The Laughing Class
by Huina Zheng
At 8:20 a.m., just as the first-period bell faded, Teacher Chen’s piercing voice filled the classroom. Since becoming their homeroom teacher in fourth grade, she had called them “stupid,” “disgusting,” and “brainless,” though to parents she insisted that “strict teachers produce top students.”
Lan, as class monitor, sat upright with a serious expression. It was her duty to set the example. Yet inside she bristled. She disliked this teacher, and even more, the endless scolding.
Let something happen. Make her stop, she shouted in her head.
She kept her back straight, for lowering her head was not allowed; she kept her hands on the desk, since hiding them below would only invite more fury. Teacher Chen, gesturing as she lectured on discipline, knocked over her water cup. Tea spread in widening circles across the podium and dripped to the floor. Lan pressed her lips tight, but her deskmate Ling let out a snicker. Instantly, the room caught fire: muffled giggles swelled into loud, unrestrained laughter. Lan joined in, her voice rising until it drowned out Teacher Chen’s scolding.
Teacher Chen’s face darkened. “Quiet! Be quiet!” she shouted. But the class only laughed harder, their voices rattling the desks and spilling into the hallway, storming into the next classroom.
━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━
Huina Zheng is a college essay coach and an editor. Her stories appear in Baltimore Review, Variant Literature, and more. Nominated thrice for both the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net, she lives in Guangzhou, China with her family.
At 8:20 a.m., just as the first-period bell faded, Teacher Chen’s piercing voice filled the classroom. Since becoming their homeroom teacher in fourth grade, she had called them “stupid,” “disgusting,” and “brainless,” though to parents she insisted that “strict teachers produce top students.”
Lan, as class monitor, sat upright with a serious expression. It was her duty to set the example. Yet inside she bristled. She disliked this teacher, and even more, the endless scolding.
Let something happen. Make her stop, she shouted in her head.
She kept her back straight, for lowering her head was not allowed; she kept her hands on the desk, since hiding them below would only invite more fury. Teacher Chen, gesturing as she lectured on discipline, knocked over her water cup. Tea spread in widening circles across the podium and dripped to the floor. Lan pressed her lips tight, but her deskmate Ling let out a snicker. Instantly, the room caught fire: muffled giggles swelled into loud, unrestrained laughter. Lan joined in, her voice rising until it drowned out Teacher Chen’s scolding.
Teacher Chen’s face darkened. “Quiet! Be quiet!” she shouted. But the class only laughed harder, their voices rattling the desks and spilling into the hallway, storming into the next classroom.
Huina Zheng is a college essay coach and an editor. Her stories appear in Baltimore Review, Variant Literature, and more. Nominated thrice for both the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net, she lives in Guangzhou, China with her family.
The Woodpecker War’s First Casualty
by Salena Casha
Martin had taken to wearing pajamas and applying a stepladder to different sides of his house in fogged daylight. From across the way, Pamela watched him mount the rungs, stretching two stories, a garden hose in tow. He pointed the nozzle at a gutter, cranked it to full blast.
Good, he was finally doing something about that mess of leaves from last year. Though, there’d been a rumor that what he was really after was revenge; something had been putting holes in the stucco by his bedroom window while he slept. Perhaps, Pamela thought, he needed to focus a little less on killing a bird and a little more on reconsidering stucco in this sort of New England neighborhood.
Someone, not Pamela but someone, could say he had it coming.
She watched as water rebounded, a crank too far, and he tilted. A windmill of arms, a grasping at air. He hit the ground with a thump that Pamela heard through her window, hollow, like the earth had been dug out beneath him.
After she got her story straight, she told the authorities what she’d seen: something chartreuse and scarlet fleeing to open sky.
━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━
Salena Casha's work has appeared in over 150 publications in the last decade. Her most recent work can be found on HAD, F(r)iction, and Club Plum. She survives New England winters on good beer and black coffee. Subscribe to her substack at salenacasha.substack.com
Martin had taken to wearing pajamas and applying a stepladder to different sides of his house in fogged daylight. From across the way, Pamela watched him mount the rungs, stretching two stories, a garden hose in tow. He pointed the nozzle at a gutter, cranked it to full blast.
Good, he was finally doing something about that mess of leaves from last year. Though, there’d been a rumor that what he was really after was revenge; something had been putting holes in the stucco by his bedroom window while he slept. Perhaps, Pamela thought, he needed to focus a little less on killing a bird and a little more on reconsidering stucco in this sort of New England neighborhood.
Someone, not Pamela but someone, could say he had it coming.
She watched as water rebounded, a crank too far, and he tilted. A windmill of arms, a grasping at air. He hit the ground with a thump that Pamela heard through her window, hollow, like the earth had been dug out beneath him.
After she got her story straight, she told the authorities what she’d seen: something chartreuse and scarlet fleeing to open sky.
Salena Casha's work has appeared in over 150 publications in the last decade. Her most recent work can be found on HAD, F(r)iction, and Club Plum. She survives New England winters on good beer and black coffee. Subscribe to her substack at salenacasha.substack.com
The Companions
by James C. Clar
The island was little more than a sandbar. Hemsworth had walked its perimeter so many times he could trace its contours with his eyes closed. He had washed ashore weeks before, the only one to crawl out of the burning water when his fishing vessel split apart in a storm.
Now, the relentless sun was his only companion. He drank rainwater that caught in the trunks of palms. It kept him alive, but just barely. Fever burned through him most nights in the middle watch. He’d lie on the cooling sand looking up at the stars muttering to himself about past voyages and dreaming about the ocean-like geometry of space.
At some point, he saw them. Three figures on the shore. They were tall and pale in the liminal light of early morning. Momentarily, Hemsworth thought his eyes had tricked him yet again, but the figures remained in place as he drew nearer. He laughed. “You’re real.” He stumbled forward with arms outstretched.
