A Question of the Truth

Photo by Matthew Ansley on Unsplash

by James C. Clar

The truth was that as soon as he heard Demorovic had seized power, Mokrzan knew he’d be arrested. In his country, a new broom swept clean, and there was no such thing as “retirement.”

They came for him on January 2nd, at 3:30 A.M., four men – three burly soldiers and a militia colonel he didn’t recognize. Strange, he thought; after thirty years in the capital’s bureaucracy, he knew almost every government functionary by sight. They must have imported these men from another district, fearful that locals would be inclined to treat him with the accustomed deference.

They even let him get dressed. That violation of protocol chilled him more than rough handling might have.

“Should I bring anything?” Mokrzan asked quietly.

“No,” the colonel said. “You won’t need it.”

He wondered if that meant they’d shoot him before sunrise.

Instead, after five and a half hours in a cell, he was taken to a courtroom in the Ministry of Justice. His “trial” started at ten. The huge portrait of the new president glared down over the judge’s bench. But what truly jarred him was seeing his son seated with the state prosecutors.

Their eyes met only once. The young man’s expression seemed to say, you taught me how the system works. You taught me how to survive. Neither spoke. Afterward, they avoided looking at one another.

The evidence came in crisp, damning waves. Transcripts of conversations with officials in several Western nations. Vouchers showing indulgent meals and foreign travel. A prosecutor waved the documents about like an orchestra conductor working his way through a particularly difficult symphony.

“Comrade Mokrzan’s appetites grew as his loyalty shrank,” the man stated matter-of-factly.

They produced surveillance photos of him meeting men suspected of having CIA ties.

Mokrzan said nothing. He could have explained that he’d been acting under orders from the Ministry of State Security, that two of his judges had approved those very missions. To reveal the truth would doom them now, and worse, his son.

At one point a young prosecutor asked coldly, “Do you deny consorting with agents of the West?”

Mokrzan’s voice was nearly a whisper. “I deny nothing. What would be the point?”

Reality in his country had always been malleable, truth a tool wielded by whomever held power. Thousands had perished over the years in shifting interpretations, variable exegesis. Now, inevitably, it was his turn.

At 12:30 P.M., the sentence was delivered: death by firing squad on January 16th at 9:00 A.M. The delay, he knew, was meant for interrogation. Fabricated evidence required a full and fabricated confession.

But days passed. No interrogators came. On March 10th he was trembling with dread. It wasn’t the execution that frightened him, that would be quick. It was the anticipation of torture, the hours or days that would precede it. He slept hardly at all. Meals remained untouched. By the 14th he was feverish. He understood that events seldom conformed to one’s anticipation of them. He thus allowed his mind to run wild, imagining horrors that surpassed even those he had witnessed over the decades.

On the morning of January 15th, at 1:45 A.M., he lay on his bunk, eyes closed but mind racing through a botched interrogation he’d once seen. Keys rattled in the door. He sat up sharply. Two guards entered.

“Time,” one said.

As their hands reached for him, Mokrzan felt his heart surge. He was dead before they could lift him from his bed.

On January 17th, the state newspaper reported succinctly: The traitor, Minister Mokrzan, was executed as scheduled.

The truth had never been in question.

━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━
In addition to his contributions to Sudden Flash, work by James C. Clar has appeared in Antipodean SF, Altered Reality Magazine, Freedom Fiction Journal, 365 Tomorrows, Bright Flash Literary Review and MetaStellar Magazine.

 

Breath With a Broken Schedule

Photo by Rowen Smith on Unsplash

by Judith Taburet

My aunt died in France.

Death broke the schedule.

Suddenly, I don’t have time disappeared, wiped clean like chalk from a board.

My mother crossed the sea from Madagascar. I hadn’t seen her for years—years measured not in days, but in distance in silence, in voice notes saved and never deleted.

How could my face show happiness and sadness at the same time?

Sadness.

Joy.

Sun.

Cloud.

Shadow.

Weight—not lightness.

The sun argued with the clouds. Light spilled anyway. Shadow stayed. Weight existed without gravity. I felt heavy and floating, carried by something larger than myself—solitude wrapped inside enormous solidarity.

