The bad news: If you’ve already had a novel published commercially–in any genre–you can’t enter.

The good news: If your entry makes the short list, you’ll receive a professional assessment of your entry, even if you don’t win.

First prize is £500, tickets to the CWA Daggers’ Awards and a night’s stay in “a top London hotel.” The entry fee of £25 is payable by credit card or PayPal. The deadline is February 6, 2010.

Even if you are not eligible to enter, you may want to check out the CWA site. It offers a lot of useful writing tips.

Crime Writers’ site
Contest overview
Contest Rules

By definition, mifiction is interactive fiction written for the youth market, mainly young people aged 14-24 years. My children read something like this in the Eighties, little stories written in second person and printed on cheap paper:

You are walking through the forest. A panther is closing in on you. You come to a river that flows beside a cave. You have two options. You can hide in the cave or jump into the river. If you jump into the river, go to page 25. If you hide in the cave, go to page 30.

That’s before cell phones morphed into entertainment centers. This new mifiction is high tech stuff.

The word mifiction appears to be the coinage of Mobile Interactive Horizons Ltd, a company registered in the UK and, according to their publicity, founded “to publish interactive text for standard mobile devices such as phones and PDAs.”

The company is conducting a contest for writers interested in breaking into mifiction publishing. They plan to launch about ten new stories in February 2010.

The contest is open to writers 16 years and older. Entries must be in English. Most genres are acceptable, including action, adventure, science fiction, fantasy, romance, war and sports

The guidelines call for entries that do not exceed 3,000 words. Because mifiction is designed to be read on small screens, the entry must be divided into sections of 200-300 words each.

Prizes
Cash prizes will be awarded: first place £300; second place £200 and third place £100. Six runners up will receive £50 each. In addition, all winners will be offered a publishing contract with mifiction.

Deadline
All entries must be submitted electronically to competition@mifiction.co.uk no later than 5 p.m. (GMT) on Monday, 30 November 2009.

For all the details, go to http://www.mifiction.co.uk/

NOTE: Address any questions about the contest to the mifiction website.

The Short Story Competition 2 has finally come to an end. The voting session last week was pretty interesting, with different stories taking the lead in different days, and in the end Orange Bubble Power won. Congratulations to Violet Toler!

Both Violet and Easton Miller, the runner up, will get a free license to the executive edition of the WhiteSmoke writing software, which costs $310. Thanks WhiteSmoke for sponsoring the event as well.

Finally, a big thank you to all the readers who supported the competition with their votes and comments. Below you will find the winning story once again.

Orange Bubble Power by Violet Toler

I love to write. I hate housework. However, some mundane chores just won’t wait. One look at the bathroom sink caused me to grab my trusty Orange Bubble Power Wipes dispenser. Too bad those cute little scrubbing bubbles from the commercial aren’t real. I’d love to let them do the job while I compose the next NY Times best seller.

Might as well get it over, I thought, as I hurriedly opened the lid and snatched at the wipe. The tip tore off in my hand. Irritated, I pulled on the stub more forcefully this time. It ripped again. Grabbing the last smidgen that barely peeked through the slit, I yanked hard. Out came the rest of the wipe–unattached from the rest of the roll.

The second wipe should have fed through the X-shaped cut in the plastic top. It didn’t. Impatiently I jerked the lid off to feed the darn wipe through from the underside. The orange lid was stiff and unyielding.

“I don’t have time for this!” I grumbled. Accentuating my words with action, I vigorously crammed the wipe out the other side. That’s when my troubles began.

One-half inch of my index finger now protruded through the hole with half a wipe. A stream of Orange Bubble Power Wipes drooped between my hand and the open container on the hamper.

Try as I might, I couldn’t get free. I tugged and the blasted lid worked like Chinese handcuffs. The harder I pulled, the tighter it stuck. I twisted and turned, but remained trapped. Every movement sucked my fingertip in tighter still. Within minutes, sharp V-shaped points were digging into my flesh cutting off circulation.

How humiliating. This situation was far beneath my dignity. After all, I was a professional woman. I couldn’t allow anyone to see me like this, especially Stephen, my proper gentleman husband.

I was determined to solve this problem by myself in privacy. God knows I tried. I lathered my finger with soap. I pried. I twisted. I pulled. Nothing helped.

Oh, gosh durn, I thought, this hideous contraption is going to eat me alive! Orange Bubble Power indeed! I wondered if my finger was only an appetizer for this plastic vampire. It appeared voracious. Panicked, I swallowed my pride and called for help.

My urgent tone brought Stephen down the stairs two at a time. He burst through the bathroom door, out of breath. When I saw his concerned expression, I regretted frightening him. However, as he surveyed the situation, worry fell off his face so fast, I swear I heard it hit the floor.

His dignified manner disappeared as his lips twitched, then his whole face rippled as he broke into laughter. This was no mere grin or snicker, but was a total knee-slapping belly laugh. I stood there, annoyed, humiliated, and in pain. He finally regained his composure, held my finger tight, and tried to unscrew the lid, so to speak. His plan went awry. So did my usually mild demeanor as I told him what I thought of his attempt.

He poured half a bottle of liquid soap and some cooking oil over my finger. It added goop to the mess, but didn’t penetrate the orange grip of death. Imagining the worst, it dawned on me that my finger could die without blood. For all I knew, I could be facing amputation!

Panicked, I ran through the house for my sewing shears. Ten feet of Bubble Power Wipes streamed behind like crepe paper from a Main Street parade. The empty container rolled onto the floor with a thump. With my left hand, I grabbed the scissors and tried to cut myself free. No luck. Stephen took over, but my scissors couldn’t grip the slimy lid. We tried again after rinsing, but the rigid material was unrelenting. So was the pain!

Stephen headed for his basement workshop for tin snips leaving me helpless and alone for what seemed an eternity. By this point, I was ready to stoop to just about anything. I seriously considered dialing 911 with my good hand, all the while picturing the Jaws-of-Life rushing to my rescue.

Stephen finally returned. I wailed shamelessly as he snipped at the blasted lid. Jagged points bit deeper with every clip. After several distressing snips, he pried the plastic apart and set me free. My poor finger had four pointed indentations that resembled tooth marks and a bloodlessly white tip. Other than that, I had escaped the Orange demon.

My hero tried to manage a straight face. “What on God’s green earth were you trying to do?”

“Believe me,” I pronounced grimly, “Those Scrubbing Bubbles may look cute on TV, singing their little high-pitched song, but don’t let them fool you. Those sweet grins hide sharp, powerful, orange teeth that are just waiting to attack! Lucky for me, you were here. They would have done their dirty deed, wiped up the mess, and you’d have never known what became of me.”

He left the room muttering something about finding a support group for husbands of imaginative writers. Me? I headed for the computer to write this story one-handed.

The time we all have been waiting has finally come. The eleven (yes we had a tie in one round) most voted stories in the ten qualifying rounds are now competing head to head for the grand winner title.

If you have not already, make sure to read them. Some are funny, others are intriguing, others yet are touching, but all of them are worth a read!

I would also like to thank all the writers who contributed with their stories, and the readers who gave their attention to the competition.

Now get on with the stories, and remember to cast a vote for your favorite one! (RSS and email subscribers might need to visit the site to cast a vote on the poll)

1. Crazy Fay by Sherry Roth

The outer bands of Tropical Storm Fay were circling unpredictably over South Florida, sometimes lurching forward and dumping buckets of rain that flooded the streets, sometimes shrinking back, allowing all the waters to recede. Weaving through this schizophrenic weather were blustery winds that came and went, so that umbrellas were rather useless.

Hurricane season in South Florida is a mental strain, and I was too tired of dealing with the vicissitudes of the weather to think about cooking dinner that day. Instead, I chose one of the restaurants along University Drive, conveniently on my way home from work. Several people stood in line ahead of me, including one woman who had matted, wet salt-and-pepper hair, with rainwater droplets bizarrely hanging from her earlobes like a poor excuse for earrings. I tried not to stare, but those little droplets had me mesmerized. For her part, she didn’t seem to notice them. I tried to think when, if ever, I had ever seen anything like that. The woman was short and skinny, malnourished like, and her jeans were soaking wet from the hems to the knees. I can’t say how old she was; she might actually have been my age but looked older. Her shirt was clean and not torn, and she had a small white canvas purse slung over a thin shoulder. She waited on line quietly, patiently.

Then it was her turn. I’m not an eavesdropper by nature and I certainly wasn’t going to attempt to listen outright. With all the ambient noise I couldn’t quite catch the entire exchange anyway. So I can only assume that the young employee behind the counter said something helpful like “What can I do for you?” The skinny woman began rifling through her purse in an agitated manner; “I’m very angry at my government. If you want to help me you can do something about that.” She wasn’t particularly loud, but she kept up the harangue, talking the way people talk when for whatever reason they have not taken their psych meds in a few days. The employee handed her a cup for a drink; the woman snatched it from her, filled it with water from the nearby carafe, and surprisingly sat down without another word. My turn soon came; I ordered, got my food, purposely sought out a seat with my back to the woman, and ate. As I was leaving I glanced around, but she was gone.

I couldn’t stop thinking about her. Heading north on University in the fading light amid Fay’s renewed squalls, I tried to scan the sidewalks and side streets looking for her, knowing that it was ridiculous and probably futile, since she could be miles away in any direction. Why was I looking? Crazy, illogical thoughts; I wanted to help her somehow. What would I do if I saw her? I wanted to know her name. I had an extra umbrella. I had a $20 bill.

Suddenly, just north of Sample Road, I saw a skinny figure in soaking wet jeans, a white canvas purse slung over her left shoulder, head high, marching along in the pouring rain. I was in no position to pull over because of the evening traffic. Trying to drive and prepare everything at the same time, I fumbled in my purse and took out a $20; I twisted halfway around and reached into the back seat to get my spare umbrella. I made a U-turn as soon as I could, doubled back quickly and made another fast U-turn…but by the time I got back there, she was gone.

2. 2 AM and Counting by Katrina Mohr

The car window was crank-powered, not electric, but he preferred it that way. He never warmed up to the idea of being entombed in his car should it refuse to start. He rolled the window down, the silver Zippo hissed as he lit a Marlboro Red. Taking in a deep drag, he watched the smoke rise with his breath in the cold air.

