I Didn’t Know There Were People Like That
by John Bruce
Once I answered a help-wanted ad for a network engineer.
They had an extra requirement: the candidate should have strong writing skills, since they wanted a lot of documentation. Well, I’d done a lot of network engineering, I’d also written network manuals, and I’d majored in English. I sent in my resume – like any good player in the job market, I had several versions. I sent them the one with the English major listed on it.
A few days later, the hiring manager gave me a call. We talked about my network experience, and we talked about majoring in English. That seemed good enough; he asked me to come in for an interview. “It’s really interesting,” the manager said to me when I came in. “Not many people major in English and wind up in this kind of work.” The guy gave me a technical question-and-answer on what I knew about networks, and he realized that yes, I knew network engineering. And I could write.
”Have you done much with writing outside the technical field?” he asked after a while.
”I’ve had a few things in the local alternative press,” I said. “But it’s just a hobby.”
”It’s really interesting that you’ve kept it up.” We chatted a little more about that. I told him I actually kept reading, too, reading the same writers they had you read as an English major.
”There’s no money in it,” I said. “For most people, it really can’t be anything but a hobby.”
”I should be up front with you about one thing,” the guy told me. “We’ve already made an offer on this job. The guy hasn’t accepted it yet, but he could, so since we’ve already got the offer out, you need to understand that the guy could take it, and he’d be the one we hire.”
”Sure,” I said. The guy had just told me he’d wasted my time, of course.
”I really wanted to talk to you, though,” he said. “I really wanted to meet someone who’d kept up his interest in English and writing after he’d graduated. It’s really been interesting talking to you. In fact, that was why I called you in. I didn't know there were people like that.”
Thanks.
John Bruce’s writing has appeared, or will appear, in The Los Angeles Reader, The Dartmouth Review, serious-lit press, Fiction on the Web, Cantaraville, Bartleby Snopes, Diddledog, Eunoia Review, Fiction at Work, The Journal of Truth and Consequence, Long Story Short, The Toucan, Lyrical Ballads, Pear Noir!, Lowestoft Chronicle, Underground Voices, and Word Riot. He has degrees in English from Dartmouth College and the University of Southern California and lives in Los Angeles.
Her Song
by Huina Zheng
When my daughter came home from school, she didn’t call out to me like she usually did. She changed into her slippers by the door, her lips pressed into a thin line.
I opened my arms to hug her. She turned slightly and slipped past me.
“I’m fine,” she said. She didn’t look at me. Then she walked into her room and closed the door.
I stood there. That afternoon, her homeroom teacher had messaged me on WeChat. She had been class president for two years, but this time she lost the election by three votes.
Just three votes.
I knew that feeling. In seventh grade, I slipped from the top five in my class to the twenties. My mother stopped me in the living room. Her finger tapped my forehead as she told me I had become lazy, that I had disappointed her. I bit my lip. I didn’t argue. Didn’t explain. Didn’t cry.
When I got back to my room, I could taste blood. I lay on my bed and started singing. I don’t even remember which Faye Wong song it was. I only remember that, little by little, I felt myself calm down.
Now, I heard a song coming from behind my daughter’s door. It was the one she sang all the time. Her voice shook at first. But as she continued singing, it became steadier.
I stood outside her room. I did not knock. I did not ask, “Are you okay?” I hummed along with the melody coming from inside.
She didn’t know I was outside. But I knew that inside that room, she was using the same way I once had to bring herself back.
Huina Zheng either writes as an admission coach at work or writes for fun after work. She lives in Guangzhou, China, with her family.
Lady Octopus
Octopus sculpture by Charlotte Loring
by Marie Anderson
Lausen stared through the window at the octopus on the wall of Aunt Schik’s Art Gallery. Her octopus! Painted with acrylics in purple, red, and blue, with fierce green marble eyes. Eyes that had seen what had happened to Lausen. The body and eight legs sculpted from newspapers, paper towels, aluminum foil, and, if Lausen’s mom had for once been truthful, something else. Something Lausen could use right now. Lausen’s mom, sister-in-law to Aunt Schik, had created Lady Octopus ten years ago for Lausen’s 16th birthday. How had she ended up in Aunt Schik’s Art Gallery? With a price tag of $1000 dangling from the lower right edge of the frame!
Lausen flung open the door and marched into the gallery. From behind a counter bookended by potted lush green plants with suspicious-looking leaves of three, Aunt Schik scowled.
