The Ventriloquist’s Wife is No Dummy

by Jon Fain

His thrown plaints bounce off the salt shaker, his half-eaten hamburger, her coffee with skim. She deflects rebounds, ignores the begging, looks at her watch. Can’t believe she thought this dull piece of wood was the better showbiz option. True, with the other chap there’ll be the top hat menagerie and the sawing-in-half thing. But better a nightly sashay in high heels and skimpy spangled outfit than boxed into surrogate mommery with hinge-jawed sidekicks. Outside the diner, skimpy trees bordering the parking lot sashay in the wind and the window she’s next to rattles—picka card, picka card, picka card.

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Jon Fain’s micro fiction has appeared in Six Sentences, The Dribble Drabble Review, The Daily Drunk, Blink-Ink, ScribesMICRO, Molecule, The Woolf, and elsewhere. https://www.chillsubs.com/profile/jonfain

 

Stairway to Nowhere

by William F. Smith

Inspector Norman Goodenough descended the long, curved staircase that crossed over the narrow inlet and led to the garden patio on the lower side of the chasm. He stood on the flagstone terrace, facing the ocean, and contemplated the magnificence of his surroundings-- the cool green foliage of the trees, the shimmering blue water of the Pacific bay upon which the late afternoon sunbeams were creating thousands of golden crowns. The enthralling beauty did little to alleviate the inspector’s disgust with himself, and the brilliant day shed no light upon the most baffling mystery in his long, successful career.

Reluctantly he recrossed the stairs to the Huntington Château, stopping on the last step to regard what remained of the structure: the concrete foundation and the immense void which had been the basement. A robbery or a murder Goodenough knew he could solve. But this was impossible! Sometime during the preceding week the entire mansion had vanished, and he and his associates had not one single clue, not an inkling of how the feat had been accomplished.

Dejected, he pulled a small cell phone from his coat pocket and punched in a number. “Mr. Huntington? Inspector Goodenough here. I’m sorry, but we have been unable to find a trace of your château. I’m forced to admit that this case is beyond the talents of ordinary policemen.” He took a deep breath, then swallowed hard. “What you need is a good house detective.”

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William F. Smith's stories, humorous verse and photographs have appeared in Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine, Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine, Mike Shane Mystery Magazine and Reader’s Digest. His stories have been included in several anthologies.

 

Food Memories

creative nonfiction
by R.K. West

When I was little, family holiday dinners were always at my great-grandma's house.

She had a sturdy oak dining table that could be extended by the insertion of multiple leaves. In her tiny dining room, the long table had to be placed diagonally, and even then the table, chairs, and people barely fit. An overflow table (or two) used by random children and claustrophobic adults was placed in the living room.

In addition to the turkey and some other dishes that Granny and her helpers prepared, most of the guests brought their own specialties. We could expect roast beef, green bean casserole, sweet potatoes, mashed potatoes, gravy, brussel sprouts, probably some other vegetables, a few different salads, a variety of cranberry sauces, olives, bread, and, of course, a wide array of desserts.

Nobody went hungry.

One of the things I loved about these dinners was that I could eat whatever I wanted, and skip what I didn't. At home, my parents demanded that we eat everything on the plate, no matter how disgusting it was. At Granny's holiday table, serving dishes were passed around and everyone chose freely.

I remember those meals fondly, and have used my memories as inspiration to cook. I once commented to my mother that canned peas make me smile because they remind me of Granny's cooking.

"She didn't serve canned peas," my mother said.

"I remember them clearly," I told her.

Mom explained that Granny went to all the trouble of buying fresh peas and shelling them by hand. Then she cooked them the same way everyone in her family had always cooked them, which meant boiling them until they may as well have come out of a can. It seems a little crazy now, going to all that trouble to make fresh vegetables un-fresh, but it was the style of a particular time and place.

Today I eat most of my vegetables steamed, roasted, or raw. But now and then I encounter some boiled or canned peas, and I eat them with a smile, feeling just a little bit like a kid at Granny's holiday table.

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R.K. West is a former ESL teacher and travel blogger, currently living in the Pacific Northwest and posting on Bluesky at @ithinkiwrite.bluesky.social.

 

Doing the Math

by Linda D.