He eyed the entrance from where he sat, aware that it was unwise to just sit, parked in front of the buzzing neon signs that lit the empty liquor store lot. Most of these places, including the dilapidated ones like this, had cameras inside and out. Even a low-quality image would have picked up on his license plate by now, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. He just needed the money, he just needed to find TJ, and he just needed to get his shit. He made a deal with himself that he would conserve it this time, make it last longer. Shoot just enough to make everything stop spinning and calm the sloshing in his guts.

The ashtray was full, spilling butts and gray-white powder as he crushed out the cigarette. Leaning across the passenger seat, he popped open the glove box, pulled out a pair of cheap gloves he swiped from a flea market. He removed the tags with one impatient tug and slipped them on. Reaching back in, he made a fist around the handle of the gun; the freezing metal penetrated the gloves. He closed his other hand around the door handle. Casting a quick glance to the entrance again, he stopped dead. A squatty middle-aged woman with a giant green purse toddled into the building. SHIT!

His eyes shot in the direction she seemed to come from and he saw a silver Accord parked not three spaces down. He hadn’t noticed anyone approaching, too absorbed in rehearsing his immediate future on a loop. It’s two o’clock in the goddamned morning! What is that bitch doing?

A balding brown man dressed in a red and yellow uniform popped up from behind the counter when she entered.

This second witness counted as an unnecessary complication. He removed his hand from the car door handle, shifted in his seat.

The view through the window was mostly obscured by cigarette advertisements and a large money-green sign declaring “ATM INSIDE!”. He could still see the bitch browsing the aisles, taking her time. Her hair was shoulder-length and brown. She wore it parted and held in place with a purple headband. Come on! Hurry up! He watched as she disappeared behind a rack of magazines.

He glanced at his wristwatch. The store would be closing soon, and once it did, he would lose his opportunity for tonight. Bruises along the underside of his arm throbbed impatiently and he felt like he was about to puke again. He needed the cash now. Two minutes, bitch. You got two minutes.

With thirty seconds left in an arrangement she knew nothing about, the fat little woman reappeared with a handle of some kind of whiskey, though not a brand he knew. She pulled a wallet from the giant green purse and began the transaction with the man behind the counter. He watched her refuse the receipt and waited for her to head out the door. He squeezed the handle of his gun; its weight on his thigh oddly comforting.

But she didn’t come out. She was still inside, standing at the counter, leaning on it. Getting comfortable. They were chatting it up in there. He ran a shaky hand through his hair and pulled the ski mask from his jacket pocket. You had your chance… Now I’m gonna have to change your fucking life.

He pulled on the ski mask, exited the car and made a quick dash to the entrance.
The door jingled as he pulled it open, two heads turned his way. Smiles quickly disintegrated and the woman let out a scream.

“HANDS UP!” The gunman demanded.

“Please. I do not want any trouble!” the bald man said in a stilted something-stani accent.

“GET BACK AGAINST THE WALL!” He instructed the woman, pointing the barrel in her direction. She obeyed, whimpering and sobbing, her belly fat jiggling. He turned the gun on the short man.

The gunman moved behind the counter, pressed the cold metal into the back of the little man’s head. He used his other hand to grab a plastic bag from the roll. The tiny man seemed frozen in place, staring into the cash register. “EMPTY THE CASH IN HERE.”

The man didn’t move. Another wave of nausea washed through him, he blinked and shook it off. “FILL UP THE BAG!” he demanded, driving the gun in harder. Everything was spinning again, he needed go get the fuck out of here and find a fix.

That is when a phone rang from inside the giant green purse. The gunman snapped in the direction of the sound, the gun seemed to fire automatically. A dark red-brown circle started in the center of her chest and rapidly expanded in every direction. The woman’s face filled with incredulous surprise. She collapsed with a heavy thud.

The gunman wretched, his puke splattered, yellowing the counter. The brown man jumped back, repulsed and shocked, considered making a break for the door.

The gunman righted himself, wiped his mouth with the back of one hand. “MOVE!” He looked into the cash register.

A few lonely twenties and random change waited inside. He spun on the man.

“We… we emptied already for the night…” he stammered.

Weak from withdrawal, exhausted from a lifetime of bad choices, he turned away. The woman was sprawled on the floor; she had landed lifeless and indignant, limbs spread. Her purple headband had slipped out of place and her hair hung loose around her face. A few quiet tears streaked a path down his cheeks.

He turned the gun to his temple and let everything go.

3. I Live In A Coffin The Size Of A Two Bedroom Apartment by Joshua Shelleyi

I spend all of my time six feet below the earth’s surface. Actually, it’s only sixty-two inches below the surface. I had it put in my will; my nose was to be above ground if I was to stand up in my grave. It’s kind of silly, but I always had this fear of being buried alive. I thought that 10 inches closer to the surface would be a safe bet.

I spend a majority of my time decorating the coffin and making sure my fingernails are at perfect soil digging length. I spend the rest of my time thinking of the woman I left behind and writing down my memories and dreams for her.

I had a dream about us last night. We were just hanging out and goofing off. It was nice to see us back to how we were in June . . . even if it wasn’t real. We went to the local university and walked around for a bit, telling stories, wearing our sunglasses and begging for time to stand still, if only for a few hours.
We had only been together a week at that point, but we both knew it was love. It was more than a mere puppy could understand. I had never felt anything like that before and I was enthralled by it. By her. I sat on the bench in the shade. She danced in the fountain in front of me, her shoes on the rim and my heart in her hand. The wind came by and carried a cool mist from the soaked strands of her black hair away from the fountain and kept me cool while I fell in love.

I counted our footsteps back to my car and kissed her once for each one. My mouth was dry afterwards so we walked from my car to a building on campus. It was the Art and Architecture building and the doors weren’t locked on the weekends. It was dim in the building but it felt good to be out of the sun for a few minutes. I reached across the concession counter and stole a drink while she used the bathroom. I assume dancing in the fountain had caused her to have to go. When she came out of the bathroom I woke up, still alone.
It’s dreams like that that I will never be able to shake. They were so real, so perfect and so simply unforgettable. And it’s that girl that I will never be able to forget. Her kitten smile, her smell, her laugh. How she always embarrassed me when we went places. I miss watching her put on makeup. I miss seeing her face light up when she saw me. I can’t forget all the times I surprised her. I can’t forget anything about this girl, but I’m not sure if she can even remember me.

I leave off my return address when I mail her stuff. She knows where I’ve always been and if she wants she can find me. I died the day she sent me away. Car wreck. Crossed the median with my arms spread out, ready to fly. Ready to die.

I need something to fly over my grave again and let me know that I could be alive, to someone. I was buried with my lioness in my heart or at least my loneliness.

Coffins should come with better ventilation systems. It’s hard to bear smoking a cigarette when plush, silk pillows surround you. I could really use another cigarette right now. My heart sometimes sinks down to my stomach and the smoke helps to push it back into place.

I’ve been in here just short of five months. She’s the only thing I dream about and the only thing I miss. Well, to be completely honest, that first part could be a lie, but as far as I know it’s more honest than George Washington is on the one-dollar bill. I’m sure I’ve had thousands of dreams but the only ones I can remember are the ones where we’re together again. But we aren’t together again at the end of the week. I’ll pass out tonight and dream of her smiling as she covers her mouth with her right hand. I’ll pull out a camera and try to snap a picture. But she disappears before I can push the button. Besides, pictures tend to fade away over time, but memory is forever.

Perhaps she’ll stay in my crosshairs someday. Maybe another guy will kill her and we can be together. Or she’ll come back and decide dating someone who was once deceased isn’t so bad and try to make it work. She’ll save all of the letters I write her and cry to herself at night. I pray that I haunt her dreams, both day and night.

Even more so, I hope that she is happy without me. She deserves it. She deserves everything that we had those first two months and everything more I didn’t think I could give her.

The rain comes three times a week to wash the soil away. I’ll make sure it takes me with it next time.

4. Red Light, Green Light by Easton Miller

She faced down a third grade thug who pushed me off a swing when we were five. She sweet-talked my dad into doubling my allowance when we were twelve. At seventeen, sleepovers meant climbing out her bedroom window to meet boys and drag on unfiltered Chesterfields she’d snitched from her Dad’s dresser. “Audrey, we are going to get in such deep trouble if we get caught. We’ll be grounded for eternity.”
“Dad promised Mom he’d quit smoking. I hardly think he’s going to mention any missing cigarettes, do you?” She’d lean against the boy she thought was worth the risk, light up and blow smoke rings at the moon.

Audrey planned my wedding and insisted on driving the get away car she’d festooned with clattering tin cans and fifty or sixty pounds of rice. She drove me to the hospital for the birth of my first child, breaking some kind of land-speed record. She talked the cop, who’d followed us the entire way with his siren blaring, out of the ticket. She drove me to a pit bull lawyer when I divorced, then dragged me back into a world of adventurous living that usually involved men and driving me somewhere I didn’t want to go. It’s always been a given, whatever we do, Audrey drives. She’s going to anyway.

A beautiful spring day motivates us to make a Dairy Queen run. “We deserve ice cream and chocolate,” Audrey says as she expertly fastens me into a seat belt.

We are sitting at a red light, windows rolled down allowing the warm breeze to stir our memories. California Dreaming wafts over the oldies station. I’m singing back up. Audrey belts the lead beating out the rhythm on the dashboard. In front of us an elderly man with a walker steps off the curb into the crosswalk just as a giant monster pick-up, the size and color of the Viet Nam War Memorial — big, long, dark, awesome — pulls up behind us, its deafening boom drowns out California or dreaming. The light turns green.

The fragile old man puts one hesitant foot in front of the other. The sun glints off his aluminum walker, the rubber tips scrape reluctantly across the pavement. He is so slow; I purposely stare without blinking, to make sure he’s really moving. The shadow of the monster truck takes on weight as the driver behind us hits his horn. The light turns red.

“Chill,” Audrey mutters. “You’d think a flock of angry Canadian geese was behind us for all that honking.” Icy impatience has crept into her voice. Uh oh. I’ve heard that tone more than once or twice in the last five decades. I can practically see steam emitting from her nostrils. I’m fearful she might get out of the car and start something right here in the intersection. I’m confident of the outcome. Audrey always emerges a winner, but things could get ugly here real fast. The old man shuffles forward. The light turns green.
We sit, motor idling, waiting for the old fellow to clear the hood. The slam of the pick-up door behind us sways our car like we were caught in an eighty-mile an hour crosswind. The crunch of boots on asphalt is ominously audible.