“I’m Hemsworth,” he sobbed. “My ship went down three weeks ago. I thought I was alone.” His companions said nothing. The nearest was a woman in a tattered dress. Her features were sharp, serene and unreadable.
“Where are you from?” Hemsworth continued unfazed. “Another wreck? I’ve searched everywhere. I can’t believe I missed you.”
Hemsworth turned to look at the others. He thought he heard one of them, a shirtless man in duck trousers, whisper … “We’re here now.”
Hemsworth grinned through blistered lips. “Yes. We’re here together.”
He sat with them until night fell, speaking quickly and, at times, incoherently. They didn’t seem to mind. He told them about Newcastle, about his family. His voice faltered as he described the storm that had destroyed his vessel.
The woman in the dress shifted slightly. Hemsworth could have sworn he heard her assure him with sympathy, “We’re listening.”
“Thank you,” Hemsworth replied with genuine emotion. “It’s nice to finally have someone to talk to.”
The next day, he built a crude shelter to shade their pale bodies. He scrounged for what little food he could find, overjoyed to share whatever he discovered. He was certain he saw looks of approval on their inscrutable faces.
“I’ll look after you,” Hemsworth vowed, febrile sweat glistening on his brow. “We’ll be rescued soon. Together.”
Time passed. Hemsworth was even weaker now from sharing his meager food and water. It was worth it. He spent his hours talking to them, waiting for the faint syllables that sometimes floated back to him.
One bright morning, he heard loud voices carrying over the water. Hemsworth staggered from the palms just as a sea boat slid onto the beach. Two sailors leapt ashore, staring at him with astonishment.
“Christ,” one shouted. “A survivor!”
They lifted Hemsworth under the arms. As they did so, he pointed frantically back toward the palms. “There are others!”
***
Later, having been reluctantly removed from the otherwise empty island, Hemsworth lay in the sick bay of the Australian warship, Exeter. He was sedated and hooked up to an I.V. The ship’s XO spoke to the medic. “Name’s Hemsworth. He’s the sole survivor of that fishing vessel that went missing six weeks ago.”
“He’s dehydrated. Has an infection,” the medic reported, “That’s about it. I reckon it’s a miracle.”
“Good,” the XO responded. “We’ve got work to do before heading to port. A cargo ship bound for Sydney went down around here too. One of the containers must have been for a department store. The sector’s loaded with mannequins. They’re hazards to navigation and Fleet wants us to clear the area.”
━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━
James C. Clar is a writer and retired teacher who divides his time between the wilds of Upstate New York and the more congenial climes of Honolulu, Hawaii. Most recently, his work has appeared in The Magazine of Literary Fantasy, Bright Flash Literary Review, Freedom Fiction Journal, The Blotter Magazine MetaStellar Magazine and Antipodean SF.
The island was little more than a sandbar. Hemsworth had walked its perimeter so many times he could trace its contours with his eyes closed. He had washed ashore weeks before, the only one to crawl out of the burning water when his fishing vessel split apart in a storm.
Now, the relentless sun was his only companion. He drank rainwater that caught in the trunks of palms. It kept him alive, but just barely. Fever burned through him most nights in the middle watch. He’d lie on the cooling sand looking up at the stars muttering to himself about past voyages and dreaming about the ocean-like geometry of space.
At some point, he saw them. Three figures on the shore. They were tall and pale in the liminal light of early morning. Momentarily, Hemsworth thought his eyes had tricked him yet again, but the figures remained in place as he drew nearer. He laughed. “You’re real.” He stumbled forward with arms outstretched.
“I’m Hemsworth,” he sobbed. “My ship went down three weeks ago. I thought I was alone.” His companions said nothing. The nearest was a woman in a tattered dress. Her features were sharp, serene and unreadable.
“Where are you from?” Hemsworth continued unfazed. “Another wreck? I’ve searched everywhere. I can’t believe I missed you.”
Hemsworth turned to look at the others. He thought he heard one of them, a shirtless man in duck trousers, whisper … “We’re here now.”
Hemsworth grinned through blistered lips. “Yes. We’re here together.”
He sat with them until night fell, speaking quickly and, at times, incoherently. They didn’t seem to mind. He told them about Newcastle, about his family. His voice faltered as he described the storm that had destroyed his vessel.
The woman in the dress shifted slightly. Hemsworth could have sworn he heard her assure him with sympathy, “We’re listening.”
“Thank you,” Hemsworth replied with genuine emotion. “It’s nice to finally have someone to talk to.”
The next day, he built a crude shelter to shade their pale bodies. He scrounged for what little food he could find, overjoyed to share whatever he discovered. He was certain he saw looks of approval on their inscrutable faces.
“I’ll look after you,” Hemsworth vowed, febrile sweat glistening on his brow. “We’ll be rescued soon. Together.”
Time passed. Hemsworth was even weaker now from sharing his meager food and water. It was worth it. He spent his hours talking to them, waiting for the faint syllables that sometimes floated back to him.
One bright morning, he heard loud voices carrying over the water. Hemsworth staggered from the palms just as a sea boat slid onto the beach. Two sailors leapt ashore, staring at him with astonishment.
“Christ,” one shouted. “A survivor!”
They lifted Hemsworth under the arms. As they did so, he pointed frantically back toward the palms. “There are others!”
***
Later, having been reluctantly removed from the otherwise empty island, Hemsworth lay in the sick bay of the Australian warship, Exeter. He was sedated and hooked up to an I.V. The ship’s XO spoke to the medic. “Name’s Hemsworth. He’s the sole survivor of that fishing vessel that went missing six weeks ago.”
“He’s dehydrated. Has an infection,” the medic reported, “That’s about it. I reckon it’s a miracle.”
“Good,” the XO responded. “We’ve got work to do before heading to port. A cargo ship bound for Sydney went down around here too. One of the containers must have been for a department store. The sector’s loaded with mannequins. They’re hazards to navigation and Fleet wants us to clear the area.”