In junior high, my friend Jeannie was baffled when the math teacher said "show your work". Jeannie had a natural talent for math, and didn't have to work hard at the stuff we did in 8th grade. She would look at a problem and understand it in her head. No calculations needed, apparently. Some teachers suspected her of cheating. (As if she'd be foolish enough to copy a lesser person's answers). I showed her what I did, working it out on paper the way we were taught back in 3rd grade. "Oh, they want us to do it the hard way!" she said.

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Linda D. publishes excerpts from her semiautobiographical memoirs.

Island

by Diana Gruber

We RARELY publish poetry, but this one tickled us..

I struggled with a single oar
And landed on a foreign shore
Fragrance wafted on the breeze
Tiny birds looked down from trees

The birds erupted in a chorus
When I headed toward the forest
Eldritch colors lit the scene
And there before me stood a queen

Antlers crowned her ancient head
She led me past a flower bed
To a symbol covered stone
I noticed we were not alone

Dappled sunlight trickled down
The forest creatures gathered round
A cauldron with an odd concoction
That's when I was sold at auction

To a pistol-waving ape
Who said he could help me escape
In a rowboat made of glass
And that's why I am late for class

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Diana Gruber is on Bluesky: Digruber.bsky.social

 

The Peasant in Heaven

From the collection of the Brothers Grimm

Just for fun, we occasionally publish vintage stories from historic authors.

Once on a time a poor pious peasant died, and arrived before the gate of heaven. At the same time a very rich, rich lord came there who also wanted to get into heaven. Then Saint Peter came with the key, and opened the door, and let the great man in, but apparently did not see the peasant, and shut the door again.

And now the peasant outside heard how the great man was received in heaven with all kinds of rejoicing, and how they were making music, and singing within. At length all became quiet again, and Saint Peter came and opened the gate of heaven, and let the peasant in. The peasant, however, expected that they would make music and sing when he went in also, but all remained quite quiet. He was received with great affection, it is true, and the angels came to meet him, but no one sang. Then the peasant asked Saint Peter how it was that they did not sing for him as they had done when the rich man went in, and said that it seemed to him that there in heaven things were done with just as much partiality as on earth.

Then said Saint Peter, "By no means, thou art just as dear to us as any one else, and wilt enjoy every heavenly delight that the rich man enjoys, but poor fellows like thee come to heaven every day, but a rich man like this does not come more than once in a hundred years!"

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The brothers Jacob (1785–1863) and Wilhelm (1786–1859) Grimm were German academics who collected and published traditional folk tales. Although their work, heavily revised, is now largely associated with children's stories, the originals were not intended for children, and often contained levels of violence, sex, and unhappiness that have been edited out of the versions familiar to us.

 

25 Words or Less

by R.K. West

These were written in response to a challenge to tell a story in 25 words or less.

For Better or - What?
Belching at the dinner table. Shoes on the bedspread. Weird bathroom noises. Really, really dirty laundry. Newlywed Laura began to rethink marriage.

SWAK
I sent you a thousand love letters but they all came back marked "postage due".

It Sounded Like Fun
He thought sexual variety meant another girl. She thought it meant another location. Boy, were they surprised.

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R.K. West is a former ESL teacher and travel blogger, currently living in the Pacific Northwest and posting on Bluesky at @ithinkiwrite.bluesky.social.

 

Flash Gimmicks

"You Gotta Get a Gimmick" is a song from the 1959 musical comedy Gypsy. In the song three experienced burlesque performers explain to a newcomer that, in order to be successful, it's important to have a "gimmick," some special attention-getting device that stands out from what everyone else is doing.

I think of that song sometimes when I'm exploring the venues for flash fiction. Many of them have very specific requirements for the pieces they publish, rules that might be seen as "gimmicks," that present writers with special challenges.

Often the challenge is one of length: a precise word count, or a number of sentences.

For example, Six Sentences asks for pieces of exactly six sentences. Since 2006, the editor has posted these pieces with varying frequency, sometimes daily, sometimes several per day, sometimes less than daily. There are writers who manage to tell surprisingly complex stories, while others offer terse comments. Overall, these are great examples of what can be done by applying a little imagination to sentence structure and punctuation.

Paragraph Planet publishes a 75-word paragraph every day. This has been going on since 2008.

Complete Sentence publishes single-sentence prose. There is no minimum or maximum length, but it seems as though most of the authors are trying to set a record. There are some very entertaining pieces here, and it wouldn't be much of a surprise to find that someone has managed to compose an entire single-sentence novel.

