Contributor: David Elliott

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‘One year.’ He’d clicked on the link, entering the website for the first time in his life. ‘One year, and it’s come to this.’

Three-hundred-and-sixty-five days ago, Brian had come up with a plan. He’d decided to spend the rest of his life online; no more human interaction, no more disastrous relationships, no more work, no more physical activities. Brian was going to become a fully-fledged virtual person, a cyber-hermit, and how wonderful it might have been, if anything about his plan, his scheme, his anxiety-avoiding blueprint for a better way of life, had actually worked.
     

And maybe it could have worked, if circumstances had been different; if he hadn’t accidentally stumbled upon lonelysouls.com.
     

Brian wasn’t a lonely soul, of course. The idea was completely absurd. How could people assume such a thing? Just because Brian happened to have a less stimulating sex life than Pope Benedict the Sixteenth, did that automatically classify him as being a lonely soul? No, it did not. He was insulted by the Google adverts inference that he would be even mildly interested in that kind of service.   

His index finger was still trembling with suppressed rage, as he clicked the link.
     

Why did I ever click that link? Why, God? Why?
     

He’d met a girl on lonely-souls.com. Hot-lips 22. At first, they simply chatted. After a few days, their chatting had developed into laughing-out-loud. Before long, they were rolling-on-the-floor-laughing. Eventually, they were laughing-their-fucking-asses-off, and occasionally, to Brian’s delight, even pissing themselves laughing.
     

It was a match made in cyber-heaven.
     

Despite only knowing each other for a short while, they decided to dispense with the cyber-courting, throw caution to the wind, and become E-man and  E-wife. Hot-lips 22 accepted Brian’s proposal, and after a brief virtual engagement, they were cyber-married. A beautiful old virtual chapel, StAndrews.com, was booked for the big day, and everything went off without a hitch. The cyber-caterers were the very height of professionalism, the virtual band had all of their cyber-friends boogying until the early hours, and the cyber-minister, Reverend Meat Rocket 37, brought a much-needed touch of gravity to the event.
     

For Brian, it was a perfect but unexpected start to his new life. He was thrown out of the library for spilling champagne over their only internet computer, but otherwise, everything went swimmingly.
     

But, as with many modern marriages, after the initial excitement had faded away, things started to unravel.
     

Hot-lips 22 gradually lost interest in cyber-sex, and began filling up her time with various Brian-excluding activities; cyber-shopping, cyber-tupperware parties, cyber-Zumba, anything to avoid online contact with her new virtual spouse. Without the love of his life, Brian went into a downwards spiral. He withdrew from cyber society, sometimes hardly going online at all, and once, during a particularly low month, even started to interact with the real world again; engaging in small talk with other human beings, walking to the local shops, making phone calls, sending letters, a collection of bizarre activities usually only associated with the diseased mind.
     

Rumours of his eccentric behaviour finally made their way to Hot-lips 22, who, after much online soul searching, decided to file for cyber-divorce. It was this that, inevitably, led to Brian’s cyber-depression, cyber-self-loathing, and cyber-eating-disorder. Hotlips 22’s virtual lawyer, Scumbag 52, bled him dry. She gained possession of the cyber-cottage, the cyber-car, and was awarded full custody of the cyber kids.
     

Brian was alone. Within a year, his online life had been completed then destroyed, like the creation of a temperamental artist.
     

And then, one night, this very night, on the anniversary of their first meeting, Brian, in a fit of despair, had logged on to slash-your-wrists.com, with the intention of committing cyber-suicide.
     

‘One year,’ he said. ‘One stupid year.’
     

Brian browsed through the catalogue of virtual destruction, chose an appropriate method for his cyber-execution, clicked the ‘Yes’ tab under the legend: ‘Are you sure?’, and erased himself from the cyber-world.
     

Brian no longer exists …


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David Elliott is a writer and musician, living in Cheshire UK. His short fiction has appeared in Linguistic Erosion, MicroHorror, Flashes in the Dark, Twisted Tongue, Whispers of Wickedness and Delivered.