“Well, well, well. The Prodigal Girl has returned. What have you been doing lo these many months, Dear?”
“Recovering, Aunt Schik. That shouldn’t surprise you.”
“Have you an appointment, Dear?”
“That’s my octopus! What’s she doing here?”
“Your late mother gave it to me, Dear.”
“She’s mine! And you’re lying. You stole her off the wall in my bedroom after Mom died.”
“I wouldn’t dream of stealing, Dear. If you’d wanted it, why did you leave it behind when you moved out? And why didn’t you scurry back and claim it after your poor mother passed? I don’t recall seeing you at her celebration of life.”
“So you did take her! Mom didn’t give her to you! I want her back!”
Lausen strode to the octopus, grabbed the frame, yanked, but it stayed fast to the wall.
“You may certainly purchase it, Dear. I can offer you a ten percent family discount. Though a daughter who can’t bother to show up to help her ailing mother, who can’t bother to deal with all the tasks involved after someone departs these mortal coils, has perhaps lost her right to be considered family.”
Angry tears spilled, blurring Lausen’s eyes. “You of all people know why that happened. And if you’ve conveniently forgotten, ask your husband. My uncle. My mom believed her baby brother over me. Her daughter. I’d always be her baby girl, she’d once told me. Hah.”
“False memories, Dear. Perhaps planted by an incompetent therapist.”
“She’s mine. I want her back.”
“Repeating that won’t make it happen, Dear.”
Lausen clenched her fists. Eyeballed the distance between her fists and Lady Octopus’s head. She turned to face Aunt Schik. “So what will make it happen? Dear.”
“$900. Cash, not check, not credit card, not crypto. Dear.”
Lausen nodded, turned back to her Octopus, and rammed her fist into the beautiful, doomed invertebrate’s head.
Aunt Schik shrieked. “What the hell? I’m calling the cops!”
Lausen pulled green $100-bills from the shattered head. Stuffed them in her pockets and ran out the door. She’d count them later, but no doubt there was plenty to keep her numbed for a while.
Again
by Jon Fain
I was getting over one, being careful, but I’m a sucker for a woman who laughs at my jokes. When we ended up together in the kitchen, our conversation began with remarks about the other guests. Then we trolled out the occasional minor confession, had some hits here and there. The best part was that it had been free of the dull usual—nothing of kids, or houses, no talk about jobs.
Now a couple of days after the party we were having lunch. Ann told me I’d been in one of her dreams.
I’d heard the same thing from a guy in the men’s room at work, the week before. I knew his face—in that way who he was—but not his name. His cube is on the far side of the space, across the sea of dividers. Over there, their computers make the calls to customers, not take them in.
As I dried my hands under the machine, he turned from the sink where he was washing and told me he had dreamed about me. I misunderstood at first; I thought he was coming on to me, his line.
In his dream we had been in the company lunch room. Something he was working on was missing and he was sure I was responsible. But he knew I was a professional house watcher and he didn’t want to bother me while I was on duty.
As for Ann’s, in her dream that she told me about we were at my house. In this one I was a Catholic, one of many kids.
“Is that like your family?” she asked.
“Close,” I said, though it wasn’t.
“They didn’t like me,” Ann went on. “So you drove me home.”
“That’s it?”
The table was so small our hands almost touched. I gripped my wine glass as if now that it was empty it might fly away. Like the guy’s at work, it wasn’t much of a dream. And that was disappointing because except for rare circumstances I never remembered mine.
The food arrived. She looked at her watch. She was dressed much nicer than me. No doubt she had a nicer job too.
“So what do you want to be when you grow up?” I asked.
She laughed like I hoped she would. It was something from the party. In the kitchen, a man nearby had said it to a woman, his line. Maybe a half hour later, Ann and I still in the same spot, we heard him try it on another woman. We couldn’t help it; we’d both cracked up.
“Oh I don’t know,” she said. “What about you?”
I took my sunglasses off the table and put them on.
“A professional house watcher,” I said.
She kept smiling, didn’t get it, but nodded like she wanted to.
I didn’t need a watch to look at. I’d wait as long as I had to, for her laugh to come again.