Family gathered the way weather does: sudden, inevitable. Hugs came from everywhere—lightning, wind, pressure. Death had done what only love could resist: it forced us into the same room, the same moment, the same breath.

Time was confused in the heart’s country.

Hours bent. Minutes refused to give their names.

Tic. Tac.

Happiness began blowing pink balloons, timidly, as if asking permission. Christmas lurked in the corner, unsure whether to enter. Sadness put on a swimsuit and crossed the sea of tears slowly, refusing to rush. Doubt dressed with care—black shirt, red pants—ready for whatever would happen next.

Hail fell outside.

Sharp.

Brief.

Honest.

When my mother finally stood in front of me, she said, "Sweetheart, how are you?" Her voice was soft. Grief stepped aside. Not gone—just quieter. My face learned something new then: how to breathe with a broken schedule, how to hold joy inside great sadness, how to welcome love even when it arrives carrying death.

Tic.

Toc.

Love.

━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━
Judy T is a writer and photographer hailing from Madagascar, now based in France. Drawing from a rich legacy of advocacy, she infuses her art with a sense of purpose. Inspired by her father, an influential writer who courgeously fought against prejudice and racism in their homeland . Judy T channels her creative voice to shed light on women's stories and Malagasy culture. Her work, both in prose and photography, delves into strong experiences, ensuring they are told with unflinching honesty and strength.

 

The Birthday Gift

by Huina Zheng

“You waste money,” Old Li said, pointing at the blue-wrapped birthday gift in his son’s hands.

“You spent far more on my education,” Ming replied.

“That’s what parents are supposed to do,” Old Li said, weighing the box with a satisfied smile.

“Then I made sure today’s gift follows the proper path,” Ming said.

Lao Li laughed as he unwrapped it.

“Thanks to your year-round drills, no days off, and the countless belts you broke on my back, I finally got into medical school,” Ming added, his tone as casual as discussing the weather. “You always said studying is the only proper path.”

Old Li’s smile froze.

A brand-new smart study tablet lay on the velvet lining.

“Latest model. Complete parental-monitoring functions,” Ming said, leaning in to power it on. The screen lit up with course lists. “I’ve enrolled you in a senior-college intensive program. Daily check-ins. Weekly exams…”

Old Li stared at the notification flashing: Today’s Required Lesson: Algebra I. His fingers trembled.

“You always said one should learn for life,” Ming said, gently pressing the lock button. “Now it’s my turn to keep you on the proper path.”

━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━
Huina Zheng is a writer and college essay coach based in Guangzhou, China. Her work appears in Baltimore Review, Variant Literature, Midway Journal, and other journals. She has received multiple nominations, including for the Pushcart Prize, Best of the Net, Best Small Fictions, and Best Microfiction.

 

The Yard Sale

by Robert Runté

The pre-teen nephew was put in charge of the yard sale table, while inside the adults haggled over the better furniture. The nephew had arranged the collection of worthless vases, knick-knacks, and rusty tools on the table, along with the contents of the kitchen drawer. The ancient ivory figurine was probably worth six figures, but the family had dismissed it as some plastic Halloween trinket.

I was more interested in the metal chest the boy was using as a bench.

"How much for that metal case?" I asked, pointing.

"There's no key for it," he told me. "We're gonna break it open later, to see what's inside."

"Oh, I can tell you that," I lied. "He used it to hold a combination of sand, cat litter, and salt. For the driveway each winter."

The boy nodded. "That's why it's so heavy, then."

"I'll give you a twenty for it."

"Why do you want it?"

"It snows on my driveway too," I said, indicating a random door down the block. "I liked your uncle's idea of having a sandbox out by the driveway. And it will remind me of him."

"You were friends?" the boy asked.

"Neighbors," I said. That should be safe. Close enough to be friendly, but not enough to have come up in conversation with family.

The boy shrugged. "Sure. Why not. Everything has to go somewhere." He stood up.

"My car's just there," I said. "If you could help me carry it that far?"

"Why the car? I could carry it to your house, easily enough." He nodded at the house I had indicated earlier.