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Author: David Elliott

Contributor: Marian Brooks

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Joyce watched her mother disappear, slowly.

Now she’s doing the same thing. She is certain of it.

When she walks down the street, no one even notices her or nods Sometimes people bump into her without so much as an “excuse me.” At one time her appearance was dramatic. Joyce loved exotic hats, expensive shoes and colorful, tailored clothing, always in good taste. Now she feels invisible. Men stare right through her, eyes like lasers, scanning the field for young, healthy women. Her reproductive equipment is thirty years past providing a viable home for anyone.

When she looks in the mirror, she sees someone who “cannot possibly” be her. She sees a woman with jowls and frown lines. Joyce notices age spots and gray hair and wrinkles at the corners of her blue eyes. Her skin is dry; it flakes and floats in the air when she brushes against it.

Sometimes she thinks her own children forget who she is. In their defense, she’s not the mother they once knew who could jump out of a chair in a fraction of a second to catch them before they fell. She’s perplexed when it comes to electronic correspondence. Joyce neither tweets nor twerps nor texts. She does have a Facebook account to keep track of the children’s comings and goings and to see photos of her grandchildren, Ben and Sally, along with their menagerie of dogs, cats and birds. She doesn’t think her cellular phone has any “aps” at all.

Sometimes Joyce and her husband, Bradley, don’t exchange more than four hundred words in a day. They lead parallel lives, reading, walking and sleeping. She does the laundry. He vacuums. She wonders if they really see each other after all of this time. She asks Brad about this. He’s half asleep in the recliner and waves his hand dismissively. “You worry too much, Joyce. We love each other, the kids are fine and we’re healthy. Isn’t that enough?” He drops his bifocals from the top of his head, grabs a pencil and turns his attention to the daily crossword puzzle.

They watch the talking heads on CNN and disagree about politics. On those days, their total word count might be five hundred, some of those words, heated for a change.

Her friends are disappearing too. Some have died. Others have too many doctors’ appointments to schedule lunch or husbands with broken hips and heart attacks to care for. When they do meet, their discussions revolve around diabetes, cholesterol and back surgeries. It’s been some time since they talked about men and sex and career aspirations. They’re not even sure what the “glass ceiling” is all about. It sounds like something that might be striking but difficult to clean.

Joyce is disappearing, melting like an ice sculpture, but slowly. It’s OK because no one’s watching.


- - -
Marian Brooks lives in Pennsylvania with her husband. Her work has appeared in Curly Red Stories, Short Humour, Linnet's Wings and elsewhere.

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Author: Marian Brooks

Contributor: Rohini Gupta

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He is late at the supermarket and almost all the fruit is gone. Many trays are empty, leaving only out-of-season mangoes and a few sad pears. At the end are apples: the small, orange ones, and the green, imported ones. In the last tray he finds what he seeks. On the dark red paper are six golden apples, round, shiny and polished, reflecting the ceiling lights.

A big woman is bearing down on them, followed by a small boy. She is heading for the last tray, but he is ahead of her and scoops them quickly up.

“Surely you don’t have to take them all,” she says.

“They are mine,” he snaps at her so fiercely that she steps back. She looks at his face and leaves hurriedly, dragging the child by the arm. Other people turn to look at him, but he ignores them all and makes off down the aisle with his prize. He will not give up his apples for any price – why can’t they just understand that?

There is a line at the counter but they let him go past, stepping nervously out of his way. He lays the six apples on the cashier’s counter and adds a banana. He has no other shopping.

“You must really like apples,” says the cashier who has seen him before, and always seen them in his basket.

“My wife loves them,” he says. Then he avoids any more questions by insisting she pack them carefully, separately, so that their waxed perfection will not be bruised. It’s a slow procedure and the people in the line behind him are shifting their feet and murmuring but they do not protest.

--

He leaves the supermarket carrying his groceries.

