The story of the week for January 30 to February 3 is…
Trapped by Mark Farley
We’ve come to expect nothing less than this kind of creativity and depth from Mark. Another great contribution!
MARK FARLEY: Trapped
Mum came to stay the day after her funeral. She was waving from the doorstep when I returned with the groceries. I carried her suitcase into the hall then set a place for her at the dining table, beside the ghost of my father.
Neither of them enjoyed the meal.
Mark Farley was raised in Zimbabwe where he survived two dog maulings, a swarm of killer bees, and being run over by a horse. His story Knight of the Rocks has been published by Old Words Home.
DAVID RAE: Counting Chickens
Last night, Dad came round to introduce us to his latest bride to be. “There’s life in the old dog yet,” he said.
She said nothing.
This must be his third engagement since Mum died, or his fourth including Carol.
“Who’s counting, anyway?” he asked with a grin.
I am.
David is remarkably immature about these things. He finds that writing about it does help a bit.
MELISSA FU: Ambush
The lettuce is leggy and the bokchoi has bolted. While I’m scrambling after runaway cabbages, the slugs launch their offensive. Calling them swift may be overstatement, yet under the cover of a single night, they behead the French marigolds and disembowel the strawberries, leaving a trail of slime and destruction.
Melissa Fu grew up in Northern New Mexico and lives in Cambridge, UK. She finds the difference in the climates very confusing for gardening. Learn more about these and other messes at SpillingtheInk.com.
EO HARGREAVES: Oh So Temporary
Since my grandfather’s death
I’m convinced the clocks
have stopped working properly.
Hours are now arriving
equipped with extra minutes
that weren’t there before.
My throat burns from the scotch in my glass,
but it’s as impermanent
as the fuel trails of the planes above.
It won’t last. Nothing does.
EO is making a first attempt at a humorous fiction novelette called Id/entity, which, if it doesn’t suck, might actually see the light someday on Amazon Kindle. If not, EO will probably make some nice origami, or a LOT of paper footballs.
JOEY TO: Meditations on Death
Silver moonlight and swaying branches make dancing shadows. I see in them faces which I have not seen for years.
I wonder if any of them see my face.
The doorbell chimes. I open the door to a skull in a black cloak. “Rest assured that nobody thinks of you.”
Joey is good at remembering faces even if he doesn’t want to be. You can find him at joeytoey.com.
DEVON R WIDMER: When an Air Nymph Loves a Water Nymph
In the morning fog, the ocean bleeds into the sky like a watercolor painting. Below, Daeidra walks the sandy shore alone. She has forbidden me to accompany her.
A solitary tear trickles down my cheek as I watch her embrace the waves and dissolve into a spray of sea foam.
Devon R. Widmer is a grumpy graduate student by day, a scribbling daydreamer by night, and a sleep-deprived parent full-time.
MELISSA A ROHEN: Stray
Guilt burns my gut, only slightly sated by the whisky I sip.
The affair had been revenge for all the times his eyes had strayed. Joke was, I couldn’t tell him.
So my gut continues to burn as I take another sip and watch as his eyes stray once more.
Melissa is a writer, teacher, and dog lover in the Middle of Nowhere, Michigan.
JENORA VASWANI: Robot Hugs
Cuddles. An order.
Cuddles? The robot paused, processing.
Error 404.
A brief demonstration.
A jerky imitation. Processing again.
I do not understand. You want to remain in contact with my exterior form. Why?
The question hung in the air.
Why indeed.
Perhaps a chemical analysis of oxytocin was in order.
The thought of a fledgling artificial intelligence trying to learn the ways of humans has always amused Jenora. This is a story about the merging of the undefinable with the empirical. If you’d like to see more of Jenora’s work, pop along to her website at openingdoorsofperception.com.
PAUL LAUGHSEND: See-saws and swing sets
Sarah couldn’t bear to look out the back window. She hated the garden. Peter had been promising to remove the yard toys since January, but he didn’t have the heart to do it. They fought about that. They fought about everything.
Tina was only four. Perhaps heaven has yard toys.
Paul Laughsend is a previously unpublished writer, always looking for support and guidance.