"Oh, thanks, but winter's still a month or two off. I'll put it in storage until it actually snows."

"Sure."

Together, we manhandled the chest into the trunk.

"Hey," he said as I started towards the driver's door.

I jumped a little, afraid of what he might ask.

"Yes?"

"Aren't you forgetting something?"

I looked back at the table. It was tempting to go back for the ivory, but I couldn't risk it. There was a chance someone would mention it to the family, they would realize its value, try to track it down, find me.

"I don't think so. I just wanted the, uh, sandbox."

"My twenty," the boy said.

I laughed. A little too loud, I suspect, given my nerves. Stiffing the kid would have been unnecessarily memorable, almost as bad as buying the ivory.

I reached into my wallet and pulled out a bill.

"I'm sorry. I'm getting forgetful in my old age.

"It's okay. Uncle was like that, too."

Which reminded me, I'd better get gas before heading out for the woods. Running out would be the sort of careless mistake I'd been making lately. God, what else did I need? A shovel from a hardware store.

As I drove off, the lad gave me a friendly wave.

━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━
Robert Runté is Senior Editor with EssentialEdits.ca and freelances at SFeditor.ca. A former professor, he has won four Aurora Awards for his literary criticism and currently reviews for the Ottawa Review of Books. His own fiction has been published over 130 times, with several reprinted in "best of" collections.

 

The Pogo Stick Boy

by Jenny Morelli

He woke this morning confused, disoriented; crawled from bed, threw on yesterday’s clothes, fresh socks, summer sneakers, and ran out the back door, past his mom.

"Slow down!" she yawned, then "Eat something!"  but he didn’t respond, just picked up his pogo stick to hop down the street as his neighbors hollered "Good Day, Sir Pogo Master," amused with this, the only child on the block, and he bounced along the yellow line from one curb to the other, into the neighbor's yard higher, higher, higher; up and over tall trees and low clouds, up and up into space before dropping again, ears popping, stomach plunging, until at last, he reached his street, long shadows revealing dusk had arrived.

He pogoed his return home until forced to stop for the strange man that appeared before him, falling from his toy as he looked up, up, up at the top-hatted fellow, eyes full of awe.

"There you are," the man said, to which the boy replied, "Here I am," to which the man replied, "You missed so much," to which the boy replied "So did you," then the strange man stroked his lopsided, gray-speckled beard.

"How do we fill it in," he asked, "all that lost time between you and me?"

The small boy shrugged, took the man’s hand, and together, they strolled down the street, backward, of course, so they could watch their ends meet in the middle. 

━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━
Jenny Morelli is a NJ high school English teacher who lives with her husband, cat, and myriad yard pets. She seeks inspiration in everything and loves to spin fantastically weird tales. She’s published in several print and online literary magazines including Spillwords, Red Rose Thorns, Scars tv, Bottlecap Press and Bookleaf Press for five poetry chapbooks.

 

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.

 

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

 

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.

 

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.

 

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.

 

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.

 

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.

 

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.

 

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.

 

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).

 

Marinated

by David Sydney

“You're back already, Ed?”

Edna looked up from her coffee. She’d hoped to be alone for more than 30 minutes in the kitchen as Ed shopped that Saturday morning. They alternated shopping.

“I bought us a half dozen cans of herring, Edna.”

Whenever he talked about a reduced price, Ed was animated. He displayed one of the jars which featured cream sauce.

What did he mean by "us"?

“But we have a lot already, Ed.”

She didn't need to point to the refrigerator with an entire shelf of Ed's jars.

Who else eats that kind of stuff anyway?

Of course, Ed did get a terrific price.

She grimaced, looking at her coffee, but thinking of the unnecessary fish. She added a few extra frown lines to her forehead as she spotted another fly.

“How about the flypaper, Ed?”

Damn. He'd forgotten the flypaper. And that was the main reason he'd gone that Saturday at 8 AM, just to make sure the market wouldn't run out.

“Flies, Ed.”

How many times did he need to be told?

She brushed another one away from her coffee.

“When you have flies, Ed, you need flypaper.”