James C. Clar is a writer and retired teacher who divides his time between the wilds of Upstate New York and the more congenial climes of Honolulu, Hawaii. Most recently, his work has appeared in The Magazine of Literary Fantasy, Bright Flash Literary Review, Freedom Fiction Journal, The Blotter Magazine MetaStellar Magazine and Antipodean SF.
Code Blue
by Dart Humeston
Code Blue blared through the hospital’s PA system. The emergency team sprinted down the corridor, white coats flaring behind them. They burst into the patient’s room, a physician’s voice cutting through the chaos with sharp commands.
Down the hallway, Sienna stood frozen, both hands pressed against her mouth, her eyes wide with terror. Through trembling fingers, she whispered, “David is dying.”
Her friend Veronica slid an arm around her shoulders and guided her to a nearby chair. Inside the room, the rhythmic thud of CPR began as nurses and doctors shouted updates. Sienna’s gaze was glassy, her thoughts spinning ahead to a life without David—raising the kids alone, paying mortgage and college tuition, even walking the dog at dawn.
“He’s dead. He’s dead,” she murmured.
“You don’t know that,” Veronica said quickly.
Tears slipped from Sienna’s eyes. “He asked me to help steady the ladder as he got on the roof, but I said I was cooking. I killed him.”
“Why was he even on the roof?” Veronica asked.
“I was adjusting the antenna!” David said as he walked up behind them.
Startled, Veronica screamed. Sienna fainted.
David caught her just before she hit the floor. “What happened? What’s wrong with her?”
Veronica grabbed his arm, her face pale. She pointed toward the crowded hospital room.
“Oh, that,” David said, blinking. “They moved me to a different room last night. I’m fine! They just released me—I was trying to find you two.”
Relief washed over them. Veronica hugged them both as Sienna stirred awake, confusion melting into joy. She threw her arms around her husband, sobbing with laughter.
“Baby, I’m fine,” David said, grinning. “And the best part? We get Channel 7 now!”
━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━
Dart Humeston writes flash fiction and novels from Florida where he grew up dodging alligators and hurricanes. He earned a master’s degree and worked for twenty-five years in higher education, including teaching freshmen students. He lives with his wife and four cats in south-central Florida; The cats are single.
Code Blue blared through the hospital’s PA system. The emergency team sprinted down the corridor, white coats flaring behind them. They burst into the patient’s room, a physician’s voice cutting through the chaos with sharp commands.
Down the hallway, Sienna stood frozen, both hands pressed against her mouth, her eyes wide with terror. Through trembling fingers, she whispered, “David is dying.”
Her friend Veronica slid an arm around her shoulders and guided her to a nearby chair. Inside the room, the rhythmic thud of CPR began as nurses and doctors shouted updates. Sienna’s gaze was glassy, her thoughts spinning ahead to a life without David—raising the kids alone, paying mortgage and college tuition, even walking the dog at dawn.
“He’s dead. He’s dead,” she murmured.
“You don’t know that,” Veronica said quickly.
Tears slipped from Sienna’s eyes. “He asked me to help steady the ladder as he got on the roof, but I said I was cooking. I killed him.”
“Why was he even on the roof?” Veronica asked.
“I was adjusting the antenna!” David said as he walked up behind them.
Startled, Veronica screamed. Sienna fainted.
David caught her just before she hit the floor. “What happened? What’s wrong with her?”
Veronica grabbed his arm, her face pale. She pointed toward the crowded hospital room.
“Oh, that,” David said, blinking. “They moved me to a different room last night. I’m fine! They just released me—I was trying to find you two.”
Relief washed over them. Veronica hugged them both as Sienna stirred awake, confusion melting into joy. She threw her arms around her husband, sobbing with laughter.
“Baby, I’m fine,” David said, grinning. “And the best part? We get Channel 7 now!”
Dart Humeston writes flash fiction and novels from Florida where he grew up dodging alligators and hurricanes. He earned a master’s degree and worked for twenty-five years in higher education, including teaching freshmen students. He lives with his wife and four cats in south-central Florida; The cats are single.
A Christmas Punch
by Ned Serleth
The bunch of us sit and watch them put Christmas lights on the plastic tree. Each little bulb glaring out its color as if to remind everyone in the room the world is not black and white. That little truth doesn’t really appear to be the case from where I sit. The floor tiles lie in squares of black and white. The walls and ceilings are painted a colorless white. Why even the people decorating the tree wear nothing but white from their shoes to their shirts. No, maybe the world is black and white. Either way, the Christmas tree declares another year has come sliding along while Father Time slowly steals away the days.
Next comes the artificial garland with its holly looking leaves and red berries. It drapes over the door, a stark contrast of green against the antiseptic white background. The group watches as the room becomes transformed from its usual institutionalization to something that mocks a life of happiness and freedom.
Christmas music now fills the air, and some become nostalgic when Frank Sinatra croons Silent Night. Tears roll down their black or white cheeks to be wiped away by those that are able. As for me, I sit in my chair and reminisce with the best of them.
No doubt families will begin to drop by. ’Tis the season after all. Christmas, birthdays, and Easter always bring the families, although the latter is iffy.
I’ve noticed cards have begun to arrive, too. Dorothy got a homemade one from her great-granddaughter, and she hasn’t been able to stop crying since. Foolish woman. What did she expect, an invitation to the family Christmas dinner? Just as well though, she would probably have trouble digesting all those traditional Christmas foods after the gourmet meals we get here. No, it’s better just staying on our own side of the fence. Besides, I never put much stock in those family gatherings anyway. Everybody trying to be on their best behavior when they’d rather punch the son-in-law in the jaw just because.
I’ve been here ten Christmases now. One’s pretty much like the last. There’ll be turkey, instant mashed potatoes, yams, (I hate yams.), and some anemic gravy probably left over from Thanksgiving. That’s okay, I guess. There’s nothing for it. Who am I to complain. I get my three squares, a bed, and all the company I can stomach.