He has been doing all the shopping for quite a while, ever since his wife, Sita, became too weak to get out of bed. He always buys her apples. Even when she cannot eat, when only the tubes feed her, even then she craves the golden apples. She grew up among them, in her family orchard high up in Manali, under the Himalayan snows.

“My favourite tree,” she always told him, “Every year it grew the sweetest apples.” Her face is gaunt from her long illness, but her eyes are still bright when she remembers those happy years.

“There is no misery in the orchard,” she says.

The orchard is long gone. Her father gambled and drank it all away. After he died her mother was forced to sell more and more of the land, but she kept the apple trees. Every year she put the first fruit in her daughter’s hands, “A special apple for my golden girl,” she said with a special smile.

In the end it was Sita who had to sell the orchard. The debts had to be paid, and she did what she had to, but she has never forgotten. The orchard is still home and sometimes, when the pain is a dark shadow in her eyes, she forgets “Take me home,” she whispers, “Take me to the apple trees.”

He opens her hand and puts a golden apple into it. She smiles. Her fingers close, her breathing eases and she sleeps. He had plans once of taking her back to the hills but she is too weak to travel. So all he can do is sit by her bedside and remember.

He remembers how they met, at a party. He was new to Mumbai. No job, no money for food, but he had friends so he attended their parties and lingered by the food tables. She was there for the food too, a starving actress. He saw her joyous smile from across the room and then there was no looking back.

They married and found a house. He got a job, she got a part. They both worked hard and met late in the evenings eagerly, as if for the first time. They had three happy years together until that terrible day at the doctor’s office.

Malignant, the doctor said, and growing.

After that, it had become a nightmare. He hardly sleeps or eats.

He lives from day to day, moment to moment.

No one eats the apples. She cannot, and he will not.

--


He walks home with the bag of apples and one banana.

The house is in darkness as he puts his key in the door. He sits in the dark sitting room and eats the banana.

He looks out at the streets outside, at all the passing people and he wonders where they are going and why they are so cheerful, what they can possibly have to laugh about. Laughter is extinct in his world, for more than a month now, since that terrible day when he lit her funeral pyre.

The black moods, which she had dispelled for him, claim him again. He feels like a straw in the ocean, lost in a tidal wave of darkness. His heart begins a painful thumping, his throat tightens and he suffocates.

But, from somewhere deep, resolve comes. No, he thinks firmly. He has promised her that he will never go to that black place again. He intends to keep his promise.

He holds a golden apple in each hand, clutching them desperately, as if they could save his life. Holding them he feels her close. Is she walking in her bright leaved summer orchards again? Is she laughing under the fruit laden trees? He likes to think that, from wherever she is, she is looking down at him sitting here, and she is smiling.

The suffocation eases and he relaxes a little. For tonight he has won the battle. He will fight it again, but for now, he can sleep sitting in the dark, holding the fruit.

He has nothing else, nothing but that one thing which is left to him now, and for that he will always buy the golden apples.

For her smile.


- - -
I am a writer from Mumbai, India. I have published non fiction and poetry books. Writing flash fiction is keeping me happy while I work on longer stories. My story Dream Keeper was published in Yesteryear fiction in November 2012.

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Author: Rohini Gupta

Contributor: Michael Plesset

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He lay in the hospital bed, not in pain, but knowing that the time he had left was short. “What can we say with our last breath,” he thought, “when we have to say it all, when it really matters what we say. We can let go and drown in sadness and fear and let out a scream of anguish. That would give everybody a scare they’d always remember, but that’s not enough. Or we can say things that we should have said to people before. Or we could talk about the big things that happened over the years.”

Then a nurse came in, the one with the pretty face and great body. He felt his heart beat stronger, he could always see his pulse rate and blood pressure go up on the monitor when she was in the room.

He watched her move around, straightening things and checking the IV bottle with its tube leading into his arm. When she started to leave he made a sound and pointed to the tube that was in his mouth. She asked him “Do you want to say something?” He nodded. She took the tube out, and he had to swallow a couple of times before he could speak, slowly, but with a clear, strong voice, “I’ve been wanting to say, you have the most gorgeous ass in the world,” then, smiling broadly, he died.