The stuff works. A fly on flypaper is as good as, well, dead. It's the end of that fly at least. But, on this Saturday, they had more fish – almost anyone but Ed would say way more – but no adhesive paper.

The flies of this world are a constant problem. There will always be flies. Long after Edna, Ed, and the entire human race exit this planet, there will still be plenty of the filthy bulbous-headed insects.

But fish? Marinated fish? That's, well, another matter.

And how often could Ed get three jars of herring for the price of one?

━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━
David Sydney is a physician who writes fiction in and out of the EHR (Electronic Health Record).

 

The Assistant

by James C. Clar

For years I had been unable to find an assistant capable of maintaining order in my shop. Applicants came and went, leaving behind only more misplaced volumes and unfilled orders. Admittedly, my bookstore—Aleph Books – was a labyrinth of paper and dust. I reconciled myself to the idea that chaos was forever to be my natural element. One fog-shrouded morning, however, I opened a crate of rare Hebrew manuscripts acquired from the estate of a rabbi in the Czech Republic. Among them was a slim volume bound in calfskin: Sefer Yetzirah. The text bore the unmistakable annotations of Rabbi Eleazar of Worms.

One marginal note, penned in almost indecipherable Aramaic, seemed to describe a formula for forming life from inanimate matter. I copied down what I could make of it, more out of curiosity than actual belief. One dark autumn evening, under a dim bulb in my storeroom, I followed the text’s obscure instructions as closely as I could. My materials consisted of freshly dug soil plus the resin and clay used to restore old bindings and book covers.

To say that the results exceeded my wildest expectations would be an understatement.

The following morning, my new assistant, Lem, got to work. Within hours, my shop possessed a new coherence. Long lost books were stacked neatly on the tables. My inventory had been alphabetized, cataloged and cross-referenced by subject and author.

When customers asked for obscure works such as The Approach to Al-Mu’tasim by Bahadur, for example, Lem’s pale hand reached unerringly to the exact shelf. My clientele, a mix of mystics, dilettantes, and eccentrics, took to him at once. One elderly collector whispered that the boy’s eyes reflected letters when the light struck them a certain way.

His appearance did not phase them. I had fitted him out in some of my old clothes. They hung on him in a rather shapeless and somewhat disturbing way. Nor did the fact that he spoke only in inarticulate grunts precipitate complaints. I explained his sudden arrival as a favor to a cousin in the “old country” who wanted their boy to see a bit of the world.

Business flourished. Orders arrived from London, Buenos Aires, Paris. Lem stood silently behind the counter, committing each transaction to infallible memory. It was inevitable that others would covet him. A bookseller visiting from Helsinki offered to “borrow” him for six months. Another collector hinted at a buy-out. I refused both. But envy moves in far more insidious ways. I began finding notes for Lem tucked in volumes throughout the store. The idea of allowing him to work for someone else was, as you can imagine, out of the question.

I knew then what I must regrettably do. The formula’s reversal was mercifully brief: a mystical letter erased from his forehead; a mere breath released. Lem dissolved into dust finer than that which had at one time coated my bookshelves.

Predictably, in time, the order of the shop decayed. Customers grew impatient; I could no longer locate the most mundane texts. I tried to reconstruct my catalog, but the handwriting blurred, the pages defied sequence. I had promised to set aside a first edition of Runeberg’s Kristus och Judas for a collector from Trieste. When he arrived, I couldn’t find it.

That very evening, I reopened the Sefer Yetzirah. I gathered my materials and began again, this time telling myself it was for the sake of scholarship, not profit. Still, if I worked quickly, perhaps my new assistant – who would henceforth remain behind the scenes – could locate the Runeberg before the buyer left the country!

━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━
Author's note: Apart from the Sefer Yetzirah, the names of the other texts in this story are the invention of the incomparable Argentinean fabulist, Jorge Luis Borges.

James C. Clar is a writer and retired teacher who divides his time between Upstate New York and Honolulu, Hawaii. In addition to his contributions to Sudden Flash, his short fiction, essays, book reviews and author interviews have appeared in print and online.