I haven’t spent my life along side Audrey without learning something. I hit the button to roll up windows and lock doors. The side view mirror reflects a three hundred pound animal with muscles the size of basketballs approaching. His dark glasses wrap around his face like the darkened windshield wraps around his truck. In fact, he looks a lot like his truck. Audrey rolls down her window.

“Are you crazy?” I hiss. I’ve asked her that question at least two million times in the fifty years I’ve known her. She has yet to respond.

A three-foot wide male chest fills the driver’s window. Our elderly pedestrian has advanced to the right front of the hood. The light turns red.

“What a coincidence. I can’t remember the last time I saw you. My how you’ve filled out.” Audrey twinkles into Godzilla’s midriff. “And tell me how’s your dear mother?’

“Why, thank you, ma’am, for asking. She’s doing real well. Did you know she’s been pretty sick?” His voice filters in from somewhere above the sunroof. He sounds surprising light and mellow for a guy built like an aircraft carrier.

“I heard. I called, but the machine picked up. I’m delighted to hear she’s better. How lovely we ran into each other this way.”

I can’t believe she’s having a conversation with this guy.

“Just wanted to see if you needed help, since your car wasn’t moving.”

“What a gentleman you are — a real credit to your mother.” The aircraft carrier shuffles his feet in embarrassed acknowledgement. Audrey reaches out the window and pats his arm. “We’re fine. We wanted to let the gentleman cross safely.” She gestures toward the windshield. Tiny geisha steps take the old man to the left side of the car.

“Oh yeah. I see. Glad to know everything is ok. I’ll tell mom I ran into you.” I shudder to think a few minutes ago he might have meant that literally. The boots pound back to the behemoth of a truck.
Audrey flutters a hand at Godzilla’s retreating back. “Say hello to your mother. Give her my best,” she calls.
“Did he just tip his hat?”

“I believe he did. Oh good, the light is green.”

“Actually it’s yellow, Audrey.”

“Close enough.” She shoots through the intersection leaving the monster truck still sitting at the stoplight. The old man places his walker on the far curb.

“Was that good luck or what?”

“What do you mean?”

“That you knew that guy and his mother.”

“Geeze, Louise. You are so naive.” She flashes me a sly, smile. “I never saw that guy before in my life.”

5. Orange Bubble Power by Violet Toler

I love to write. I hate housework. However, some mundane chores just won’t wait. One look at the bathroom sink caused me to grab my trusty Orange Bubble Power Wipes dispenser. Too bad those cute little scrubbing bubbles from the commercial aren’t real. I’d love to let them do the job while I compose the next NY Times best seller.

Might as well get it over, I thought, as I hurriedly opened the lid and snatched at the wipe. The tip tore off in my hand. Irritated, I pulled on the stub more forcefully this time. It ripped again. Grabbing the last smidgen that barely peeked through the slit, I yanked hard. Out came the rest of the wipe–unattached from the rest of the roll.

The second wipe should have fed through the X-shaped cut in the plastic top. It didn’t. Impatiently I jerked the lid off to feed the darn wipe through from the underside. The orange lid was stiff and unyielding.

“I don’t have time for this!” I grumbled. Accentuating my words with action, I vigorously crammed the wipe out the other side. That’s when my troubles began.

One-half inch of my index finger now protruded through the hole with half a wipe. A stream of Orange Bubble Power Wipes drooped between my hand and the open container on the hamper.

Try as I might, I couldn’t get free. I tugged and the blasted lid worked like Chinese handcuffs. The harder I pulled, the tighter it stuck. I twisted and turned, but remained trapped. Every movement sucked my fingertip in tighter still. Within minutes, sharp V-shaped points were digging into my flesh cutting off circulation.

How humiliating. This situation was far beneath my dignity. After all, I was a professional woman. I couldn’t allow anyone to see me like this, especially Stephen, my proper gentleman husband.

I was determined to solve this problem by myself in privacy. God knows I tried. I lathered my finger with soap. I pried. I twisted. I pulled. Nothing helped.

Oh, gosh durn, I thought, this hideous contraption is going to eat me alive! Orange Bubble Power indeed! I wondered if my finger was only an appetizer for this plastic vampire. It appeared voracious. Panicked, I swallowed my pride and called for help.

My urgent tone brought Stephen down the stairs two at a time. He burst through the bathroom door, out of breath. When I saw his concerned expression, I regretted frightening him. However, as he surveyed the situation, worry fell off his face so fast, I swear I heard it hit the floor.

His dignified manner disappeared as his lips twitched, then his whole face rippled as he broke into laughter. This was no mere grin or snicker, but was a total knee-slapping belly laugh. I stood there, annoyed, humiliated, and in pain. He finally regained his composure, held my finger tight, and tried to unscrew the lid, so to speak. His plan went awry. So did my usually mild demeanor as I told him what I thought of his attempt.

He poured half a bottle of liquid soap and some cooking oil over my finger. It added goop to the mess, but didn’t penetrate the orange grip of death. Imagining the worst, it dawned on me that my finger could die without blood. For all I knew, I could be facing amputation!

Panicked, I ran through the house for my sewing shears. Ten feet of Bubble Power Wipes streamed behind like crepe paper from a Main Street parade. The empty container rolled onto the floor with a thump. With my left hand, I grabbed the scissors and tried to cut myself free. No luck. Stephen took over, but my scissors couldn’t grip the slimy lid. We tried again after rinsing, but the rigid material was unrelenting. So was the pain!

Stephen headed for his basement workshop for tin snips leaving me helpless and alone for what seemed an eternity. By this point, I was ready to stoop to just about anything. I seriously considered dialing 911 with my good hand, all the while picturing the Jaws-of-Life rushing to my rescue.

Stephen finally returned. I wailed shamelessly as he snipped at the blasted lid. Jagged points bit deeper with every clip. After several distressing snips, he pried the plastic apart and set me free. My poor finger had four pointed indentations that resembled tooth marks and a bloodlessly white tip. Other than that, I had escaped the Orange demon.

My hero tried to manage a straight face. “What on God’s green earth were you trying to do?”

“Believe me,” I pronounced grimly, “Those Scrubbing Bubbles may look cute on TV, singing their little high-pitched song, but don’t let them fool you. Those sweet grins hide sharp, powerful, orange teeth that are just waiting to attack! Lucky for me, you were here. They would have done their dirty deed, wiped up the mess, and you’d have never known what became of me.”

He left the room muttering something about finding a support group for husbands of imaginative writers. Me? I headed for the computer to write this story one-handed.

6. Welcome to the Circus by Ted Dong

It is already my third week on the job and still I have much to learn about the business of entertainment. Having been fascinated with animals for as long as I can remember, this occupation seemed at first, destined to suit me; but nothing is ever what it seems. With that in mind, I set out on my first show of a month-long tour.

I enter today’s performing venue through the backstage, to a blaring chorus of elephants, which drains the Sunday morning drowsiness right out of my system, as their trunks rain a storm of noise into my eardrums. Having been crossly ignored my first two weeks, maybe this is a sign that they have accepted me into their world. I graciously accept this welcome without daring to second guess myself, and pat one of them on the trunk in return.

The elephants’ pen is strikingly claustrophobic, as most of the animal areas are. We are amidst the vast expanse of a dome-like tent right now, but the animals are condensed into cages and stables backstage. Standing around each are groups of trainers, now feeding the animals their first of two meals for the day. They give such minute servings it is a wonder how these animals manage to continue performing. I walk past a pair of my colleagues feeding the birds, and into the nearest bathroom, where I change into my drab uniform.

I head over to the lion’s den, which is really a series of claustrophobic cages now, in which each lion is separated from its counterparts. This is the area where I have been spending most of my time, assisting in the preparation for their upcoming act. Out of all the other stations, though, this one intrigues me the most; how these fearsome, courageous kings of the jungle have become squalid, helpless peasants in this new kingdom of ours. Still, I suppose it would be more accurate a statement to say that they are really coerced jesters in our royal court. What an honour.

Roy, my mentor greets me warmly with a grin and says, in his southern tongue, “People are gon’ start packin’ this place up in about an hour, you wait ‘n see. Ready for your first show, kid?” I can’t say I am.

Sure enough, after sixty brutally anticipated minutes I bring myself to peer out of the backstage curtains, to see a horde of people migrate their way into the stands. Most of them are small children, accompanied by their fervent parents, who hold their hands like escorts to a ball. They have entered the royal court.

It is a different place out there from when I first entered the tent. The performing area is now a magical realm, isolated from the outside world. The stage lights brilliantly illuminate the entire tent, as their golden beams dance off the walls like tiny ballerinas. The tent in and out of itself has become a solid, scintillating ball of wondrous excitement. The crowd attempts to sit in patience, but the children have become restive and their parents equally as antsy.

I look back inside the curtains to see that all of our performers have taken up their respective positions backstage and aloft, some of them appearing so inconspicuously that I hadn’t even noticed them before. It seems that I am the only person out of position, so I quickly retreat to find Roy and the rest of our entourage, nearly toppling over the clowns as I make my way to the lions.

The lion-tamers and I move to the designated entrance, where we are to make our sumptuous entry later in the show. I peer out again, to a now silent crowd of hundreds. The lights have dimmed and the spotlight has come on. I feel a sharp pang in my stomach, as the butterflies start to pervade.
“And now, ladies and gentleman… Michael Jordan!” thunders the ringmaster’s voice, which chops through the air of silence. The crowd cheers in euphoria.

To my surprise, a single cub stumbles out onto the performing area, led by the two trainers, one of who pushes along an undersized basketball hoop. The cub is dragged along by a leash, wound upon a grimy, rusted ring that has been pierced through his two nostrils. They force the young cub to stand, uncannily on his two hind feet. At first he stands there, inert; an expression on his visage I can only describe as apprehensively confused. They shove a dirty basketball into his chest so hard that it ricochets up and hits him in the ringed nose. The audience, children and their parents alike, cackle at the helpless cub as he sneezes. He waddles towards the hoop and drops the ball through. They roar in delightful amusement.
After the cub is finished, the ringmaster screams through his microphone, unnecessarily loud, “Welcome to the circus!”