Jon Fain’s micro fiction has appeared in Blink-Ink, The Dribble Drabble Review, 50-Word Stories, Molecule, ScribesMICRO, Sudden Flash, The Woolf, and elsewhere. https://www.chillsubs.com/profile/jonfain
I'll Time You
creative non-fiction
by Jillian Schedneck
My college roommate was afraid to leave our room. She needed something from the kitchen—perhaps a utensil, or to check on whatever she had simmering—but between her and that quiet task lay the lounge, thick with the other girls from our suite. We sat on our twin beds while she fretted. I offered to go instead, but the task was too specific. It had to be her.
What was she afraid of? Our suitemates were talking and laughing as usual, orbiting the shared lounge with their jokes and stories I was never part of. My roommate, more friendly and likeable, usually floated among them with ease, while I stayed at the edges, if I joined at all. But tonight she was worried they’d draw her in. She couldn’t manage small talk, couldn’t summon levity, or even pretend to smile. I wasn’t exactly sure why, only that I’d seen this before. Some nights, the world outside our room was too much for her.
“I’ll time you!” I shouted, the plan forming as I spoke. “If anyone talks to you, just say, ‘Can’t talk—Jillian’s timing me!’ and dash back!” She laughed, then quietened. And then, out of options, she agreed.
She raced out of our bedroom as I began my count. I imagined her in the kitchen, completing whatever vital task had sent her there. I heard her say something to the other girls, like, “I’m being timed!” I listened to her nervous giggle. And then she returned.
“Twenty seconds!” I said. “That must be some kind of record.”
We lay back on our beds, our heads on our pillows, laughing.
I was glad, most of all, that she’d returned, that at least on this night, she preferred me, even though our suitemates were louder, flashier, part of social worlds I had no access to or interest in. But I did have something they didn’t. With me, she felt safe. I never considered that my roommate might be depressed, or anxious, or caught in thoughts that didn’t quite line up with the world around her, only that on this one night I could give her some relief.
Years later, I still use that trick. My family and I time each other often. “Go! Close the curtains—quick! I’m timing you!” “C’mon, get the chicken out of the freezer! Ready, one, two, three...”. Sometimes the other family member even falls for it, but we always laugh. Every time, I think of my roommate, that moment, and how, more than twenty years later, she killed herself.
She was the one who everyone liked. I only lived in that dorm suite because she invited me—under her good grace, her kind eyes and infectious laugh. I didn’t know what she battled, not clearly enough to name it. When I saw the news on social media, in a tribute post with photos of her smiling beside her husband and children, I couldn’t believe it.
And then I could.
Jillian Schedneck writes speculative fiction and memoir. Her stories and essays have been published in Tahoma Literary Review, Brevity, Cleaver Magazine, Redivider and elsewhere. Her memoir was published with PanMacmillan. Her work has been chosen as a notable essay in the Best American Essays series and won multiple Solas Awards for Travel Writing. She lives in Canberra, Australia, with her partner and two children. Follow her work at jillianschedneck.com.
A Glimpse of War's Hell-Scenes
"The Harvest of Death, Gettysburg, July, 1863" - photo by Timothy H. O'Sullivan
creative non-fiction
by Walt Whitman
This is excerpted from Memoranda During the War, written in 1864
In one of the late movements of our troops in the valley, a strong force of Moseby's mounted guerillas
attacked a train of wounded and the guard of cavalry convoying them.
The ambulances contained about 60 wounded, quite a number of them
officers of rank. The rebels were in strength, and the capture of
the train and its partial guard after a short snap was effectually
accomplished. No sooner had our men surrendered, the rebels instantly
commenced robbing the train and murdering their prisoners, even the
wounded.
Among the wounded officers in the ambulances were a lieutenant of
regulars, and another of higher rank. These two were dragged out on
the ground on their backs, and were now surrounded by the guerillas,
a demoniac crowd, each member of which was stabbing them in different
parts of their bodies. One of the officers had his feet pinned firmly
to the ground by bayonets stuck through them and thrust into the ground.
These two officers, as afterwards found on examination, had received
about twenty such thrusts, some of them through the mouth, face, etc. The
wounded had all been dragged
out of their wagons; some had been effectually dispatched, and their
bodies were lying there lifeless and bloody. Others, not yet dead,
but horribly mutilated, were moaning or groaning. Of our men who
surrendered, most had been thus maimed or slaughtered.