Here comes Joseph’s son and his fat wife. I’ve never been able to tell if she’s pregnant or ate too many Christmas dinner leftovers. They’ve got five kids in tow, so you can understand my confusion. Joseph will hug all the kids and ask the two girls for kisses. If ever there was a trophy for having a poker face, them two girls would never win it. It’s all they can do to even be here, let alone pucker up for ol’ Joseph. He’ll guilt his son into a game of cribbage while the rest of the family fidgets and fights over who gets to sit where. When the hour is up, they’ll run out of here as if the place were on fire.
Wait, here comes my two daughters. It’s so good to see them. They’ve grown up to be beautiful young ladies. They’ll ask me how I’m doing, whether they’re treating me right, and a ton of other irrelevant questions. I’d like to answer them, but all I can do is sit in this chair, and blink, and drool ever since the stroke.
━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━
Ned Serleth graduated from Northern Arizona University with a BA in education. After causing thirty-six years of damage to an untold number of students, he retired from teaching English and creative writing. He has self-published a memoir entitled Thursday at the Old Man’s Club - A Hack Memoir, the first of three books of ghost stories, The Last Three Days of Poe and Thirteen Tales of the Supernatural, and an anthology of poems called Unleash the Doggerels. He has also written for Moss Motoring, Chevy Times, and The Tennessean.
The bunch of us sit and watch them put Christmas lights on the plastic tree. Each little bulb glaring out its color as if to remind everyone in the room the world is not black and white. That little truth doesn’t really appear to be the case from where I sit. The floor tiles lie in squares of black and white. The walls and ceilings are painted a colorless white. Why even the people decorating the tree wear nothing but white from their shoes to their shirts. No, maybe the world is black and white. Either way, the Christmas tree declares another year has come sliding along while Father Time slowly steals away the days.
Next comes the artificial garland with its holly looking leaves and red berries. It drapes over the door, a stark contrast of green against the antiseptic white background. The group watches as the room becomes transformed from its usual institutionalization to something that mocks a life of happiness and freedom.
Christmas music now fills the air, and some become nostalgic when Frank Sinatra croons Silent Night. Tears roll down their black or white cheeks to be wiped away by those that are able. As for me, I sit in my chair and reminisce with the best of them.
No doubt families will begin to drop by. ’Tis the season after all. Christmas, birthdays, and Easter always bring the families, although the latter is iffy.
I’ve noticed cards have begun to arrive, too. Dorothy got a homemade one from her great-granddaughter, and she hasn’t been able to stop crying since. Foolish woman. What did she expect, an invitation to the family Christmas dinner? Just as well though, she would probably have trouble digesting all those traditional Christmas foods after the gourmet meals we get here. No, it’s better just staying on our own side of the fence. Besides, I never put much stock in those family gatherings anyway. Everybody trying to be on their best behavior when they’d rather punch the son-in-law in the jaw just because.
I’ve been here ten Christmases now. One’s pretty much like the last. There’ll be turkey, instant mashed potatoes, yams, (I hate yams.), and some anemic gravy probably left over from Thanksgiving. That’s okay, I guess. There’s nothing for it. Who am I to complain. I get my three squares, a bed, and all the company I can stomach.
Here comes Joseph’s son and his fat wife. I’ve never been able to tell if she’s pregnant or ate too many Christmas dinner leftovers. They’ve got five kids in tow, so you can understand my confusion. Joseph will hug all the kids and ask the two girls for kisses. If ever there was a trophy for having a poker face, them two girls would never win it. It’s all they can do to even be here, let alone pucker up for ol’ Joseph. He’ll guilt his son into a game of cribbage while the rest of the family fidgets and fights over who gets to sit where. When the hour is up, they’ll run out of here as if the place were on fire.
Wait, here comes my two daughters. It’s so good to see them. They’ve grown up to be beautiful young ladies. They’ll ask me how I’m doing, whether they’re treating me right, and a ton of other irrelevant questions. I’d like to answer them, but all I can do is sit in this chair, and blink, and drool ever since the stroke.
Ned Serleth graduated from Northern Arizona University with a BA in education. After causing thirty-six years of damage to an untold number of students, he retired from teaching English and creative writing. He has self-published a memoir entitled Thursday at the Old Man’s Club - A Hack Memoir, the first of three books of ghost stories, The Last Three Days of Poe and Thirteen Tales of the Supernatural, and an anthology of poems called Unleash the Doggerels. He has also written for Moss Motoring, Chevy Times, and The Tennessean.
One For the Ages
by James C. Clar
November 22, 1963
Elm Street shimmered under the Texas sun as municipal workers hung red, white, and blue bunting across Dealey Plaza. Crowds already lined the sidewalks waiting for the President’s motorcade. At 11:12 a.m., Officer Bill Sprinkle squinted up at the brick facade of the Texas School Book Depository.
“You see that?” he asked his rookie partner, Carl Fernandez.
Fernandez raised a hand to block the glare. “Where?”
“Fourth floor. Window to the right.” Sprinkle pointed. “Flash of light.”
“Maybe a scope,” Fernandez said, narrowing his eyes.
“Exactly.”
“Should we call it in?” Fernandez asked.
“We’ll check it out ourselves. Probably nothing.”
Moments later, they were climbing the echoing stairwell of the Depository. Sprinkle’s hand hovered over his revolver as they reached the fourth floor. The hallway was quiet. They found the door to an office ajar. Inside, a man stood by the window, mounting a camera on a tripod.
“Sir!” Sprinkle barked. “Step away from the window!”
The man startled, nearly dropping his Nikon-F.
“I’m a photographer,” he said, raising both hands. “Bob Bletcher, Lone Star Gazette. I got cleared two weeks ago. I’m covering the President’s visit.”
Fernandez scanned the room. No weapons in sight. Just camera gear.
“There was a flash from that window,” Sprinkle said, still wary.