The audience screams back in jubilance; the children clapping their hands, their parents cheering along. Out of nowhere two trapeze artists swing from aloft, nearly crashing into the ground before exchanging swings with each other in midair, soaring back to the ceiling. More deafening roars from the audience, as the exhilarating acrobatics continue. The show has begun.

I see a mother in the audience pick her son up and embrace him in her arms, as she rises up to give a standing ovation. She beams at her son, conveying a proud sense of love and affection, as if nothing in the world matters more. Then I peep backstage to see the cub fiercely tugged back to his cage by the leash, so hard I fear his nose is about to peel off. I see his mother in a separate, solitary cage, dressed ignominiously in a navy blue sailor’s suit. They stare at each other for a moment, their eyes radiating affection. But this warm moment is brought to an abrupt halt, as a trainer drags the mother away by an analogous leash.
Welcome to the circus.

7. Crash by Tanya Alderman

It is 11pm. I can’t sleep – again. Sitting by his side, I stroke his fragile hand—the one not invaded with an intravenous needle. Puncture wounds discolor his tiny hand with putrid shades of blue, green, and brown. The last time the nurse probed his veins, he didn’t shed a single tear. He stared into my eyes and watched the tears spill from me instead.

His hand feels cold. I curl my hand around his and swallow up its frailty.

I can’t drown out the rhythmic tit-tat, tit-tat of the monitor and I don’t want to—the promise of life is in every beat. If only I could hold more than just his hand. There are too many tubes, too many wires.

Surgical staples, recently cleaned with iodine and covered with new gauze, invade the length of his chest. There is a feeding tube down his nose, a catheter to collect his urine, a chest tube to drain fluids, an IV in his leg, and another one in his other hand.

I want to talk to him, but I’m too tired to speak and I’m not sure he can hear me or even understand. I stare out the window into the starless night. A faint glow from the parking lot below provides some illumination, but not a clear view. His previous room didn’t have a window. I would spend hours staring at the sterile white walls because I had run out of words to pray. Only the occasional interruption of nurses and med techs would bring me out of my trance.

I should be catching a few hours of sleep, but I don’t want to leave his side. I don’t want….. Beep! Beep! BEEEEEEEEEEEEEP!

Jerked to attention by the alarm screaming over my son’s head, I spin around and gasp as all color drains from his face. His lips start turning blue and my knees begin to buckle. “I NEED HELP! SOMEBODY, PLEASE,” I shout into the hall. “Oh, dear God, he isn’t breathing!”

I hear the sound of the medical team running, skidding across the ICU floor. “Code blue,” is announced through the intercom. In seconds, my son is surrounded and I am pulled away from his side and deposited in a corner. Nurses frantically execute all the commands being fired at them by the resident doctor.

I know if I stay quiet they will let me stay in this corner; they won’t make me leave. I watch as they put a tube down my son’s throat. A nurse pumps air into his lungs while the doctor does compressions on his heart. I can’t move even if I wanted to. I want to cry out, but I know I have to stay quiet, very quiet.

My heart is pounding out of my chest. I bow my head and clench my fists, desperate to touch heaven. Please God, don’t take him from me… please not now… not like this! The alarm is still screaming. Where is the tit tat, tit tat? If my soul could be heard by the human ear, the whole world would bear witness to my agonizing, desperate plea for tit tat, tit tat, tit tat.

The doctor calls for the paddles. My head snaps up. Is this the end? Don’t let this be the end. They’re going to shock my son. My vision is blurred by uncontrollable tears. I hear, “Charging! Clear! AGAIN! Charging! CLEAR!” The doctor sounds so desperate, “Come on little guy, not tonight,” to the nurse, “One more time! CHARGING! CLEAR!” The electricity courses through his little eight pound body. The doctor is frozen, paddles in the air, as he stares at the line on the monitor, a line so vulgar, so flat. One second, two seconds…then, “tit… tat, tit… tat, tit tat.”

I exhale the breath I’d been holding as I collapse to the floor. Silently I thank the Lord for just a little more time. I thank Him for every tit tat that doesn’t just sing in my ears, but wraps my soul in a symphony only God could write.

After what seems like hours, the doctors and nurses finally clear out of his room and I am back at his side. I hold his hand a little tighter and let my lips linger on his forehead a little longer. I stroke his tiny head until I fall asleep where I sit.

In my dreams, he’s nestled in my arms. There are no more wires or tubes, no more bruised hands. He smells like baby lotion instead of alcohol swabs. I sigh as I listen to his rhythmic breathing. I rock him to sleep in my favorite oak rocking chair, keeping time with the cadence of his heart.

9. Silly, I Know: The Tale of a Driving Range Golf Ball by Sean McMenamin

I hate being at the bottom of the bucket. I always feel like such a jerk when everyone else is between five other balls, while I only have to cope with two or three.

Silly, I know.

But what really ticks me off is that I can’t talk. I mean, God gave me thoughts, how ‘bout some words too? I suppose if we all could speak, one would hear a helluva lot of screaming out on the driving range.

Silly, I know.

A pudgy English gentleman picked up the basket which I had called my home for the past few minutes. From my position, I could not tell what kind of driver he had. See, there are two types of drivers for us: the hard hitting woods, and the Sunday-morning-hangover-inducing, titanium-reinforced Big Bertha. I hate both, and-because I’m the luckiest ball in the world, I am going to be hit by one of the two because golfers tend to save their drivers for the bottom of the bucket.

Seriously Silly, trust me…I know.

Sir Twinkie, which I dubbed the man because of his mustard cardigan, dumped half the bucket onto the golf mat. He started by stretching, swinging two clubs at once, causing me and my fellow golf balls an unimaginable amount of anxiety. The first ball was chosen, an eight iron was picked, and Twinkie’s practice began.

Then I saw his driver. It was a Big Bertha. Seriously, it wasn’t my day. Very few people understand the excruciating pain that follows from being hit by one of these things. Add to it that Mr. Rogers was hitting my comrades with a slight hook, which meant that I would never be hit into the water hazard that was placed at the 300 yard flag. I was only hit in there once, and it was better than a long ride in a ball cleaner.

Yeah, I know. Silly.

There were only a few balls left and from my placement on the artificial grass mat, I would be hit last. Seriously, this was a really bad day. No, not bad—horrible.

Fat, sweaty fingers picked me up, just lovely. I was placed on the plastic tee when Twinkie suddenly said, “I say! It’s one terribly hot day! I think I need water before I pass out.”

Seriously? One ball left and he needs a drink? If I could cry out of my dimples…Did I mention I currently reside in Arizona? It was 120°F, and there I was, lying upon the tee, baking in the sun. Sure I may not have a “nervous system” or any sort of “emotions” but I know that if I was out there much longer I would probably melt into a puddle of liquidized plastic, rubber, and some silicone. But hey, I’m just a golf ball! Who cares?

S-I-L-L-Y.

Twinkie was coming back, finally, sans sweater. I guess the genius figured out that cardigans and Arizona don’tgo well together. He seemed pretty red in the face, making me assume that he was mad and/or hot. I further deduced that he may have not gotten his water.

My suspicions were confirmed when I heard him mumble something about the price of water and the stupidity of Americans. He sighed and took out his Big Bertha.

Well…here we go again. The man bent his knees, exhaled, and swung a few practice swings. Those are the real killers. The psychological effects of seeing a block of titanium swing past one’s face is horrifying. I think I know what the narrator in Poe’s The Pit and the Pendulum felt like under the razor-sharp torture device.

It wasn’t so silly anymore.

Omitting numerous expletives and cries of pain, my trip can be described in one word: ouch. I do have to admit, it was a pretty good hit. It was such a nice whack that I could see the water hazard approaching, fast. In fact, I was spinning so much I could have sworn that I was going to fly right over the pond.

I did. It would have been just a fine and dandy landing, except that I touched down in a recently watered sand trap. It should be understood that it is often a ball’s dream to land in the soft comfort of a sand trap, but not when it’s watered. See, when ball meets wet sand, one of two things can happen. A, which always occurs, is when the sand becomes wedged in the golf ball’s dimples, and no one likes this. B, which is the cruelest of situations, is when a chunk of wet sand clings to the side of a ball.

I previously admitted to being the luckiest ball in the world, and this still stands true. By chance, this landing caused the additional scenario B. I was left with only a few dimples that were unfilled. Did I mention that golf balls see from their dimples?

***

Ok, that’s it. I am now an atheist. No omnipotent, loving god would allow a bird to excrete gooey…substance…onto my uncovered dimples. It was particularly welcomed because I was now being baked alive in half bird feces, half now dry sand under the devilishly hot sun.

There I lay for hours upon hours until the cool night breeze came, where I was swept into a short lapse of tranquility and bliss that would last the remainder of the evening.

Silly, I know.

10. The Dress by Varada Sharma

It was early summer. We were all gathered at Grandpa’s house at Manali, a hill station in the Himalayas, during my family’s once-in-five-years India visit. Dark, cold with withered paint and partially dilapidated furniture, the house looked as old as its owner and felt equally gloomy.

If one paid any attention to the ramblings of people there, fragments of hushed exclamations would be heard. “What a ridiculous dress for her age!”, said my aunt who herself was dressed in a white tee and beige cargoes which did little to hide tyres around her torso. “What was the old man thinking when he allowed such a thing?”, scoffed another gentleman, I had not met before. My parents, aunts, uncles, cousins all were whispering amongst themselves while sipping tea. I was rather confused about the whole affair.

In India, in spite of the wave of modernism, families like mine tried to stick to our pristine old traditions. All respectable ladies were expected to wear a saree. My grandma was a classic old Indian lady. She had refused to wear any other outfit when she visited us at Chicago last year. Even when it got too windy, she did not switch to something more comfortable like tee + jeans, preferring to wear a man’s coat or wrap a shawl around over her saree, if she had to step outside the house. What had changed now?

Amidst all the confused taunts and accusations over his sanity, my Grandpa (“Daddu” as I affectionately called him) looked sad, torn, yet determined to stay by his wife’s side. Being the pet of my grandparents, I decided to put things in place and save everyone the embarrassment when more people started walking in.