At this instant a force of our cavalry, who had been following the train at some interval, charged suddenly upon the secesh captors, who proceeded at once to make the best escape they could. Most got away, but we gobbled two officers and seventeen men, in the very acts just described. The sight was one which admitted of little discussion. The seventeen captured men and two officers were put under guard for the night, but it was decided there and then that they should die. The next morning the two officers were taken in the town, separate places, put in the center of the street, and shot. The seventeen men were placed in a hollow square, half-encompassed by two of our cavalry regiments, one of which regiments had three days before found the bloody corpses of three of their men hamstrung and hung up by the heels to limbs of trees by Moseby's guerillas, and the other had not long before had twelve men, after surrendering, shot and then hung by the neck to limbs of trees, and jeering inscriptions pinned to the breast of one of the corpses, who had been a sergeant. Those three, and those twelve, had been found, I say, by these environing regiments. Now, with revolvers, they formed the grim cordon of the seventeen prisoners. The latter were placed in the midst of the square, unfastened, and the ironical remark made to them that they were now to be given "a chance for themselves." A few ran for it. But what use? From every side the deadly pills came. In a few minutes the seventeen corpses strewed the hollow square. I was curious to know whether some of the Union soldiers, some few, (some one or two at least of the youngsters) did not abstain from shooting on the helpless men. Not one. There was no exultation, very little said, almost nothing, yet every man there contributed his shot.
Multiply the above by scores, aye hundreds--verify it in all the forms that different circumstances, individuals, places, could afford--light it with every lurid passion, the wolf's, the lion's lapping thirst for blood--the passionate, boiling volcanoes of human revenge for comrades, brothers slain--with the light of burning farms, and heaps of smutting, smoldering black embers--and in the human heart everywhere black, worse embers--and you have an inkling of this war.
Walter Whitman Jr. (1819 – 1892) was an American poet, essayist, journalist, and novelist. He is considered one of the most influential poets in American and world literature. During the Civil War, he volunteered as a nurse in army hospitals.
Sunset at Independence Pier
by Phyllis Rittner
Look! he shouts. It’s enormous! I follow my husband’s finger as a blazing amber ball of sun hangs precariously low over the water, its wide beam reflecting the light ripples of the Atlantic. I grab my camera, race toward the shore. I pass families stamping out barbecue pits, hauling giant coolers toward the parking lot, all oblivious to this spectacle. As I fumble with my lens, the ball dips lower like a giant egg yolk, dropping behind docked boats and empty park benches.
I run toward the pier, past the young boys and their fathers. Heads down, they cast fishing poles into the ocean, converse in Spanish in hushed tones. Just this afternoon, as we spread our picnic blanket on the sand, we spotted a young family nervously scanning the park for agents. The wife kept pointing to a suspicious unmarked van at the park’s entrance, the same van I had surreptitiously taken photos of earlier. !Nosotros tenemos que irnos ahora! she implored. But the husband refused to leave. They argued a bit, some of which I gleaned from my rusty high school Spanish. Finally the wife pulled her toddler son in her arms, gathered her things and left her husband alone on the pier.
Hurry! I hear my husband’s voice call in the distance. Catch it before...
The sun, now a fiery, succulent tangerine, drops deeper, falls between the lace of tree branches. I snap photos on the pier, try to capture the last ounce of this day, this fleeting moment of reverence, but all I can think of is the young wife from this afternoon. Is she stirring soup in her kitchen, watching the local news, her son balanced on her hip?
The sky darkens and the weeping willows sway in the breeze. Suddenly my husband is beside me, slips an arm around my waist. We stand on the pier for a long time, watch the fishermen cast out their poles, patiently waiting for a bite.
Not much left now but minnows, he says flatly.
Is it safe? Now that it’s dark?
Everybody’s gotta eat. There’s an ache in his voice. It matches the ache in my chest. The one I’ve tried to ignore as the sun warmed my shoulders, as the surf caressed my toes.
Look papa! We turn to watch a young boy struggle with his pole, trying to pull a fish from the ocean. His father steadies his grip and together they fling the pole high into the air. Lo tengo! the boy yells, jumping up and down. His father laughs, plops a mackerel into their bucket, lifts his son high onto his shoulders. Mira, mira! he shouts to the fishermen. Mi hijo! There is applause as the boy waves his hands in triumph.
We walk silently to the parking lot, holding hands. I am grateful the van I saw earlier is gone. I turn back, search the pier for a glimpse of father and son. I finally find them through my lens, still in their victory pose, celebrating their conquest. I zoom onto their fading silhouette, capture it seconds before it disappears.