Bletcher pointed to the tripod. “Probably light on the lens. I was lining up my shot.”
“Got ID?” Fernandez asked.
Bletcher opened his wallet and took out a laminated press card.
Sprinkle exhaled. “Alright. High alert today as you can imagine.”
“No problem,” Bletcher said, smiling now. “I’ve been waiting weeks for this. The president and the governor. A shot for the ages maybe?”
Sprinkle and Fernandez left the office.
“Look around some more?” Fernandez suggested.
“Nah. Let’s get back down to the street.”
They descended the stairs just as a new shift of officers took up positions around the plaza.
“You were right,” Fernandez said. “It was nothing. Glad we didn’t call it in.”
Meanwhile, back in the Depository, a thin, young man sat nestled behind a wall of textbook boxes on the sixth floor. His Mannlicher-Carcano 6.5mm, rested on the windowsill. He watched the police and, as they approached the building, he had gone still. Now he relaxed and readjusted his line of sight down Elm Street.
At 12:24 p.m., a glint of light came again, this time from the sixth floor.
“Looks like our guy moved,” Fernandez said.
Sprinkle nodded. “Bletcher, trying to get a better angle. Photographers! They’ll do anything to ‘get the shot’. Saw a guy one time dangle from an overpass to get a picture of an accident.”
The two policemen turned away.
Inside the Book Depository, Bletcher hadn’t budged. He checked his viewfinder.
A cheer went up as the motorcade turned the corner.
Bletcher leaned and depressed the shutter.
Simultaneously, the man on the sixth floor exhaled slowly, finger tightening on the trigger …
Shots rang out against the blue Texas sky.
Bletcher gasped, nearly dropping his camera again.
On the street below, chaos erupted.
Sprinkle and Fernandez turned and looked back at the building they had so recently exited.
“Son-of-a-bitch,” Sprinkle said as comprehension hit him like a sledge hammer.
“Let’s go,” Fernandez shouted as he turned to run back to the Book Depository.
Sprinkle grabbed him by the arm. Shook his head.
Fernandez looked his partner in the eye. He understood. There’d be hell to pay if they went back.
“No need to get hung out to dry by an honest mistake, son.”
Sprinkle and Fernandez were soon lost in the frenzied swarm of uniforms converging on the scene.
━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━
In addition to his contributions to Sudden Flash, work by James C. Clar has appeared recently in The Magazine of Literary Fantasy, MetaStellar Magazine, Freedom Fiction Journal, Bright Flash Literary Review, Antipodean SF, The Blotter Magazine and 365 Tommorows.
November 22, 1963
Elm Street shimmered under the Texas sun as municipal workers hung red, white, and blue bunting across Dealey Plaza. Crowds already lined the sidewalks waiting for the President’s motorcade. At 11:12 a.m., Officer Bill Sprinkle squinted up at the brick facade of the Texas School Book Depository.
“You see that?” he asked his rookie partner, Carl Fernandez.
Fernandez raised a hand to block the glare. “Where?”
“Fourth floor. Window to the right.” Sprinkle pointed. “Flash of light.”
“Maybe a scope,” Fernandez said, narrowing his eyes.
“Exactly.”
“Should we call it in?” Fernandez asked.
“We’ll check it out ourselves. Probably nothing.”
Moments later, they were climbing the echoing stairwell of the Depository. Sprinkle’s hand hovered over his revolver as they reached the fourth floor. The hallway was quiet. They found the door to an office ajar. Inside, a man stood by the window, mounting a camera on a tripod.
“Sir!” Sprinkle barked. “Step away from the window!”
The man startled, nearly dropping his Nikon-F.
“I’m a photographer,” he said, raising both hands. “Bob Bletcher, Lone Star Gazette. I got cleared two weeks ago. I’m covering the President’s visit.”
Fernandez scanned the room. No weapons in sight. Just camera gear.
“There was a flash from that window,” Sprinkle said, still wary.
Bletcher pointed to the tripod. “Probably light on the lens. I was lining up my shot.”
“Got ID?” Fernandez asked.
Bletcher opened his wallet and took out a laminated press card.
Sprinkle exhaled. “Alright. High alert today as you can imagine.”
“No problem,” Bletcher said, smiling now. “I’ve been waiting weeks for this. The president and the governor. A shot for the ages maybe?”
Sprinkle and Fernandez left the office.
“Look around some more?” Fernandez suggested.
“Nah. Let’s get back down to the street.”
They descended the stairs just as a new shift of officers took up positions around the plaza.
“You were right,” Fernandez said. “It was nothing. Glad we didn’t call it in.”
Meanwhile, back in the Depository, a thin, young man sat nestled behind a wall of textbook boxes on the sixth floor. His Mannlicher-Carcano 6.5mm, rested on the windowsill. He watched the police and, as they approached the building, he had gone still. Now he relaxed and readjusted his line of sight down Elm Street.
At 12:24 p.m., a glint of light came again, this time from the sixth floor.
“Looks like our guy moved,” Fernandez said.
Sprinkle nodded. “Bletcher, trying to get a better angle. Photographers! They’ll do anything to ‘get the shot’. Saw a guy one time dangle from an overpass to get a picture of an accident.”
The two policemen turned away.
Inside the Book Depository, Bletcher hadn’t budged. He checked his viewfinder.
A cheer went up as the motorcade turned the corner.
Bletcher leaned and depressed the shutter.
Simultaneously, the man on the sixth floor exhaled slowly, finger tightening on the trigger …
Shots rang out against the blue Texas sky.
Bletcher gasped, nearly dropping his camera again.
On the street below, chaos erupted.
Sprinkle and Fernandez turned and looked back at the building they had so recently exited.
“Son-of-a-bitch,” Sprinkle said as comprehension hit him like a sledge hammer.
“Let’s go,” Fernandez shouted as he turned to run back to the Book Depository.
Sprinkle grabbed him by the arm. Shook his head.