The First Line publishes stories between 300 and 5,000 words, but length is not the focus. Every story starts with the same first line, chosen by the editors months in advance. While this might sound repetitive, every writer takes that first line in a completely different direction.

Another publication with prescribed content is 3Elements. The editors provide three "elements" - words or short phrases - that must be included in every short (under 3500 words) prose piece.

101 Words began in 2005, posting flash stories of exactly 101 words. They publish seven stories per week.

The Dribble Drabble Review publishes "dribbles" (50 words) and "drabbles" (100 words). Once again, it is fascinating to see the creativity of writers who are able to convey entire plots and memorable characters within those limits.

Any publication featuring flash prose and poetry will have a word limit, since it is brevity that defines the flash genre. There is no universal agreement on how long or short a piece must be to be considered flash. Some say it can be up to 5000 words, but most go lower. A maximum of 1000-1500 words seems typical. Oddly, some require a minimum, often as high as 500 words. Most flash publications do not impose strict limits. The "gimmick" publishers challenge their authors to apply extra discipline to the craft.

 

Knighted

by Oskar Greenblatt

In my elementary school, half the boys in the fourth grade were called Larry. Officially, they may have been named Lawrence, Laurence, Larrimore, or even Larkin, but they all answered to Larry. The predictable incidents of mistaken identity brought the easily-amused class of nine-year-olds to hysterical laughter all too often. The teacher, Mr. Barnes, was not amused. He decreed that all Larrys would be called by their surnames. To me it sounded delightfully Arthurian: “Greetings, Sir Name.”

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Oskar Greenblatt enjoys reminiscing.

 

The English Teacher

by Brenda Watnik

I drag my wheeled book tote to the front of the room and write my name on the whiteboard. “Let's introduce ourselves," I say. "I'll start. My name is Brenda Watnik. I have a Master's degree in Creative Writing from Cal State Long Beach. I've been a teacher for ten years, and this is my third year at this college."

Like all good lies, my biography contains a kernel of truth. I did attend Cal State Long Beach in my youth, although my major was Art History, and I didn't graduate. I really have been at Something College three years, but this is my first teaching job. I was hired at a frantic time when enrollment was exceptionally high and experienced teachers were in short supply; my resume was not fact-checked.

"Now it's your turn," I say. "Tell me about yourselves." I have discovered that pretending to be interested in the students boosts my evaluation scores, almost as much as my generous grading policies. Something College values those scores. Highly-rated teachers make the school look good. In return for my success at charming the class, I was offered first chance at what the administration inexplicably considers the most desirable assignment in the department, "Introduction to Creative Writing." In a way, creative writing is my specialty. ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━
Brenda Watnik is an instructor at a small college in Southern California, and swears that this story is not autobiographical.

 

Buongiorno

by Ellen Ringer

Edward believed that no sincere effort is ever wasted. Any investment of time and energy, he insisted, will pay off, perhaps in unexpected ways. The six months and hundreds of dollars he spent on Italian lessons seemed wasted when his cruise was cancelled, but he never complained. Sure enough, when I ran into him less than a year later he introduced me to his beautiful Italian girlfriend, who was helping him relocate to Milan.

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Ellen Ringer is an amateur beekeeper who lives near Portland, Oregon

 

Denial, Bargaining

by Wanda Farr

I had decades of experience being young. I was good at it. I remember my youth quite well, and could do it again. I’d be much better this time, because I know much more about life and the world. I have the skills -- in fact, I feel young right now. Putting a strong, young person like me into this fragile, soon-to-expire body was a silly mistake. I deserve another chance. Don’t you agree? ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━
Wanda Farr is the pen name of a retired teacher who prefers to keep her writing separate from her social and professional identity.

 

Focus

By Noah Landers

When he sincerely tried to pay attention to what they were saying, they accused him of staring and being creepy. When he carefully looked away, they complained that he was rude and ignoring them. He tried a system of looking at them and looking away in equal amounts, and they said he seemed shifty and nervous. He settled into a study cubicle at the back of the library where his presence surely couldn’t bother anyone, but the librarian sent him to the counselor’s office to talk about why he was self-isolating. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do,” he said.