Phyllis Rittner loves all things flash. Her work can be found in Fictive Dream, Emerge Literary Journal, Portrait of New England, Wrong Turn Lit (Best Microfiction nominee), and others. She can be found on Facebook at https://www.facebook.com/phyllis.rittner
He Searched 100 Miles and Found Her
Creative nonfiction
By Simon Newcomb
Now and then, we publish vintage stories from historic authors. This is an excerpt from Simon Newcomb's 1903 autobiography.
My father was the most rational and the most dispassionate of men. The conduct of his life was guided by a philosophy based on Combe's "Constitution of Man," and I used to feel that the law of the land was a potent instrument in shaping his paternal affections.
His method of seeking a wife was so far unique that it may not be devoid of interest, even at this date. From careful study he had learned that the age at which a man should marry was twenty five. A healthy and well endowed offspring should be one of the main objects in view in entering the marriage state, and this required a mentally gifted wife. She must be of different temperament from his own and an economical housekeeper.
So when he found the age of twenty five approaching, he began to look about. There was no one in Wallace who satisfied the requirements. He therefore set out afoot to discover his ideal.
In those days and regions the professional tramp and mendicant were unknown, and every farmhouse dispensed its hospitality with an Arcadian simplicity little known in our times. Wherever he stopped overnight he made a critical investigation of the housekeeping, perhaps rising before the family for this purpose. He searched in vain until his road carried him out of the province.
One young woman spoiled any possible chance she might have had by a lack of economy in the making of bread. She was asked what she did with an unnecessarily large remnant of dough which she left sticking to the sides of the pan. She replied that she fed it to the horses. Her case received no further consideration.
The search had extended nearly a hundred miles when early one evening he reached what was then the small village of Moncton. He was attracted by the strains of music from a church, went into it, and found a religious meeting in progress. His eye was at once arrested by the face and head of a young woman playing on a melodeon, who was leading the singing. He sat in such a position that he could carefully scan her face and movements. As he continued this study the conviction grew upon him that here was the object of his search. That such should have occurred before there was any opportunity to inspect the dough pan may lead the reader to conclusions of his own.
He inquired her name: Emily Prince. He cultivated her acquaintance, paid his addresses, and was accepted.
He was fond of astronomy, and during the months of his engagement one of his favorite occupations was to take her out of an evening and show her the constellations. It is even said that among the daydreams in which they indulged one was that their firstborn might be an astronomer. Probably this was only a passing fancy, as I heard nothing of it during my childhood.
The marriage was in all respects a happy one, so far as congeniality of nature and mutual regard could go. Although the wife died at the early age of thirty-seven the husband never ceased to cherish her memory and so far as I am aware never again thought of marrying.
Simon Newcomb (March 12, 1835 – July 11, 1909) was a Canadian–American astronomer, applied mathematician, and autodidactic polymath. He served as Professor of Mathematics in the United States Navy and at Johns Hopkins University.
Is AI Just the Modern Way to Write?
by R.K. West
According to a recent Yahoo article a majority of books in Amazon's "Success" self-help genre contain AI writing. AI books are common in other genres, too. Authors are concerned about the flood of AI-generated books that detract from the ability of real writers to sell their books.
It may be that prolific readers of genre fiction can't tell that they are reading bot-produced books, or that they don't care. Amazon permits "authors" to upload as many as three books per day, a limit that is supposedly aimed at cutting down the number of low-quality AI (and low-quality human-produced) books flooding the market.
YouTube has hundreds of videos explaining how to detect AI writing, and hundreds explaining how to make a fortune as an AI "author".
Most legitimate publishers do not want to handle AI-generated works, and have added AI-detection to the list of skills editors need. There are many automated AI detectors (which probably use AI), but they are not as reliable as we might hope. People who have studied the writing "style" of bots like ChatGPT point to certain characteristics as indicative of AI-generated texts.
John was worried about his shoes -- they often slipped off his feet while he walked -- so he secured them with duct tape.Apparently, ChatGPT uses em-dashes to excess, and does not put spaces around them.
The words excited him--he was easily excited by words--and he began to hum. His wife--always attuned to his vocalizations--told him to calm down.Do writers have to stop using dashes? No. If dashes are a natural part of the writer's style, they can stay, but it's best (even in a world without AI) to avoid going overboard with them.