Fernandez looked his partner in the eye. He understood. There’d be hell to pay if they went back.
“No need to get hung out to dry by an honest mistake, son.”
Sprinkle and Fernandez were soon lost in the frenzied swarm of uniforms converging on the scene.
In addition to his contributions to Sudden Flash, work by James C. Clar has appeared recently in The Magazine of Literary Fantasy, MetaStellar Magazine, Freedom Fiction Journal, Bright Flash Literary Review, Antipodean SF, The Blotter Magazine and 365 Tommorows.
Muted
by William Cass
Late one night in a desolate foreign town, I walked past two men just inside a dark alley. The larger one had the other pushed up against a wall with a knife under his chin. The smaller man looked at me with pleading, terror-filled eyes. When the larger man jerked to follow his gaze, I hurried beyond them up the street. No one else was around to turn to for help. I had no cell phone and no idea where the nearest police station was. So, I just continued on my way, hands trembling, head down: voiceless, derelict, abandoning all rectitude.
━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━
William Cass has published over 380 short stories and won writing contests at Terrain.org and The Examined Life Journal. He’s been nominated once for Best of the Net, twice for Best Small Fictions, six times for the Pushcart Prize, and had three short story collections released by Wising Up Press.
Late one night in a desolate foreign town, I walked past two men just inside a dark alley. The larger one had the other pushed up against a wall with a knife under his chin. The smaller man looked at me with pleading, terror-filled eyes. When the larger man jerked to follow his gaze, I hurried beyond them up the street. No one else was around to turn to for help. I had no cell phone and no idea where the nearest police station was. So, I just continued on my way, hands trembling, head down: voiceless, derelict, abandoning all rectitude.
William Cass has published over 380 short stories and won writing contests at Terrain.org and The Examined Life Journal. He’s been nominated once for Best of the Net, twice for Best Small Fictions, six times for the Pushcart Prize, and had three short story collections released by Wising Up Press.
Standing Room Only
by William F. Smith
"Sorry you can't sit at your usual table today," tavern owner Jake McGinty told Patrick Murphy. "All my chairs were stolen last night, right under my big Irish nose. Can you believe it?"
"That I can," said Murphy, perched on the edge of a table. "I'm sure you'll want to tell me all about it."
"Friday, you know, is game night. So several regulars suggest musical chairs. It's rowdy great fun! Everyone stands up, one chair is taken away, and they all, including the waitresses, form a conga line weaving between the chairs and tables while I'm playing my accordion. When I stop the music, they all scramble to sit down. Anyone who can't find a seat is out, and has to stand around until the game's over. The chairs are removed one at a time until there's only two souls left and a single seat. When I stop playing, those two scuffle for it, 'cause the last one sitting wins the prize."
"So what happened to the chairs?"
"I was so busy with the accordion, I didn't notice. Later, someone tells me theye were passed out the door into a waiting van."
"But," Murphy objected, "there ought to be one chair left, the one the winner was sitting on. Haul it out and I'll use it."
McGinty grinned sheepishly. "I can't. The hooligans didn't get that one, but the winner took it home with her. It was the prize."
━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━
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.
"Sorry you can't sit at your usual table today," tavern owner Jake McGinty told Patrick Murphy. "All my chairs were stolen last night, right under my big Irish nose. Can you believe it?"
"That I can," said Murphy, perched on the edge of a table. "I'm sure you'll want to tell me all about it."
"Friday, you know, is game night. So several regulars suggest musical chairs. It's rowdy great fun! Everyone stands up, one chair is taken away, and they all, including the waitresses, form a conga line weaving between the chairs and tables while I'm playing my accordion. When I stop the music, they all scramble to sit down. Anyone who can't find a seat is out, and has to stand around until the game's over. The chairs are removed one at a time until there's only two souls left and a single seat. When I stop playing, those two scuffle for it, 'cause the last one sitting wins the prize."
"So what happened to the chairs?"
"I was so busy with the accordion, I didn't notice. Later, someone tells me theye were passed out the door into a waiting van."
"But," Murphy objected, "there ought to be one chair left, the one the winner was sitting on. Haul it out and I'll use it."
McGinty grinned sheepishly. "I can't. The hooligans didn't get that one, but the winner took it home with her. It was the prize."
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.
The Influencer
by Linda O'Grady
“You sure it looks OK, babe?”
“Gorgeous, babe. You’re beautiful.”
“And you’re getting the sunset? The waves? My hair?”
“Come on, babe, I know what I’m doing.”
“I know, babe. It’s, just, like, really important to the brand..."
“Maybe a step back, babe – really capture that dramatic windswept look.”
She wobbled slightly. “Like this?”
“Yeah, just like that.”
“But can you still see the logo, babe?”
The twist of a stiletto. A shriek swallowed by the wind. A last flash of glossy blonde hair.
He switched off the camera and started walking back to town.
Finally, a hot meal.
━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━
Linda O’Grady is an Irish woman living in Bordeaux. When not busy with her day job, she can be found sampling wine, frolicking in the French countryside, and partaking in pub quizzes as la petite Irlandaise.
“You sure it looks OK, babe?”
“Gorgeous, babe. You’re beautiful.”
“And you’re getting the sunset? The waves? My hair?”
“Come on, babe, I know what I’m doing.”
“I know, babe. It’s, just, like, really important to the brand..."
“Maybe a step back, babe – really capture that dramatic windswept look.”
She wobbled slightly. “Like this?”
“Yeah, just like that.”
“But can you still see the logo, babe?”
The twist of a stiletto. A shriek swallowed by the wind. A last flash of glossy blonde hair.
He switched off the camera and started walking back to town.
Finally, a hot meal.
Linda O’Grady is an Irish woman living in Bordeaux. When not busy with her day job, she can be found sampling wine, frolicking in the French countryside, and partaking in pub quizzes as la petite Irlandaise.