A little while later a group of relatives arrived, to take a last look at him. They stood quietly for a few minutes. “Did he just pass away in his sleep?” the older lady asked. “No he was awake and we spoke.” “What did he say?” one of the women asked. “He said `Tell my family I love them all very much.’”

They looked surprised, looking at each other. “Wow,” the older lady said, “that’s the nicest thing he ever said.”

As they were leaving a younger man stayed behind and asked her “Are you sure, he said the whole family?” “Yes, I’m sure.” she said. He nodded slowly, smiled, and looked as though a great weight had been lifted from him, ”Thank you so much” he said.


- - -
Michael Plesset has published poetry, short fiction, non-fiction, and wrote material for a stand-up comedian. He did graduate work in mathematics and philosophy, worked in high technology, and teaches English to Chinese students.

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Author: Michael Plesset

Contributor: MARK SLADE

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I was lying face down on the beach tasting the sand mixed with salt water in my mouth from the ocean's waves repeatedly smashing me in the face. I opened my eyes to a blurred spiraling sun in the damning sky, sending shock waves to my brain.

When my eyes finally focused correctly, I saw Alban lying beside me, dead. A puddle of crimson forming around a black hollow chasm that was once where his left eye had been. His otherwise smooth golden skin on his face had not a scar nor a blemish. He had a dark, ludicrous smile on his face.

I started to rise and discovered the WW1 Colt .45 revolver firmly in my hand.

I jumped up, dropping the gun. “No!” I screamed.

I backed away, cursing at everything and everyone. It was happening again. This time, it was my turn. And I can't understand why God and the universe hates me so.

Alban and I had met a few days ago in the local cafe in Madrid. Stephanie had put us together, she was my contact in the states. Hooking me up to different thieves around the world, all of us apart of the Raven syndicate, providing rare items to the rich and often obsessive people one could meet. Alban was known as the Magical Arab with sticky digits, one of the best thieves from Palestine.

Alban knew where this WW1 Colt revolver resided, It belonged to one Humus Titus. Another of the rich the Ravens had done a service for. But this particular item we had not acquired for him. It seemed Titus stolen this item from the British museum. An item they were not ready to part with.

The revolver has a bit of history to it. Apparently this revolver had belonged to an English officer who who needed medical attention. The officer and a German soldier were lost in the outland of the battle of the Rhine. Caught in the barbed wires that were among ghostly trenches of ill-fated dead, the German soldier cut him loose and as a thanks, the English officer shot the German dead. As Alban relayed it to me, those who fire the weapon is doomed to be killed by the one that had just been killed. And the cycle can not be broken.

Words we should have paid heed to.

It's not the death part that worries me so....

No.

It's the rebirth that I hate so much.

We did as the job required. We broke into Titus castle on this very beach. No problems whatsoever. No guards, no guard dogs, no homeowner, no troubles. In and out like it was nothing. We had rowed over from the island to the north in a small boat. It was only five miles to the beach and Titus castle. We were not taking our lives in the ocean's hands.

At least I didn't think so until the storm came. The storm turned everything inside out and we lost the oars. We were adrift in the ocean with a violent storm swirling around us. Alban had a terrible idea running through his head. He no longer needed me, alive or dead. He drew the .45 revolver on me.

“I can sell this to the Raven syndicate on my own. I don't need you to take my share of the profit.” He said.

The skies behind him were split in two by flashes of yellow-orange lightning and Alban's face was completely drenched by torrential downpour.

Anger had filled me up. I dove upon him and grabbed hold of his hand that held the gun. It fired twice.

As I pushed his hand up to the dark sky with bright slashes across it. That bullet was torn from the barrel and had disappeared into the darkness. He pulled his hand back down, the barrel of the gun facing me. Just as he squeezed the trigger, I jerked his hand backwards. The bullet exploded from the thin barrel and entered Alban's left eye.

I took the gun from his limp hand. Just as I sat on my side of the boat, a strong wind lift the boat into the air....