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Noah Landers attends California State University, Long Beach

 

Jane

by Sudden Flash

In a paroxysm of petulance, Nora threw her copy of Mansfield Park into the library’s fireplace. She could no longer tolerate the avalanche of words. Why did people in those days speak and write in such convoluted ways? By the time they got to the point and the sentence came to an end, she had forgotten what they were talking about. No wonder the average life expectancy then was so short! They died of boredom.

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Sudden Flash is an online magazine of extremely short fiction.

 

Word Problems

by Linda D.

In algebra class we used to get problems like this: A 15,000-gallon water tank is 1/3 full. It is leaking two gallons per hour. It can be filled at five gallons per hour. How long will it take to fill the tank? I know how to do the math. But the real solution to this problem never appears in a textbook: Repair the tank. ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━
Linda D. publishes excerpts from her semiautobiographical memoirs.

 

Shirts

by Wanda Farr

Elaine's boyfriend, Ron, had a job at an auto repair shop where the employees wore shirts with their names embroidered on the pocket. The boss didn't feel like buying a new shirt, so he gave Ron the shirt from the previous guy, Carl. All day long, the customers called Ron Carl. He got used to it. When he came home after work, still wearing the shirt, all of Elaine's friends called him Carl, and he answered to that name.

I imagined that shirt being passed along for years. The person doing that job would always be Carl, until the job itself was Carl. When the guy moved on, nobody would say, "We need to hire a new mechanic." They'd say, "We need a new Carl."

To this day, when I encounter a worker wearing a shirt with a name, I ask, "Is your name really Andy, or are you just wearing Andy's shirt?" Most of the time, it's the shirt.

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Wanda Farr is the pen name of a retired teacher who prefers to keep her writing separate from her social and professional identity.

 

The Classics

by R.K. West

The faculty lounge was quiet. Professors Anthony Nelson and Charlene Hampton sat at adjacent tables, both drinking coffee from university-branded mugs. Hampton graded a stack of essays while Nelson stared at the screen of a small laptop computer.

“Nobody reads Hemingway any more,” Nelson complained through gritted teeth. “And now the department has dropped him from the required reading list.”

“Really,” said Hampton with unfeigned indifference. “Who’s required now?”

Nelson winced. “Joan Didion.”

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R.K. West lives in the Pacific Northwest, and uses the endless rain as an excuse to stay inside and write.

 

A Strange Story

by O. Henry

Just for fun, we occasionally publish vintage stories from historic authors.

In the northern part of Austin there once dwelt an honest family by the name of Smothers. The family consisted of John Smothers, his wife, himself, their little daughter, five years of age, and her parents, making six people toward the population of the city when counted for a special write-up, but only three by actual count.

One night after supper the little girl was seized with a severe colic, and John Smothers hurried down town to get some medicine.

He never came back.

The little girl recovered and in time grew up to womanhood.

The mother grieved very much over her husband's disappearance, and it was nearly three months before she married again, and moved to San Antonio.

The little girl also married in time, and after a few years had rolled around, she also had a little girl five years of age.

She still lived in the same house where they dwelt when her father had left and never returned. One night by a remarkable coincidence her little girl was taken with cramp colic on the anniversary of the disappearance of John Smothers, who would now have been her grandfather if he had been alive and had a steady job.

"I will go downtown and get some medicine for her," said John Smith (for it was none other than he whom she had married).

"No, no, dear John," cried his wife. "You, too, might disappear forever, and then forget to come back." So John Smith did not go, and together they sat by the bedside of little Pansy (for that was Pansy's name).

After a little Pansy seemed to grow worse, and John Smith again attempted to go for medicine, but his wife would not let him.

Suddenly the door opened, and an old man, stooped and bent, with long white hair, entered the room. "Hello, here is grandpa," said Pansy. She had recognized him before any of the others.

The old man drew a bottle of medicine from his pocket and gave Pansy a spoonful.

She got well immediately.

"I was a little late," said John Smothers, "as I waited for a street car."

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William Sydney Porter (1862 – 1910), better known by his pen name O. Henry, was an American writer known primarily for his hundreds of short stories, though he also wrote poetry and non-fiction. His stories are characterized by sentimental themes, realistic settings, and surprise endings. While living in Honduras, he wrote the novel Cabbages and Kings, in which he coined the term "banana republic". Porter's legacy includes the O. Henry Award, an annual prize awarded to outstanding short stories.