Hello, Nice Lady
by Nick di Carlo
Folks tell me you take in strays — one-eyed cat, three-legged dog, baby squirrel. So, when I see you leave the park, I follow. Struggle to keep up. Ain’t no spring chicken no more. And the limp’s real.
At last — reaching your back door, I drop onto your stoop.
Woof?
Meeeoooow?
━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━
Nick Di Carlo, erstwhile poet and inveterate story writer, has been knocking about this planet for seven decades and a bit. He’s taught writing and literature in universities on east and west coasts, in prisons and wilderness areas. Read his work in Muleskinner Journal, Flash Fiction Magazine, Guilty Crime Story.
Folks tell me you take in strays — one-eyed cat, three-legged dog, baby squirrel. So, when I see you leave the park, I follow. Struggle to keep up. Ain’t no spring chicken no more. And the limp’s real.
At last — reaching your back door, I drop onto your stoop.
Woof?
Meeeoooow?
Nick Di Carlo, erstwhile poet and inveterate story writer, has been knocking about this planet for seven decades and a bit. He’s taught writing and literature in universities on east and west coasts, in prisons and wilderness areas. Read his work in Muleskinner Journal, Flash Fiction Magazine, Guilty Crime Story.
Update
Our new publishing schedule is alternating Wednesdays. Look for some delicious new stories right here,
November 19.
Curse Word
creative non-fiction
by Marie Cloutier
I only did it because I knew it was bad, scrawled that word, the worst of the four letter words, on the brown pressboard wall of my nursery school cubby. How did the teacher find it? Then I saw the sun flowing in and illuminating the pencil marks like graphite neon. I forget the punishment now but I know it made me cry, maybe not the punishment but the shame of it, being called out, getting caught, even though I probably wanted to, get caught that is. Show that teacher I wasn't just a goody-goody, not just anyway. Not just.
━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━
Marie Cloutier (she/her) writes about girlhood and womanhood and complicated loves and losses. Her work has appeared in Bending Genres, Dorothy Parker's Ashes , the Sheepshead Review and elsewhere. She is at work on a memoir. Her website is www.mariecloutier.com.
by Marie Cloutier
I only did it because I knew it was bad, scrawled that word, the worst of the four letter words, on the brown pressboard wall of my nursery school cubby. How did the teacher find it? Then I saw the sun flowing in and illuminating the pencil marks like graphite neon. I forget the punishment now but I know it made me cry, maybe not the punishment but the shame of it, being called out, getting caught, even though I probably wanted to, get caught that is. Show that teacher I wasn't just a goody-goody, not just anyway. Not just.
Marie Cloutier (she/her) writes about girlhood and womanhood and complicated loves and losses. Her work has appeared in Bending Genres, Dorothy Parker's Ashes , the Sheepshead Review and elsewhere. She is at work on a memoir. Her website is www.mariecloutier.com.
Cappy's Crabs
by Liz deBeer
We jump up, knocking over our checker game, the blacks and reds clattering to the floor, in our rush to greet Uncle Cappy. Gripping a bushel of live crabs, their claws snapping, Cappy sends us outside to fetch more food from his car. When we stagger back with unhusked corn, dirty potatoes, and warm beer, Mom’s cursing god-damn Cappy, coming without calling first again. Who’s he think’ll cook the god-damn crabs and husk the god-damn corn and clean the god-damn mess?
And how’d he pay for all this, with no job? Don’t say it’s snatched, not in this house.
Cappy cracks open a brew, hands one to Mom, who refuses it, waiting for his answer, not a damn beer. The snaking scar on his forearm glistens in the dim overhead light as he gulps down a swig and swallows a burp. Mom once told us Cappy’s scar was from a cooking accident, hoping we’d never find out about his fights and heists, worried we’ll mimic his no-good path.
“It’s like this, Sis.” Cappy wipes his damp lip with a calloused thumb.
Rocking on her heels, Mom rolls her eyes, then leans on the kitchen counter stained from a previous renter.
“I bet on the Bisons. Wild guess: Bisons, 24. Cougars, 14. Bet money I didn’t have—” Mom starts in, but he talks louder, drowning out her curses. “Sis, I hit it.”
We watch Mom’s face morph, processing first the illegal betting on high school sports with her clenched jaws and shaking head. Then blowing out air, sputtering, “Bisons won? Ten points! We need a win ‘round here.”
Cappy and Mom clink beers, “To the Bisons!” He pulls out two dented stockpots, filling them with water while we husk the corn, golden silk strands dropping to the floor like we’ve both morphed into Rumpelstiltskin. Forgetting the irresponsible gambling, Mom balances on a wobbly stool, listening to Cappy recount the game as the crabs clack-clack-clack, clambering to the basket’s rim, pulling each other down in their desperate attempt to escape.
━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━
Liz deBeer is a teacher and writer with Project Write Now, a writing cooperative. Her flash has appeared in BULL, Fictive Dream, Switch and others. She is a volunteer reader at Flash Fiction Magazine. Follow Liz at www.ldebeerwriter.com or https://lizardstale.substack.com or @lizdebeerwriter.bsky.social.
We jump up, knocking over our checker game, the blacks and reds clattering to the floor, in our rush to greet Uncle Cappy. Gripping a bushel of live crabs, their claws snapping, Cappy sends us outside to fetch more food from his car. When we stagger back with unhusked corn, dirty potatoes, and warm beer, Mom’s cursing god-damn Cappy, coming without calling first again. Who’s he think’ll cook the god-damn crabs and husk the god-damn corn and clean the god-damn mess?
And how’d he pay for all this, with no job? Don’t say it’s snatched, not in this house.
Cappy cracks open a brew, hands one to Mom, who refuses it, waiting for his answer, not a damn beer. The snaking scar on his forearm glistens in the dim overhead light as he gulps down a swig and swallows a burp. Mom once told us Cappy’s scar was from a cooking accident, hoping we’d never find out about his fights and heists, worried we’ll mimic his no-good path.