Putting a youthful, loving hand over his shoulders, I said to grandpa, “Daddu, people are talking about Grandma’s dress. Why is she wearing a red gown fit for a ballroom dance? Shall we drape a red saree for her instead? It will be embarrassing, you know… ”. My voice trailed off when Daddu looked at me with tearful eyes.

“Divya, your grandma and I were married when we were very young. She was 16, I was 21. I still remember how beautiful and innocent she looked in her wedding saree. She left behind her friends, playmates, studies, parents everything for me. As the eldest daughter-in-law she gladly embraced the responsibilities of me, my old widowed mom and young siblings. She loved theatrics, but had to give it up. She did not complain. While trying to meet the demands of my younger siblings and later on our kids, she always forwent her own desires. She did not ever ask anything for herself.

That day in Chicago, when we were passing by Macy’s, she found this red gown and was mesmerized by it. She stared at it so longingly that I could read in her eyes how much she liked it. It brought back memories of our younger days. On that last day of our Chicago visit, I secretly purchased this dress and packed it. When we reached home, I gave it to her. She had tears in her eyes. For the first time in her life, her husband had got her something which she really ‘liked’. She cherished and treasured this dress, affectionately fondling it now and then. Today when she has left me alone and is ready to begin her last journey of no return, I wanted her to carry this gift on her person. I was a very lucky man to have married such a loving woman. If we are ever born again, I want to entice her to come back to me”, said Daddu with a sad smile.

I felt humbled by their love and devotion towards each other. I could not withstand his pain. At a loss for words, I quietly hugged him. Together we picked one of the red sarees and draped it over the dress which was by now stained with our mixed tears…

11. Jasmine by Sandra A. Mushi

She couldn’t keep her eyes awake though she felt drowsy. Maybe from the herbal concoction he had made her drink. This one seemed to be much stronger than the ones she had been drinking before. Her ears pricked to the sound of mountain wolves. She had heard that a wolf or two had been spotted around the mountains. Hugging her cold frame, she prayed they wouldn’t come, that they would not smell her, that the strong smell of the jasmine would mask her human blood scent. Her eyes bulged with fright and watered from the cold she felt.

The sensation of yearning suddenly exploded in her breast – for a while forgetting about the cries of the mountain wolves. I have to have one, she cried silently. She had been trying for years! Instead of their support, they called her names behind her back. And instead of his support, he curled to a corner not saying a word, not defending her – which of them was to blame.

Every night they visited, the aggressive ones would shamelessly spit their venom spiked insults at her. After they left, he would cushion his inadequacy at a pub near their home, while she would curl up trembling in their big bed and cry alone.

He wouldn’t go for medical check up. They wouldn’t allow him. “He is a man,” they would spit at her. “You are the problem! Our family only has real men!”

The blood rose up to her neck as she choked grief and anger and let her freezing body fall back against the tree trunk as if she had been struck with a blow from the pain she felt. Loudly she cried in anguish and pain, pounding her clutched hands angrily on the red earth. Breathing in, she sniveled. As she hugged herself tighter, she wished she had remembered to take a jacket with her.

At first she was afraid to ask him why she should spend every fortnight outside for six weeks. The bone earring he wore that elongated his earlobe had made her afraid. It looked like a bone from a finger – a baby’s finger. She had never seen a man with such an earring and such long red hair. She stared at the earring as he chanted, her eyes straying from the earring to the small bones and horns scattered on the red earth. Every now and then he would pick up the biggest horn, shake it and then listen to it as if it was talking to him.

The hair – long curly hair was a dull colour between yellow and red. It somehow reminded her of the red ochre and clay Maasai warriors back home used to colour their hair with. She watched his scruffy ponytail bounce up and down as he talked to the horn excitedly. After which he would go into a trance as if he was possessed.

“The spirits are waiting for you, my child, just follow your nose,” he would say after waking up from the trance, his eyes blood shot red. Finally explaining he added, “follow your nose, child, it will lead you to where she will come from.”

The smell of jasmine whose flowers opened in the night like white stars would waft by her nose by the night breeze as she walked blindly through the still of the night following her nose, silently memorizing the strict instructions he had given her.

“Don’t look back,” he had always warned her.

She was always so tempted to look back – to see how far she was from his little thatched shack with old black cloths, horns, amulets of every sizes and colours as well as pots draped casually at the entrance.

He must be of Arab descendent, she mused. How else would one explain the colour, length and texture of the hair? Drowsily she smiled as she imagined him bending down to pick up herbs, his ponytail falling over his wrinkled caramel brown skin, sweeping the flowers on the grass.

Every fortnight morning she would wake up disheveled, tired and aching. Memories of the night before toying with her mind – the prayers, infusing herself in incense, the chanting, beheading of the black cock, massaging her breasts with the warm blood, the trances, the cries of the wolves … were there someone with her, a companion – a night visitor? Every morning she would shake her head as if shaking the thought away.

Quietly the thought would creep back, teasing her tired mind that desperately need some sleep. Maybe it was her. Maybe she was finally coming. Jasmine, that’s what she would call her. No, she would shake her head angrily; she should count the chicks before the eggs hatch.

She shivered and welcomed the thought as she remembered them. The worse was the older sister, Zalika. Always wrapped in the most expensive Kente or Adinkra cloth, her well manicured hands dangling car keys of the BMW X5, she was given as a gift after she had bore a boy. After his circumcision, she was taken to Paris for shopping.

“Useless woman!” She would spit on the floor disgustedly. Her lipstick chic, the words would trip out as cold as ice and as sharp as a blade – cutting her insides, “just filling my brother’s toilet.”

She sighed. Jasmine – breathing in the syllables. There was already one Jasmine in the family – her brother in law’s, two year old daughter with curly reddish brown hair, like the colour of jasmine oil. Jasmine’s mother, Lulu, was quiet always wearing a mocking smile.

“Even if her grandfather was from Tanga, I don’t see how Jasmine could inherit the red hair!” Zalika had spit when Lulu was presented with a RAV4. “He was as black as coal, I hear!”

Jasmine. She arrived finally – six weeks ago. They had a hair cutting ceremony after arobaini; her hair is not as black and kinky as her father’s and hers. Her Jasmine – whose hair colour is that of jasmine oil.

We are getting close to the end of the second Short Story Competition. Today’s round has some interesting stories as usual, so make sure to read them and cast a vote for your favorite one.

Every week only one story passes the round and gets promoted to the grand finale, where we will declare the overall winner and the three writers who will receive the prizes from WhiteSmoke.

1. The Dress by Varada Sharma

It was early summer. We were all gathered at Grandpa’s house at Manali, a hill station in the Himalayas, during my family’s once-in-five-years India visit. Dark, cold with withered paint and partially dilapidated furniture, the house looked as old as its owner and felt equally gloomy.

If one paid any attention to the ramblings of people there, fragments of hushed exclamations would be heard. “What a ridiculous dress for her age!”, said my aunt who herself was dressed in a white tee and beige cargoes which did little to hide tyres around her torso. “What was the old man thinking when he allowed such a thing?”, scoffed another gentleman, I had not met before. My parents, aunts, uncles, cousins all were whispering amongst themselves while sipping tea. I was rather confused about the whole affair.

In India, in spite of the wave of modernism, families like mine tried to stick to our pristine old traditions. All respectable ladies were expected to wear a saree. My grandma was a classic old Indian lady. She had refused to wear any other outfit when she visited us at Chicago last year. Even when it got too windy, she did not switch to something more comfortable like tee + jeans, preferring to wear a man’s coat or wrap a shawl around over her saree, if she had to step outside the house. What had changed now?

Amidst all the confused taunts and accusations over his sanity, my Grandpa (“Daddu” as I affectionately called him) looked sad, torn, yet determined to stay by his wife’s side. Being the pet of my grandparents, I decided to put things in place and save everyone the embarrassment when more people started walking in.

Putting a youthful, loving hand over his shoulders, I said to grandpa, “Daddu, people are talking about Grandma’s dress. Why is she wearing a red gown fit for a ballroom dance? Shall we drape a red saree for her instead? It will be embarrassing, you know… ”. My voice trailed off when Daddu looked at me with tearful eyes.

“Divya, your grandma and I were married when we were very young. She was 16, I was 21. I still remember how beautiful and innocent she looked in her wedding saree. She left behind her friends, playmates, studies, parents everything for me. As the eldest daughter-in-law she gladly embraced the responsibilities of me, my old widowed mom and young siblings. She loved theatrics, but had to give it up. She did not complain. While trying to meet the demands of my younger siblings and later on our kids, she always forwent her own desires. She did not ever ask anything for herself.

That day in Chicago, when we were passing by Macy’s, she found this red gown and was mesmerized by it. She stared at it so longingly that I could read in her eyes how much she liked it. It brought back memories of our younger days. On that last day of our Chicago visit, I secretly purchased this dress and packed it. When we reached home, I gave it to her. She had tears in her eyes. For the first time in her life, her husband had got her something which she really ‘liked’. She cherished and treasured this dress, affectionately fondling it now and then. Today when she has left me alone and is ready to begin her last journey of no return, I wanted her to carry this gift on her person. I was a very lucky man to have married such a loving woman. If we are ever born again, I want to entice her to come back to me”, said Daddu with a sad smile.

I felt humbled by their love and devotion towards each other. I could not withstand his pain. At a loss for words, I quietly hugged him. Together we picked one of the red sarees and draped it over the dress which was by now stained with our mixed tears…

2. On the Seventh Day by Steve Wade

While she scraped the razor down his cheekbone to his jaw, he tried to synchronise his breathing with hers. “I hate being awake,” he said. “I can’t make it through this, Ellie”

“Yes you can,” Ellie said, dropping the razor into the dirty water. “Look at me.” she cupped his half-shaved face in her hands. “You are not responsible.”

“What do I say to that woman?” he said. “And to the boy’s father?”

“They forgive you,” she said. “They’re religious people. Their faith is so strong.”

He didn’t want forgiveness. He wanted condemnation. Punishment. To run through marshy land at night-time, an angry mob and baying hounds closing, until he could go no farther, and the mob took from him what he had denied the boy.

“A child is going into the ground today,” he yelled at his reflection. “I killed that boy.”

“An accident,” Ellie said, clamping her arms around him. “People die in accidents every day.” She leaned back from him and shook her head. “So, enough, Gavin. Stop! Okay!”

No! It wasn’t okay.