 

Lucky Brick

by M.D. Smith IV

Bill and Nancy Martin married in 1955, two fresh college graduates brimming with optimism and a kind of earnest innocence that only youth and the postwar years could inspire. They moved into a modest three-bedroom house at the end of Sycamore Lane. The place had flaking white trim, a sagging porch, and a promise written into every cracked board. It wasn’t much, but it was theirs. Bill was good with his hands and had been since he was a boy taking apart radios in his father’s garage. Nancy, patient, soft-spoken, and filled with love, could turn any room into something warm just by being there. Together, they made that house their dream.

First thing they saw in the empty house, was a fireplace brick on the hearth. It was the single item that tumbled from above. That afternoon, Bill scratched their initials on it with a steel awl, BM + NM 1955, and mortared it back in place.

They enjoyed lovely fires with oak and cedar logs that winter.

Bill Jr. arrived first, a chubby, wide-eyed baby who grew into a curious boy with a habit of dismantling toys just to see how they worked. Then came Sally, with her mother’s auburn hair and a laugh like wind chimes.

Life filled every corner of the house, toys underfoot, school shoes by the door, the scent of cookies mingling with sawdust from Bill’s constant repairs. The hearth saw Christmas mornings, birthday candles, teenage tantrums, and late-night talks when the kids came home from dates.

And always, that brick.

Every year or so, without fail, it tumbled free, landing on the hearth with a muffled clatter. Bill would sigh, fetch his tools, and lie on an old painter’s canvas, re-mortaring their “lucky brick” into place. The family joked that the house simply needed to be reminded who it belonged to.

“Guess it wants a little attention,” Bill would say, grinning as he worked.

Each time, he’d point out their initials to the children, as if retelling a fable. And each time, Nancy would smile and shake her head, her eyes soft with memory.

They went through their share of kids in accidents, a few hospital stays. The kids graduated colleges, married and had good jobs in cities far away and began their own families.

Later years, Bill needed two hip replacements from his jogging. After that, Nancy got a new knee. It never slowed the family down.

By 2020, when Bill and Nancy celebrated their sixty-fifth anniversary, and nearing ninety years old, they decided to move to a furnished care facility and sell the house. The kids got everything they wanted, and an estate sale took care of most everything else. After the movers cleaned out the house, it was as bare as when the couple bought it.

Closing the door to leave, Nancy remarked, “Oh, look, Bill. There’s something left behind.” She pointed to the fireplace brick.

He turned it over, thumb tracing the groove of their carved initials.

“What say we leave it for the next couple?” he said. “They’ll need to fix the fireplace anyway.”

Nancy smiled through tears. “Then maybe they’ll have as much luck as we did.”

She kissed him softly, and together they placed the brick where it had fallen and closed the door.

Outside, the evening sun caught the windows, setting them aglow.

Inside, the brick sat waiting on the hearth, patient as ever.

And when the door latched shut behind them, a faint sound echoed through the empty house… a quiet clink, like a promise resetting itself for the next dreamers.

━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━
M.D. Smith of Huntsville, Alabama, writer of over 350 flash stories, has published digitally in Frontier Times, Flash Fiction Magazine, Bewilderingstories.com, and many more. Retired from running a television station, he lives with his wife of 64 years and three cats. https://mdsmithiv.com/

 

The Ballerina from Brighton Beach

by Olivia Stanfield

The air in the windowless corridor was heavy with competing smells; hairspray, saccharine body mists, ballet chalk plus something sharp and acidic; nerves.

“Do you know what happened?”

“No, do you? My agent got a call; they want everyone who made it to the final round back so they can replace her.”

“Didn’t she have an understudy?”

“Yeah, but apparently she has crabs.” Chirps of embarrassed laughter bounced along the hall. “I’m not kidding. She got caught itching like crazy in Wardrobe. I heard she can only come back with a doctor’s note. ”

“Oh my God, that’s so gross.”

“Right?”

“I heard the prima tripped.”

“Slipped is more like it. You know who it was. I bet it was vodka.” The “v” is pronounced as a “w” and the chirps crescendo quickly and become snickers.

“Really? You think it was her? That’s terrible.” A stage whisper, chins tilt towards that ballerina, the one whose face was hidden as she leaned over the phone that rested in her lap.