“It’s like this, Sis.” Cappy wipes his damp lip with a calloused thumb.
Rocking on her heels, Mom rolls her eyes, then leans on the kitchen counter stained from a previous renter.
“I bet on the Bisons. Wild guess: Bisons, 24. Cougars, 14. Bet money I didn’t have—” Mom starts in, but he talks louder, drowning out her curses. “Sis, I hit it.”
We watch Mom’s face morph, processing first the illegal betting on high school sports with her clenched jaws and shaking head. Then blowing out air, sputtering, “Bisons won? Ten points! We need a win ‘round here.”
Cappy and Mom clink beers, “To the Bisons!” He pulls out two dented stockpots, filling them with water while we husk the corn, golden silk strands dropping to the floor like we’ve both morphed into Rumpelstiltskin. Forgetting the irresponsible gambling, Mom balances on a wobbly stool, listening to Cappy recount the game as the crabs clack-clack-clack, clambering to the basket’s rim, pulling each other down in their desperate attempt to escape.
Liz deBeer is a teacher and writer with Project Write Now, a writing cooperative. Her flash has appeared in BULL, Fictive Dream, Switch and others. She is a volunteer reader at Flash Fiction Magazine. Follow Liz at www.ldebeerwriter.com or https://lizardstale.substack.com or @lizdebeerwriter.bsky.social.
Final Rest
by R.K. West
As Henry scattered Gilbert’s ashes in the pet cemetery, an elderly lady who had just placed a small bundle of catnip on a nearby grave looked at the box in his hands. “That’s a rather large container,” she said. “A pig? A horse?” “My brother,” Henry replied and saw her smile quickly vanish. “It was his last wish to be interred with his beloved dogs, but unfortunately, human burials are not allowed here.”
━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━
Credit: Originally published at Paragraph Planet.
━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━
R.K. West is a co-editor at Sudden Flash.
As Henry scattered Gilbert’s ashes in the pet cemetery, an elderly lady who had just placed a small bundle of catnip on a nearby grave looked at the box in his hands. “That’s a rather large container,” she said. “A pig? A horse?” “My brother,” Henry replied and saw her smile quickly vanish. “It was his last wish to be interred with his beloved dogs, but unfortunately, human burials are not allowed here.”
Credit: Originally published at Paragraph Planet.
R.K. West is a co-editor at Sudden Flash.
Give It Up
by Franz Kafka
━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━
Franz Kafka (1883 – 1924) was a German-language Jewish Czech writer and novelist born in Prague. Widely regarded as a major figure of 20th-century literature, his work typically features isolated protagonists facing bizarre or surreal predicaments and incomprehensible socio-bureaucratic powers. The term Kafkaesque has entered the lexicon to describe situations like those depicted in his writings. His best-known works include the novella The Metamorphosis (1915) and the novels The Trial (1924) and The Castle (1926). His work has widely influenced artists, philosophers, composers, filmmakers, literary historians, religious scholars, cultural theorists.
This is a vintage piece from a historic author.
It was very early in the morning, the streets clean and deserted, I was walking to the station. As I compared the tower clock with my watch I realized that it was already much later than I had thought, I had to hurry, the shock of this discovery made me unsure of the way, I did not yet know my way very well in this town; luckily, a policeman was nearby, I ran up to him and breathlessly asked him the way. He smiled and said: “From me you want to know the way?” “Yes,” I said, “since I cannot find it myself.” “Give it up! Give it up,” he said, and turned away with a sudden jerk, like people who want to be alone with their laughter.
Franz Kafka (1883 – 1924) was a German-language Jewish Czech writer and novelist born in Prague. Widely regarded as a major figure of 20th-century literature, his work typically features isolated protagonists facing bizarre or surreal predicaments and incomprehensible socio-bureaucratic powers. The term Kafkaesque has entered the lexicon to describe situations like those depicted in his writings. His best-known works include the novella The Metamorphosis (1915) and the novels The Trial (1924) and The Castle (1926). His work has widely influenced artists, philosophers, composers, filmmakers, literary historians, religious scholars, cultural theorists.
Suggestions
by David Sydney
The "Suggestion Box" was Marge's idea. She was the waitress at AL'S DINER.
"People might get, well, more interested in the place, Al."
He frowned. "Don't expect any better tips, Marge."
He wasn't wild about the idea. But he wasn't wild about many of the customers either.
After a month, Marge emptied the contents of the box.
“So… What'd they suggest?”
The last diners were gone. AL'S was closed until 6:00 AM.
Sitting at the plywood counter in the poor light, she tallied the results.
“Three people want real cream in the Cream of Tomato Soup… Four thought we should remove the soup entirely from the menu…”
Al had a large stock of canned soup. It wouldn't happen.
“One said to rename Pot Roast as Pot Luck.”
That he'd consider.
She looked up from the largest pile of slips. “But most thought…”
“What?”
“...that we should offer flyswatters with every order, Al.”
━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━
David Sydney is a physician who writes fiction in and out of the EHR (Electronic Health Record).
The "Suggestion Box" was Marge's idea. She was the waitress at AL'S DINER.
"People might get, well, more interested in the place, Al."
He frowned. "Don't expect any better tips, Marge."
He wasn't wild about the idea. But he wasn't wild about many of the customers either.
After a month, Marge emptied the contents of the box.
“So… What'd they suggest?”
The last diners were gone. AL'S was closed until 6:00 AM.
Sitting at the plywood counter in the poor light, she tallied the results.
“Three people want real cream in the Cream of Tomato Soup… Four thought we should remove the soup entirely from the menu…”
Al had a large stock of canned soup. It wouldn't happen.
“One said to rename Pot Roast as Pot Luck.”
That he'd consider.
She looked up from the largest pile of slips. “But most thought…”
“What?”
“...that we should offer flyswatters with every order, Al.”
David Sydney is a physician who writes fiction in and out of the EHR (Electronic Health Record).
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