Studies show that 87% of novels on the New York Times best-seller list are 100% AI-written. As microbiologist Joan Didion once said, "I have seen the future of literature, and it is bot."Sadly, humans sometimes do these things, too.
Even without referring to a checklist, experienced readers can identify AI writing with a high degree of certainty.
It is hard to imagine that anyone using AI to generate texts could call themselves an "author" without a twinge of guilt. Do the purveyors of these word collections (based on plagiarism) actually feel creative? Is it possible to take pride in having accomplished nothing beyond distributing mediocre word slop?
Aside from poor quality, there are many practical reasons to not use AI, especially for those who hope to have a professional writing career.
Before the Law
by Franz Kafka
Translation by Ian Johnston
Now and then, we publish vintage stories from historic authors. This was originally published in 1915.
Before the law sits a gatekeeper. To this gatekeeper comes a man from the country who asks to gain entry into the law. But the gatekeeper says that he cannot grant him entry at the moment. The man thinks about it and then asks if he will be allowed to come in later on. “It is possible,” says the gatekeeper, “but not now.” At the moment the gate to the law stands open, as always, and the gatekeeper walks to the side, so the man bends over in order to see through the gate into the inside. When the gatekeeper notices that, he laughs and says: “If it tempts you so much, try it in spite of my prohibition. But take note: I am powerful. And I am only the most lowly gatekeeper. But from room to room stand gatekeepers, each more powerful than the other. I can’t endure even one glimpse of the third.” The man from the country has not expected such difficulties: the law should always be accessible for everyone, he thinks, but as he now looks more closely at the gatekeeper in his fur coat, at his large pointed nose and his long, thin, black Tartar’s beard, he decides that it would be better to wait until he gets permission to go inside. The gatekeeper gives him a stool and allows him to sit down at the side in front of the gate. There he sits for days and years. He makes many attempts to be let in, and he wears the gatekeeper out with his requests. The gatekeeper often interrogates him briefly, questioning him about his homeland and many other things, but they are indifferent questions, the kind great men put, and at the end he always tells him once more that he cannot let him inside yet. The man, who has equipped himself with many things for his journey, spends everything, no matter how valuable, to win over the gatekeeper. The latter takes it all but, as he does so, says, “I am taking this only so that you do not think you have failed to do anything.” During the many years the man observes the gatekeeper almost continuously. He forgets the other gatekeepers, and this one seems to him the only obstacle for entry into the law. He curses the unlucky circumstance, in the first years thoughtlessly and out loud, later, as he grows old, he still mumbles to himself. He becomes childish and, since in the long years studying the gatekeeper he has come to know the fleas in his fur collar, he even asks the fleas to help him persuade the gatekeeper. Finally his eyesight grows weak, and he does not know whether things are really darker around him or whether his eyes are merely deceiving him. But he recognizes now in the darkness an illumination which breaks inextinguishably out of the gateway to the law. Now he no longer has much time to live. Before his death he gathers in his head all his experiences of the entire time up into one question which he has not yet put to the gatekeeper. He waves to him, since he can no longer lift up his stiffening body.
The gatekeeper has to bend way down to him, for the great difference has changed things to the disadvantage of the man. “What do you still want to know, then?” asks the gatekeeper. “You are insatiable.” “Everyone strives after the law,” says the man, “so how is that in these many years no one except me has requested entry?” The gatekeeper sees that the man is already dying and, in order to reach his diminishing sense of hearing, he shouts at him, “Here no one else can gain entry, since this entrance was assigned only to you. I’m going now to close it.
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.
They Don't Want Me on the Jury
by R.K. West
His lawyer says it was consensual. I think, “Really? In a filthy parking garage in 40-degree weather?” He says she liked it rough. I think she probably liked her nose more.
When the prosecutor asks if there is anything to impede my ability to make an impartial decision, I am tempted to point at this arrogant prick who strutted into the courtroom radiating privilege and contempt. Or his attorney who used pretrial publicity to warn that this could ruin the promising career of a gifted athlete. “What else has been ruined?” I might ask.
But I just smile and say “No.”
R.K. West is a former travel blogger living in the Pacific Northwest. Credit: This story originally appeared at 101 Words.