Two days ago, just after seven in the morning, the boy passed away. Passed away, he thought. Euphemisms. The boy was dead. He ended.

Walking without crutches was still painful. He welcomed the pain. The dazzling sunlight pounced on him through the opened front door.

Ellie helped him to the car.

“It’s exactly seven days,” he said after a few kilometres.

“Gavin, not now,” she said. “Please.”

“This is important,” he said. “ The boy was seven. The thing happened today last week. He died at seven o’clock and, well, it must be significant, right?”

“Why are you doing this?” she said.

“Sorry,” Gavin said.

“What?” she said, trembling, despite the suffocating heat in the car.

“Sorry,” he repeated.

“That’s the first time you’ve apologised since this thing began.”

“When I made it to the boy lying on the road, he said ‘Sorry’. I mean he, the boy I’d ploughed into. He told me he was sorry.”

“Stop, will you?” she said. “Just stop doing this!”

“And that’s what I said when the police arrived while we were waiting for the ambulance. I walked up to one of them. “I said, ‘I’m sorry, Guard’. Only I handed him half of the boy’s skateboard. I couldn’t find the other part.”

“Stop it! Stop it! Stop!” Ellie screamed.

“Sorry,” he said.

And stop saying ‘Sorry’!” she said, and then she sped towards a junction.

“Christ, Ellie, be careful,” he said when they were through. “The lights were red. Are you crazy?”

“Okay,” she said, wiping the corners of her eyes using the back of her hand. “Let’s both try and hold this together.” She shot him a glance.

“What you said before?” he said, using conversation as an excuse to study her face. “You said they were holy or something.”

She smiled. “We prayed together in the hospital,” she said. “The man made a cross here with his fingers.” Ellie reached sideways to make the sign of the cross on Gavin’s forehead.

He jerked away from her. “Ellie, the road, look it! That was the church. You missed the turn.”

A strange cry came from Ellie, a sound Gavin experienced as a wave breaking inside his stomach. “Hey, come on,” he said. “It’s alright. Just pull in when you can. I’ll twist it around.”

Gavin felt encased in something like a shroud of relief when Ellie affected a u-turn and insisted that he avoid the driver’s seat at least until after the funeral.

During the funeral mass, Gavin wanted to tell her what he was thinking. He would tell her later how he now realised that if he hadn’t returned to the store for the milk, he’d never have seen the advert on the notice board for the golf clubs, and wouldn’t have called the number. He shouldn’t have been in that neighbourhood. He wondered whose destiny it was, his or the boy’s. Could be that maybe another car might have hit the boy who skated down the steps and onto the road.

Waiting outside the church somebody said the parents had already left for the cemetery.

They got into the car and followed the cortege out of the town until they arrived at a small graveyard. They stood at the back of the solemn black crowd. The priest’s words were a faraway mumble.

“I’m sorry,” Gavin said when he took the mother’s hand after the graveside ceremony.

“Peter is our only child,” she said, making it sound as though he were still alive. “He’s a beautiful boy. A special gift to us at our age.” Her eyes jumped sideways to a tall middle-aged man next to her.

“I’m Ted,” the man said, extending his hand and creasing his large stature at the waist to shake Gavin’s hand. “I’m Peter’s father.”

“I’m so very sorry, Sir,” Gavin said to the man whose eyes were bursting with accusatory forgiveness.

“The Lord forgives you,” the boy’s father said. He smiled a warm smile that would never leave Gavin alone.

They watched the boy’s parents receive the offered commiserations of the dispersing crowd with the same graceful acceptance. Gavin allowed Ellie to lead him by the hand towards the car-park. At the car she passed him the keys without speaking. She got into the passenger seat and stared straight ahead. She seemed to forget that he needed help climbing into the car.

On the drive home, Gavin said, “That’s the only funeral I’ve ever attended where it didn’t rain.”

Ellie squirmed in the seat next to him and mumbled. She was sleeping.

He cast his eyes skyward through the windscreen. He could make out a few seagulls at a great height. The sky was an inverted bay, and the gulls gliding around it matched the mastery of fish swimming in water.

“Now there has to be something in that,” he said.

3. Elite Unit by John Stapleton

I wet my lips anxiously and keyed the mic.

“All units, this is Ops Delta Two, requesting assistance.”

After a moment I heard, “Delta 2, this is Recon Charlie Five, go ahead.”

“Recon Five, I have an inbound Hostile, codename Wombat, 1700 hours.”

Frank broke the long silence, “This is Nomad Foxtrot Seven, say again.”

I repeated the message and there was a pressing silence from my handset.

“Delta Two, 10-20 for extraction?”

For civilians reading this, “10-20″ means, “what is your location?”

“Negative, Fox Seven, presence required by C.O.”

That means Commanding Officer.

“Ops, be advised, recommend consult with Tac One.”

Fox followed immediately with, “Concur, Recon, consult Tac One. Out.”

“Affirmative, out.”

I flipped my comm over to channel eight, where Andrew usually was. I hit the call button, using the generic signal. He wasn’t usually on our main frequency unless something was going on. I waited about ten seconds, and then hit the call button again, before keying the mic.

“Tactical Alpha One, this is Ops Delta Two, copy?”

I tried to wait patiently. I waited at least 30 seconds, if not more. I could barely stand it. I was just drawing breath to call again when static sprang from the unit.

After a moment or two, I heard a groggy voice ask, “Dennis is that you?”

My eyes must have popped nearly out of my head. Not only was there a girl in possession of one of our comm units, but also she had completely neglected protocol and used my real name! Before I could fathom a response, the mic came alive once again. There was some static and sounds of struggle, then, “Sorry, Delta Two, left the comm out on the couch by Raptor.” In the background I heard something like, “I told you not to call me that!”

“Go ahead, Ops.”

“Tac One, C.O. has commanded negotiation to take place at Bravo Camp with Wombat.”

“When?”

“1700 hours.” It was already 1550. I could all but hear him checking his watch. I pushed down my rising panic.

“Subject of negotiation is…?” He trailed off because we both knew what he was going to say.

“Affirmative.”

“Roger that. One minute, Delta.”

The next 47 seconds remain on record as the longest of my lifetime.

“Delta Two, be advised: I’d like to read in a civilian.”

I had an ominous feeling that I knew the answer to, “who, Tactical?”

“Raptor.”

“Oh, man! No way!”

“Understood, Delta. Consider: who better for present dilemma?”

I grudgingly admitted that Andrew was right about his sister. She was a straight-A student, and would know what to do about my crisis.

“This goes against all protocol.”

“War is hell.”

“Whatever, man…”

“Delta Two, stand by. Back by 1630 hours.”

“Roger, Tactical One. Out.”

I was pacing my room for the 63rd time when my C.O. came in. He sat down with me on the bed, like he does when he wants to have a “serious talk.” The way he did before the sex talk last year.

“Son, we invited Mrs. Weatherby to dinner tonight, because we need to talk bout your grades.”

I nodded in a fashion that I felt was very encouraging.

“She’ll be here in less than an hour. Why don’t you put on some nice clothes for dinner.”


I thought my dad was crazy for thinking my clothes would matter in a dire situation like this one, but I liked for him to think he was doing well, so I gave him another of my best nods. He seemed reassured, so I left it at that. He did not bring up anything about my real problem, and that was enough for me. 
Just then my comm unit started squawking. “Ops Delta Two, this is Tac One, do you read?”
 I gave my dad a look that I hoped he understood; this was important business.
 He frowned a little and tried to look stern and generous all at once.

“No missions tonight, Dennis.”

I played it casual. “I know, Dad. Just some last minute business, that’s all.” 
He smiled and left my room.

I dove for the comm.

“Tac One, this is Delta, go ahead!” I blurted.

“Delta Two, I’ve got a solution… but you won’t like it.”

Boy was he ever right.

I put on my best pair of blue jeans, my button-up shirt, and a stuffy sweater-vest from Christmas. I combed my hair and brushed my teeth, and when the doorbell rang, I came within inches of my life running down the stairs to answer it.

“Hi, Mrs. Weatherby.”

“Hello, Dennis.”

“Can I take your coat?”

My Dad was coming down the hall, and I think he had a mild heart attack when I said that. He confessed to me at a later time that he was uncertain I even knew where the closet was, until that day.

At dinner, I was the picture of polite. I said “please,” and “thank you,” and paid attention to all the adult chitchat. I kept my elbows off the table, which was a point of contention with Dad.

Eventually the time came to discuss the real reason for the meeting. I could tell by everyone’s expression that we were about to “get down to business.”

“Mom, Dad, Mrs. Weatherby… I know why we’re meeting tonight, and I think I can help. See, I did this online test the other day, and I think I might be…”

I was a little shocked when my voice caught in my throat. Mom said gently, “go on.”

“I think I’m dyslexic.”

It took a few moments for everyone to process what I’d said. Mrs. Weatherby was first to get her feet under her.

“Dennis, I’d like to meet with you on Monday and do some testing. Would you be willing to do that?”

I nodded, relieved that she believed me.

My struggle with Dyslexia is another story altogether, but suffice it to say that I never missed the Honor Roll again.

4. On a Christmas Eve by Ignatius S. Boustin

Aghatha, my six year old daughter, once said, “Ours is a happy family, yeah mama?”

Today is weekend. I keep aside Friday nights and Saturdays for my two daughters, and Sundays for the Church and Linda, my wife.

Today being a Friday night, my daughters and I were playing. My favorite Spanish music, as always, was on full blast. Sitting on a 2-seater sofa with Aghatha and Arya on my lap, I strenuously moved my left and right feet in cycling motion, giving them a sense of galloping. Aghatha’s innocent laughter always leads and rya’s
full-throated laughter always follows rising up above all other sounds like the falling of a hale.

Linda feels a sense of joy at this point when this chorus of laughter and music brings about a sense of fulfilling a responsibility. Anybody entering our home at this moment always smiles from their heart, ready
to share their joy too!

“Come, let’s pray,” said my wife indiscreetly, but we ignored and carried on playing. After a while, she had finished cooking and reminded me about Aghatha’s exam on Sunday. Still, we carried on playing. At this point, Linda stomped angrily into the living room with Aghatha’s books. The music stopped. Aghatha’s mood shifted from playful to pensive with a shade of sadness and fear, which pissed me off.