“For the prima it is. Not for her.” Now there was a gesture, a subtle jolt of a fist with the thumb arching backwards, in that ballerina’s direction.

“I guess.”

The ballerina in question, straw-yellow hair perfectly glazed to her skull, bun tightly pinned below her crown, unfolded her long pink-clad legs and rose from the floor along the wall.

She tightened the belt of her black wrap sweater and asked, “Tуалет?” The chatter faded; the foreign word hung in the stale air of the crammed hallway. No one answered.

Turning her bird-like neck to the right, she looked down at a young woman seated next to where she now stood. Bending at the waist, she leaned down, loudly exhaling the offensive word: “Tooo-a-lee-yet?”

“Toilet? You mean bathroom? Downstairs, by the front door.”

“Spasiba.”

The ballerina lifted her bag. She picked her way through the minefield of legs, duffels and water bottles to the door that opened onto a grimy staircase. The fresh air from the street door below cooled her flushed cheeks.

At the bottom of the staircase she turned, colliding with a short stocky woman pushing a janitor’s cart, thick dark hair wound tied loosely at the nape of her neck. The woman’s broad forehead ricocheted off the ballerina’s sharp sternum. She read the tag above the woman’s breast: Milagros - Liberty Cleaning. Milagros moaned, rubbing her brow with one chapped hand. “Oh my gosh,” the ballerina whispered in perfect English, “I am so sorry. Come here, let’s see.”

She herded the stunned woman into the restroom, wet a paper towel and placed it on the woman’s forehead. From her bag, the ballerina pulled a small pouch and from it, an unmarked bottle. She popped the lid, knocked two pink pills into her palm, swallowed them dry. She grimaced into the mirror, then towards Milagros. “I need this lead so bad, but I think they know.”

“Qué?” Milagros looked up the stairwell. The stick-limbed shellacked girls from the first floor made her nervous.

“It was me, I spilled water onstage. I’m so screwed.”

“Someone iz eslipping? Where? I go clean.” Milagros reached for her mop.

The ballerina from Brighton Beach stared down at the concerned woman whose forehead wrinkled. Regret spread under the ballerina’s black leotard, prickling her skin. Playing Confession with this random cleaner in the bathroom, in English? She pulled her thin shoulders back, recovered the swanlike angle of her neck. “Nyet, spasiba,” the ballerina said harshly. In a flash of scissoring legs and pink tights, she flew up the stairs and back to the claustrophobic lycra-filled hallway.

━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━
Olivia Stanfield is an author and mother of three who lives in Buenos Aires, Argentina. Originally from Manhattan by way of Middleburg, VA, she is querying her first novel and preparing to start her second in addition to occasional bouts of poetry and flash fiction. You can find her in all her bilingual bizarreness online at www.oliviastanfield.com or @buenosairesmonamour.substack.com

 

Cafeteria Rebel

by Liz deBeer

Davey Tooker – angry that failing his fucking history test got him cut him from fall football – threw a plate of spaghetti, greasy marinara sauce dripping down the cafeteria cement wall. Cracked plate pieces, strings of pasta, clumps of tomatoey ground beef broke apart conversations about Homecoming Dance dates and after-party plans.

In silence, we waited for the principal to drag Davey to the Main Office before resuming our lunch-time banter. But then Davey’s best friend Jon Mitchell flung a handful of brownish-green beans at the same wall, just above the reddish glop, so we rose up in solidarity, chucking rubbery hot dogs, warm chocolate milk, jelly-oozing-peanut-butter sandwiches, and over-cooked Tater Tots at each other while Davey stood with his fist raised in the center of the cafeteria, bits of vanilla pudding smeared on his head like bird droppings on the Statue of Liberty. We roared: We want pizza! We want fried chicken! Never surrender!

Later, Homecoming Dance cancelled, parents asked, What-the-hell-is-wrong-with-you? Don’t-you-know-how-to-act? We stared at the adults like they were idiots, later congratulating each other for our righteous protest. Davey, punished with a week-long suspension, ate stale bread and ketchup alone at home, secretly craving the cafeteria’s spaghetti, garlic bread on the side.

━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━
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.