The Ventriloquist’s Wife is No Dummy

by Jon Fain

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

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

 

Stairway to Nowhere

by William F. Smith

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

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

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

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

 

Food Memories

creative nonfiction
by R.K. West

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

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

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

Nobody went hungry.

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

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

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

"I remember them clearly," I told her.

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

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

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

 

Doing the Math

by Linda D.

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

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Linda D. publishes excerpts from her semiautobiographical memoirs.