The beast in me had been reacting to my wife’s mood swings for over ten years. I decided to defeat the beast and save my family.

I was born and brought up in a Roman Catholic family in a coastal village in the southern tip of Kerala. Idols in the Catholic church always hindered my faith from knowing the truth though I observed the rituals of reciting Angelus in the evening, family prayers at night, and Sunday obligations. I didn’t have any problem with my religious obligations as long as I followed them with closed eyes and mind. Every time I opened my mind to understand idolatry, it moved me to Atheism. However, deep inside I knew there is another life. For the time being, I decided to enjoy the freedom of not knowing the truth.

I married Linda. After seven years, we had a baby girl, my Aghatha. Our life went on doing a balancing act between God and the Devil until Aghatha turned three. A rare amebic dysentery struck her. It was so abrupt and eventful, my daughter lost seven kilos in ten days. At one point, even the doctor looked unsure.

This is when I told God I will go to Pottah, a prayer centre where, I heard, change happened to anyone who believed. In three days, Aghatha had returned to normal and I was flying to Pottah, some four thousand kilometers away from where we were living.

I believed for the first time in my life in Jesus that He was born two thousand years ago and that His words are still reaching every corners of the world and that His words are the only hope there is. I saw the deception of death: The convincing idea that death is the end, which closed the door to God and opened another – to a belief that heaven is on Earth, now and every moment we live. Our quest for knowledge blinds us with ego. I was stripped off my ego at this divine prayer center.

Jesus showed me knowledge without ego is life everlasting. I will never follow the heaven on Earth. I will not allow death to cheat me. I need to pray for the Holy Spirit to enter and protect me.

I began to discern guilt and anxiety of doubts, which has been tossing me about like a drifting log in the ocean. I understood all I need to do is to look up into the sky because one of the ways to God is to break free from anxiety of the future and guilt of the past. I believed Faith is leaving all worries to and believing in God because nothing is mine – nothing. In return, I get joy; this does not mean the Devil would leave me – the Evil One never stopped testing the Son of God till His last breath.

Being a believer in Jesus is being eternally happy; yes, a lot more challenging than being sad.

It was the Christmas Eve. I was rushing back from work all excited. My elder daughter had been calling me every ten minutes or so to check how far I was. Finally, I reached home. My two little angels and wife opened the door to a candlelit home, pleasant with soft Christmas music and gleaming smiles. I knelt down on the floor to hold them together in my arms. I saw a glimpse of my wife peeping out from the kitchen, the face strained, fragile and waiting to explode.

“I am sick and tired of this leakage,” (She was referring to the kitchen sink) “will you please close the main tap,” said my wife in an edgy tone. “Ok,” I said and abruptly left my children. “Have you closed it,” said my wife impatiently. “No,” I mumbled standing on my toes on a chair, straining to reach out one of the two blue taps above the false ceiling. “Closed?” screamed Linda. I was on the verge of retaliating. The beast is me was aroused. “Just a moment.” I said in a calm voice strange to me and my wife. “It’s the pain in my neck,” she said. In our ten years of wedlock, the Devil was defeated for the first time. It was a new beginning. A new hope. That was our best Christmas Eve.

5. There’s a Body on My Table by Ginny Deegeez

Paul unlocked, locked, unlocked, locked, unlocked, locked and unlocked the door before pushing it open. He took off his shoes, left one first, and laid them by the door in perfect parallel to each other.

“I’m home,” he called, and from the top of the stairs the fish in his aquarium burbled in response. He counted his steps to the kitchen – one, two, three…fifteen, sixteen, seventeen. He lined up his feet and looked at the digital clock on the microwave – 6:04. He waited patiently, watching, until – ah, 6:05. Letting out the breath he’d been holding, he turned to the kitchen table and-

Oh, God. Paul was suddenly acutely aware of his pounding heartbeat in his ears. He somehow managed to steady himself against the chair back and remain upright, but he knew he would faint if he couldn’t get himself under control. And he couldn’t faint. That wasn’t in the Routine.

He steeled himself and looked at the table again.

A fly.

A dead fly on his kitchen table. And it wasn’t even centered! He felt his breathing growing panicked and focused on slowing it. What would he do? After a few minutes of thought with his eyes carefully averted from the table and its disturbing off-centerpiece, he went to the counter and picked up the phone. He listened to the dial tone for a moment, comforted by it, and dialed. The numbers were even on both sides – the only number he could dial that added up to the proper numbers in all the right ways. He’d never been able to find fault with it – it was the perfect number.

It rang a few times. He counted. On the fourth ring, she picked up.

“Jeanne!” He gasped, relieved, and there was a sigh on the other end.

“Paul? Oh, for God’s sake. Not again.” He could hear the exasperation in her voice, but he disregarded it. If she really, really minded she would have her number changed. He’d first called her two years ago, when he first moved into the house by himself. Before he’d just had others dial the phone for him, but it became unavoidable once he moved out. He’d tried to dial his therapist, but the number had too many problems. He finally just dialed the only number he could dial, and Jeanne had answered.

At first she’d just hung up, but when he kept calling her, she’d finally taken the time to listen to him and tell him quite firmly that yes, he could have four chairs at his table when there was only one person – of course! What would he do when he had company?

Paul knew that he never had company, and he told her that – he’d thus proven her theory null and he still had to worry about the chairs. But Jeanne finally promised that someday she and her two sons and her husband would visit and sit in his chairs. This had calmed him and he’d been able to say goodbye, hang up, and eat dinner (standing, of course, since there was no place to sit that would be even with four chairs).

“There’s a fly, Jeanne,” he said helplessly. “A fly.”

“Paul, please! This is not a good time. Can’t you just – deal with something by yourself for once?” Paul heard the edge in her voice and knew that something was going on, but at the moment nothing seemed more important than the issue on his kitchen table with six poky little legs and clouded, multifaceted eyes.

“On the kitchen table, Jeanne!”

“Paul-”

“Please, Jeanne! What do I do?”

“PAUL! I can’t…I can’t deal with this right now!”

“I CAN’T EAT, JEANNE!” he wailed, knuckles white in his death grip on the telephone. There was silence on the other end, and he feared she’d hung up. “Jeanne?”

“Throw it away, Paul,” she said finally, and her voice was suddenly inexpressibly tired. “Just pick it up with a tissue and throw it away.”

“It’ll touch the tissue.”

“It doesn’t matter. You’ll throw the tissue away. It’ll never touch your hands.”

“The tissue is porous,” Paul added weakly, but he was caving.

“Wear your rubber gloves,” Jeanne suggested, and Paul managed to get his breathing under control. Everything would be okay.

“Thank you, Jeanne,” he said solemnly.

“Any time, Paul,” she replied quietly, and Paul waited until she hung up the phone to hang up on his end. He dealt with the fly as instructed. All went according to plan. He checked the clock.

6:54.

He waited patiently until it changed to 6:55, and then he went to the refrigerator to cook his dinner.

The phone almost slipped as Jeanne hung it up, but she caught it just in time. She knew Paul waited until she hung up, and she didn’t want to worry him. She went to the sink to wash her hands, scrubbing until the water ran clear, and a little more besides, just in case. She glanced back at the phone, knowing that Paul would call within the next few minutes if he remembered something she hadn’t covered. The handle was slick with blood and she made a little face, reaching for the paper towels to clean it up. She looked into the kitchen, heaving a sigh.

It really hadn’t been a good time for Paul to bother her – she was busy trying to figure out what to do about the body. Her husband was bleeding all over her kitchen table. She reached under the sink for her rubber gloves.

6. The Story from the Attic by Daniel Starr

The attic of each old house is a magic place. It’s a dark spot. A few broken tiles let some arrows of sun to pass through. Sharp shreds of light are cutting trough opacity pointing at things stashed or thrown away. Being old, the loft has many stories. Among them, the story of the grains of dust. You may find yourself thinking now what’s so interesting about grains of dust. What could grains possibly discuss, what thoughts, dreams, desires and deceptions they may have? What animates the life of tiny particles of dust? It all began with a great temblor, an earthquake so great that the grains thought about it as something of apocalyptic proportions.

* What’s happening? A little particle wobbles in the pitch of black around it.
* I don’t know anything, a voice resemble near; I was standing here thoughtless; when all of a sudden I was lifted up!
* I can’t believe this is happening to me!! Another one screams.
* Are we going to die????
* “Are we going to die” …come on, get a grip of yourself..!
* Still …what has just happened?
* Who cares? All that matters is that we’re alive. We’ll see what and how when it will be necessary.

The particles continued to float for a while, carried by the flow. Slowly, as the minutes passed, the noise got extinct and the silence was once more. The stream continues to see of his own work taking the grains far away in the attic. Randomly or not, the specks that talked earlier came across one of the tubes of light piercing the darkness, and for the first time in their life saw each other.

* Hello‘ a voice made itself heard.
* Hi, another answered.
* A .. aa … atchoo! ( sorry )
* Bless you! damn cold , continues smiling .
* Yeah …I hope I didn’t catch a flue \. Not that I would mind catching a cold, but it bothers me to get sick when everybody else does.
* Even if you would, you’ll beat it . Can you chose when to get sick? laughed the neighbor grain .
* Yes; at least that’s what I like to believe .
* Then choose.

They study each other carefully in the glow . Of different shape and sizes each carries the same aspect. Structural identical and yet with different shapes and trajectories. The existence of speaks is a paradox . But the rules of attraction and repulsion are the same all around. Even in the loft.

* I won’t laugh, maybe I’ll put a little smile.
* You’ll see that I’ll catch a cold in the middle of summer, specially not to get it now !
* It’s much easy to catch some during summer, said the other.
* I hate to be like others , but it’s quite hard to postponed a cold from January to June , oscillated the grain in the cone of light .
* Are you afraid to leave it over for long period of time ?
* I am afraid of time , but I also know that if I put my mind to something , eventually that something will happen .
* Is there anything that you truly wish for ?
* Yes I do . You don’t \?
* The question wasn’t also for me , chuckled the little particle .
* I was just curious …
* My answer is plain and simple : yes
* Then prepare yourself for that to happen.
* I am prepared .
* But ?
* Why is there always have to be a “ but “ in our conversation ?
* Because it’s normal to question everything, flew graciously then starting to describe circles in the air.
* What do you feel now ?
* Honestly ?
* Hmm …thought the grain why not ?
* I’m a little …sad.
* And un-frankly?
* No, no, no … it’s not even worth mentioning , I’m caught in the play of the “ herd” and …
* Tell me more about the “ mob “ said the other .
* Wish I could , but it’s not a game that I enjoy .
* Hey …we both dislike to be like others.
* What would make you happy ?
* The well being of my love ones ,the joy of seeing a peaceful future ahead and …love.
* It’s a mystery for me that you don’t have love ; you’re smart , beautiful , communicative ,
* Maybe that I refuse to myself this right or maybe I am afraid .
* You are afraid to be happy ?!
* You have a way of making me say things that I don’t want .
* You could have told me this sooner. I would had found a way to be…
* And become like the others?