The Secret of a Happy Marriage
by Ed Kratz
Martha and Ben sat across from each other at the breakfast table. Martha held her section of the paper in front of her face, reading. Once in a while, one hand would dart out and grab her scone for a bite and put it back, while Martha kept her paper in position.
Her face still behind the paper, Martha said, "So we're on for spending Saturday at my sister's house and doing the yard sales."
"We have a garage full of junk. We don't need any more." Ben said. He took the gun he had hidden on his lap and rested it on the table. He squinted his eyes and stared at Martha.
"We'll stay overnight. Then we can have lunch at the deli with the great corned beef the next day. You love their corned beef." Martha said.
"I hate corned beef."
"I've got it all set."
"I said I hate corned beef." Ben banged the gun on the table. "I hate yard sales. And I hate your sister."
He banged the gun again. "Do I have your attention?"
Martha lowered her paper. She looked at Ben's gun. "I was just getting into this article. I'll try to remember my place. This will not take long."
She folded the paper, put it to her side on the table, smiled and lifted her own weapon.
Ben said, "It's a Glock. So big."
Martha stroked it like a pet. "This is just like that gun in that old movie with Clint Eastwood. You loved that movie."
Ben couldn't speak. With great effort, he raised his weapon an inch. It seemed tiny now.
"Your gun isn't loaded anyway, darling. I unloaded it. You can't hide things from me. I know you well, my love."
"Loaded?" Ben said.
"You've never been good at planning. That's why I manage our 401K."
Ben spun the empty chamber. He shook his head.
"Now, Ben, we've been over this so many times. You can't fool me."
Ben put his gun down on the table. He sobbed like someone accepting great sorrow.
"So, like I said, we'll stay over and have that corned beef platter at the deli."
Ben rubbed his unloaded pistol as if it were a bottle that could call forth a genie that could save him.
"My sister, she said our marriage would never last. But we've proved her wrong, haven't we, dear?"
Ben sobbed as Martha returned to her paper. But in the midst of his crying, he realized he was indeed looking forward to having that rye bread sandwich with the juicy corned beef next Sunday.
Ed Kratz is a retired computer specialist who has been published in Flash Fiction Magazine, Daily Science Fiction and a few other places.
Spectre
by Owen Wyn Jones
Charlie wasn’t invited to the premier, of course. Extras never were. But he booked out a row in the local cinema for the opening night and invited his friends and family. He’d appeared in movies before, but this was the big one. Ever since he was a child, Charlie had loved James Bond. He loved the tuxedos, the cars, the beautiful women. Those movies were what made him want to become an actor, a dream he held on to through forty years working in the civil service.
The part was HOMELESS MAN ON STREET. They didn’t say what the film was upfront, but it was obvious enough from the description they shared. Charlie sent in his headshot, and a few weeks later there he was. On the set of the next James Bond.
They gave him a messy haircut and makeup that was supposed to look like mud. His costume was a grey overcoat, distressed to look old and well-worn. In the scene, James Bond and another character walked down a London street while talking about a computer virus that was going to destabilise the global economy. Charlie’s role was to sit in a doorway and reach out a coffee cup as they passed, like he was begging for change. He tried to look really desperate when he lifted the cup, like a real homeless person would be. It was a good role, for an extra, and he was happy with how he played it.
About an hour into the movie, Charlie recognised the street from his scene, and he gripped his wife’s arm.
“This is the scene?” she whispered.
Charlie nodded, and she passed along the message so that all the row were ready to spot him. James Bond walked down the street, right up to the spot where his character was begging…
Then the film cut to a different angle. You could just see the coffee cup he was holding in the corner of the screen, but Charlie’s character was out of the frame.
James Bond stopped, and there was a close-up of him looking concerned about the computer virus. Then the scene ended.
“Did I miss it?” Charlie’s wife whispered, distraught. “Which one were you?”
Charlie shook his head, “Never mind.”
He tried to make a joke about it after the movie was over, but everyone must have known he was really upset about being cut out of the film.
“At least you got to be on the set for a James Bond,” his wife tried to reassure him in bed that night. “That’s got to be pretty special, hasn’t it?”
“Of course,” Charlie said. “You’re right.”
He didn’t say how boring being on a film set really was. Hours of waiting with no clue what was going on, just to do the same thing over and over again. The only people who would talk to you were other extras, and they were always complaining about something. Normally the quality of the lunch.
