crackle of the
bag of peppermints. He sucks on a peppermint as the express for
Paddington roars through.
He knows it is the 4:30. He knows it arrives at Paddington at
5:12. He knows the next
train through will be the 4:34 slow train to Oxford. He also
knows he will be late for
tea. At his feet are tickets and travel brochures passengers have
thrown down. Being a
stickler for tidiness, for the environment, and for very smart
railway stations, Joe
collects them all and stacks them neatly on the bench beside him.
This is my place, he tells
himself again. With the excitement of rumbling whooshing
noises and the oily diesel
smells, he wonders if The Cornishman will come through —
he’s seen pictures of it in
library books. And then, as if he’d waved a magic wand a train
pulls in. Penzance it says
on the front of the engine.
Joe boards the train with a
smile. He can still smell Imelda’s pink geraniums on his hands
and wants to tell her, “I’ll be okay thank you.”
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