The world of dust particles waves like dancing on a soft melody. It’s rhythm is so slow that is barely noticeable. Each grain perceive this music in it’s own way, following a complicated line in space. All are dancing alone , careful not to touch each other. If you go in an old attic stop for a little while and pay attention to the specks of dust . That’s the least you can do for grains . Approach to beam of light from the roof and look . Once upon a time , somewhere , somehow , in the world of dust two or more grains bond and spin together. Oblivion surrounds them while entering darkness but specks continue to be , somewhere in the loft , unknown .

7. Finding by Holly Carter

I began observing you, detached – and found that suddenly you interest me. In the parking lot today, I watched you try to get into your old beater: jiggling the handle thrice, then kicking the bottom of the door, cursing, and jiggling the handle once more until the door suddenly sprang open and hit you in the shin. I laughed out loud, realized my error, then ducked and giggled quietly. Strange how when we were married that damn car was so aggravating to me (“a grade A pile of shit,” I believe I called it), and I completely overlooked the humor of it all.

As you pulled out of the parking lot, I caught the flash of your left blinker, so I followed: slowly, of course – not too obvious. You would be bewildered to learn I watch you now. I stay ten car lengths behind you, as they would in any movie. It’s not as if you’d recognize my car, anyway, but it’s better to be safe than sorry. And I would be sorry, too: to be known as a pathetic, stalking ex-wife.

* * *

“You are that crazy ex-wife!” Chris shrieks.

“No, I’m not,” I defend myself, “I’m just bored.”

“If you’re bored you read a book, watch a film, but you don’t stalk your ex,” he replied.

“He intrigues me,” I said with a shrug.

“You were married to the clown for five years,”

“So?”

“So don’t you think it’s a little late to be learning about the guy?”

* * *

This past week I have followed Mike to the grocery store, where I discovered he’s been eating quite healthy since the two of us broke up. I also followed him to the gym where he played shirts/skins basketball with a few of his old buddies, and some new guys I didn’t recognize. Mike was a skin: looks like he’s been working on his abs a bit, too. I was impressed. I also followed him to the bookstore, where he picked up the Economist and two political books. He also flirted with the cashier a little on his way out.

It doesn’t look like Mike is grieving at all: no ice cream at the grocery store, no self-help books at Borders. In fact, I’m the one who looks pathetic out of the whole deal. How does that work? I broke up with him! What happened was I didn’t think I was happy. As a result, I thought changing my routine would change my outlook; I traded all my old furniture for new furniture, traded in my car, traded careers, and lastly, traded men.

The new guy, Nick, was fun and adventurous: for about a month. He didn’t care if he was late on his bill payments, and he didn’t limit himself to one vacation a year. He never talked to me about politics or goals. Some people might call this irresponsible and immature, but I found it to be so fresh and thrilling. A month later, my fling had ended (he never returned my calls), my husband had found out and had started divorce proceedings.

I’m feeling betrayed, I wrote into my journal one night. I guess I thought things would go differently: that Mike would beg me back and we could look back and laugh like it was some sort of experiment gone bad. Now I’m alone, with outrageous car payments, a job I hate, and a constant feeling of complete boredom.

* * *

“Real life isn’t like the movies, Jane,” Chris said to me, dipping his corn chip into our shared queso.

“I know that,” I replied, annoyed.

“I don’t think you do,” he responded: oblivious that his scolding was irking the hell out of me.

“You go around making rash decisions, not realizing that they will have consequences, and then expect people to feel sorry for you.”

“I don’t expect anyone to feel sorry for me,” I responded indignantly.

“Yes you do. Why are you here right now? You’re moping around that you threw out your marriage on a whim and that Mike isn’t going to come crawling back to you. You’re following him around hoping that one day you’ll get the courage to ‘accidently’ (yes, Chris did that finger quotation marks) bump into him and he will grovel and beg for you to take him back.”

“That’s not true,” I argued back, surprised when my voice amounted to nothing more than a whisper.

* * *

I did it. I “accidentally” bumped into Mike. He was leaving the gym at his regular time on Tuesday night, (9:30) when I had finally worked up the courage to confront him.

“Oh my god, Mike, is that you?” I feigned surprise after nearly hurling my body into his glistening chest.

“Jane.” He replied, emotionless. When I heard the period after my name, my heart sunk. I had to let go: it was over.

“What have you been up to?” I asked, flirtatiously punching his arm (like that would change his mind).

“Just working and living,” he said: cool, calm, and collected. It was as if he had been expecting this curious run-in and had planned exactly how to handle himself.

“Hey, I’d love to stay and catch up, but I’m kind of in a rush,” he added quickly, before I could come up with some witty banter.

“OK, see you around,” I mumbled to his back as he fled to his pile of shit car.

* * *

“I certainly am glad your stalking days are behind you,” Chris offered cheerily after hearing of my latest encounter.

“I guess I was getting pretty pathetic,” I murmured back: holding my gaze steady into my clam chowder.

“Hey,” Chris responded softly, lifting my chin with his thumb. “Not every love story ends up with the couple living happily ever after. You both have to appreciate each other – and in your case, it just took a little more time than you had.”

8. For Gorlak by Joshua Francis

The sky parted with a terrible roar as the lightning bolt tore downwards, cleaving a mighty oak in two as if it were a small piece of firewood. Raglan smiled a self-satisfied smile. He had done it. He had finally mastered the Lightning Spell after 9 long months of study and sweat. He had been apprentice to Gorlok since he was 5 years old – a promising child, with a great natural ability for magic. The old wizard had spotted him one day, all those years back as he shopped in Tondara Market for ingredients for his spells. The young Raglan had been juggling fruit, but not with his hands – with his mind. Gorlok smiled as well. His young pupil was coming into his own very quickly.

Raglan had been preparing for this moment his whole life. This was the Grand Kea-ho-kea-lee – the test by which all apprentices become wizards.

Raglan raised his arms above his head, about even with his shoulders. He chanted the next spell under his breath as Gorlok turned back to the Elders.

Suddenly, the oak that had just split began groaning and shaking. The small fires that had started when the tree fell were now puffs of blackish smoke. Raglan raised his arms higher as the oak began to bring itself back into one piece. If Raglan could make the tree seal back as though the lightning spell had never been spoken, he would be a wizard.

Gorlok looked on in indifference but he was silently hoping young Raglan had mastered the spell. If Raglan was indeed made a wizard today, he would be the youngest ever, at twenty eight years of age. It took much training to become a wizard. Gorlok was not inducted until he was forty four, a full thirty years ago.

The oak continued groaning as sweat broke out on Raglan’s face. He knew how important this spell was. There were currently only seven wizards in the kingdom, and four of them, including Gorlok, were nearing The Age of Regeneration. Once wizards were seventy four, getting very close for Gorlok, they were regenerated. Quite simply, they were slain and buried in the fields, to fertilize the food for the kingdom.

Gorlok had his eyes closed and was thinking about how close his time was when the Elders began cheering. Young Raglan had mastered the spell!

Raglan ran to the large wooden bench that seated the three elders. They were ancient, all of them at least one thousand years old. T hey had been alive when the kingdom had been established. They wore their traditional robes of rust orange, with hoods drawn over the tops of their heads before standing.

The middle one spoke in the scratchy, deep voice of one who had lived one thousand years.

“Congratulations, young Raglan. The Board of Elders hereby accepts you into the Legion of Wizards. Hold your title in high regards. Very few have ever achieved it and you are the youngest yet while the kingdom has been alive.”

With this, the three Elders left the small wooded area where the testing was held.

“Gorlok, we did it!” Raglan said.

“No, my boy. You did it. And now, it is my time.”

Raglan looked at Gorlok in surprise.

“You mean… But you’re only seventy three, are you not?”

Gorlok sighed.

“Young Raglan today was my birthday. Tonight, when the moon reaches its highest point, I will go to the Elders to be regenerated.”

With that Gorlok walked down the same path the Elders had followed.

Raglan stood in the testing area, unsure of what to do next. With some hesitation, he ran after Gorlok.

“Gorlok! Wait! Wait!”

As Raglan ran, he realized the moon would reach its highest point in just a few minutes. He picked up his pace.

As he rounded a curve, he almost ran into Gorlok.

“Gorlok! How can I do this without your direction?”

“Do what, my boy?”

“Why, fight the dwarves and protect the dragons and defeat the Armies of the East with the other wizards! You have oft told me of these things I will face, but I thought most assuredly that you would be here to guide me and train me.”

Gorlok stood looking into the sky.

“Raglan, you have done in twenty eight years what it took me forty four to achieve. Relish in your victory tonight, for tomorrow you will join the others and begin battle with the Armies of the East.”

Raglan began crying.

“How can I do this without you, teacher?”

“Raglan, you have made it thus far. You will be fine. Just remember the things I taught you. But now, I must go.”

Gorlok walked into a section of the forest that was protected by a large fence with guards standing every ten feet. The structure had to be massive but Raglan couldn’t tell through the dense trees.

Raglan heard the chanting associated with regeneration. He had heard it before, but never was it his teacher, his mentor, his friend.

The next day, Raglan rose early to do battle. He found the wizards at the battle grounds.

“Ah, young Raglan. Welcome. I am Rictir, the Supreme High Lo-kea of the Legion of Wizards. And what do you have to say for yourself?”

Raglan looked at the older wizard and wondered how close he was to the age of regeneration. Raglan took notice of his long, blue robe, worn and tattered from many battles.

“Well, young wizard? What words have you?”

Raglan withdrew his sword in one hand and ran to the battle field, shouting.

“For Gorlok!”