Charlie reached over to turn out the bedside lamp. He tried to sound positive. Genuine. “Yes, it was like a dream come true.”
Owen Wyn Jones is a new writer from Mid Wales, currently studying for an MA in Creative Writing at Cardiff University.
Temptation
by Leah Mueller
He’s coming downhill while I’m going up. The harsh streetlight illuminates a familiar face. Yeah, it’s Miles. The guy I spent a night with three years ago, before he returned to his ex-wife.
Miles grins when he sees me. “You look great.” He looks damn great himself, but I have a partner and a baby now. “Wanna come to my place?”
Miles lives next door to my mother. Bisbee is that kind of town. I shouldn’t go. My two kids are resting on Mom’s floor. On the other hand, they’ll sleep until morning.
“Sure,” I say. “For a little while.”
Leah Mueller's work appears in Rattle, Best Small Fictions, Certain Age, Writers Resist, The Shallot, NonBinary Review, Brilliant Flash Fiction, New Flash Fiction Review, Does It Have Pockets, Outlook Springs, Your Impossible Voice, etc.
Boy Soldier
AI-generated imageby Sascha Goluboff
Little Bobby Scofield didn’t want to go to the carnival. He’d rather play with the toy soldiers he’d set up as a battle between the Marines and the Viet Cong, but here he was with his mom, reluctantly walking the Midway the summer before sixth grade, kaleidoscope lights pulsing against a dark sky. Popping balloons at the dart game sounded off like sniper fire.
“Five-minute caricature,” a man called out from a tent behind concessions. He leaned on a snake-headed cane. His hair was white but his face unlined.
“Wouldn’t that be fun?” Bobby’s mom asked.
Bobby shrugged.
“What’s the boy into?” The man ushered Bobby to sit by an easel.
“His army men.”
“Marines, mom.”
She gazed outside, lost again in her own world.
The man sharpened a charcoal stick with his fingernail. He sketched in large loopy strokes. Bobby’s eyelids grew heavy.
Bobby liked to reenact the Battle of Hue City in Vietnam. Maybe if he'd been there – all grown up – he might have saved his dad and his fellow Marines.
The snake cane flicked its tongue.
“You wanna be a hero?” the man asked.
Bobby nodded.
The man handed him the portrait – Bobby in camo.
Bobby stumbled out of the tent into Hue City, leaving his mom behind. Real gun fire crackled across a sooty sky.
Bobby spotted his dad across the rubble and yelled out to him.
His dad turned to him in a flash of recognition. He moved towards Bobby, arms outstretched. A grenade detonated between them. His dad careened backwards in a red shatter. Bobby was thrown against a concrete wall.
When Bobby came to, he felt the snake curled mockingly around his feet.
“Hero,” it hissed.
Sascha Goluboff is a writer, mother, and academic who lives in Virginia. Her personal website is saschagoluboff.com.
A Mourning @ Dairy Queen
By Anthony David Vernon
My father told me I once pushed Alonzo Mourning.
But my mother says my dad is a compulsive liar.
My father told me we were in line at a roadside Dairy Queen, I couldn’t have been more than five, and Alonzo Mourning (with his son) was waiting in front of us.
But my mother says that she would never let me spend time alone with my dad when I was that young.
My father told me I pushed Alonzo Mourning at the Dairy Queen on US 1, by the Metro Rail, with the triangular punch yellow roof, the one you couldn’t go inside of.
But my mother says my father has two personalities: John A & John B.
My father told me that I really wanted my ice cream, so I tried to move Alonzo Mourning out of my way.
But my mother says I was never so bold as a child.
My father told me laughingly, “Of course, Alonzo Mourning didn’t move an inch.”
But my mother says my dad likes to make up stories.
My father told me I made my way in front of Alonzo Mourning, and that he grabbed me while apologizing to Alonzo Mourning.
But my mother says my dad would never apologize to anyone for anything.
My father told me that Alonzo Mourning calmly told him, “It’s okay, little man just wanted some ice cream.”
My father says I was too young to remember if I really did push Alonzo Mourning at that now closed-down Dairy Queen.
But my mother says that I have the memory of Ganesha.
My father says he doesn’t recall if I really pushed Alonzo Mourning and doesn’t even recall telling me the story.
But my mother says it is okay if I want my father’s stories to be true.
Anthony David Vernon is a fan of ice cream and knows chocolate is objectively the best flavor of ice cream.
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