And here I am, on the beach with a dead Arab.

Oh, God!

I feel it happening.

My skin on my body has become irritated. A burning sensation was inside my chest. The skin was slowly torn right above my heart and lungs. A hand has shown through a bloody mess....golden skinned hands....then arms.....

Just before a dark veil drapes across my eyes and I slip away, I see the same thing is happening to Alban's dead body. As his chest splits open a pair of pale,white hands appear...

The rebirth has begun.

The rebirth of both of us.....


- - -
MARK SLADE LIVES IN WILLIAMSBURG, VA WITH HIS WIFE AND DAUGHTER.
HE HAS APPEARED IN BURIAL DAY, WEIRDYEAR, WORDHAUS AND OTHERS.
HE RUNS THE SHORT STORY PODCAST DARK DREAMS.

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Author: Mark Slade

Contributor: Chelsea Resnick

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We walk through the drip-drip gloom of Pike’s Market, Lena in an electric-purple windbreaker and Marc in a gray wool coat. We’ve never matched in outward appearances, Marc so handsomely tailored, and Lena so quirkily adorned in handmade creations, but we move in step, trusting in the silent communication we’ve always shared. We move past rows of watermelons, carrots, and kumquats. Somewhere off to our right is the Sound, a salty sheet of steel that we can’t see around the frozen stacks of halibut at a fish stall.

Marc speaks openly first. “I thought you were gone for good. I assumed you were married by now. Probably selling your stuff at craft fairs if you weren’t pinned down with kids or something.”

To fill the uncomfortable pause, we each take a haricot from a vendor, a stocky man in overalls and a knitted cap, offering samples. “The sweetest green beans you’ll ever taste!” His voice is like sandpaper, rubbing us smooth.

Our footsteps slow as we crunch into the green haricot stalks. When a group of tourists roar past, they jostle our shoulders and twist our postures. Lena says, “God, we can’t stand still here. Let’s keep moving.” We both understand that these words refer to more than the disruption of tourists.

As we resume our stroll, there is another silent beat in conversation, and we wonder when such awkwardness began. Finally Lena chimes in: “You look taller than I remember.”

“I don’t see how. Last you saw me, I was--what?--twenty-two? People don’t get taller after that age.”

“Still. You look taller.”

For a moment, we lock eyes. Then just as quickly, we look away again. The reflected weight of our stares tells us what we’d rather not know.

“So when is the wedding?” Lena asks.

“End of May. Hopefully the rainy season will be over. Victoria wants to have the reception in the park.”

We stop to buy coffee, ordering two small cups. “Just black, please.” Lena buys a croissant, too. As we pull money from our pockets to pay the cashier, we are careful that our arms don’t brush. Lena’s cash is a crumpled wad from a back pocket. Marc’s is a crisp stack straight from a billfold.

“How long are you in town for?” Marc asks.

“Three more days. The festival is tomorrow and Sunday. I’ll head back to Austin on Monday.”

We don’t address what will happen over the coming days--or even the coming months. Instead, we turn, and Lena asks, “Would you mind if we walked down to the water?”

At each pier, there is a landmark of varying interest. The aquarium. An information booth. An ice cream shop. A boat for touring the Sound. We see these things the way we notice our hands and legs--as matters of fact, easily taken for granted.

At different moments, we are tempted to remark on how each of us has changed--the creases in our faces that weren’t there before--but such words might sound critical, and they never make it off our tongues. Instead, we pass the time with talk of houses, jobs, and weather. Eventually we sit on a bench facing the water. Lena feeds the last bits of croissant to the gulls pacing at our feet.

Neither of us is sure when it happens. Or whose hand inches out first. But after a long while, we look down and see that somehow our palms have found one another, fingers thoroughly entwined.

“I always thought...” Marc starts.

It doesn’t matter that our fingers are knitted together, for we both sense the great unraveling that is happening.

We press our hands tighter.

The permanence of loss absorbs later, when we each ride in airplanes and cars, our bodies molded to chairs that carry us away. Our spheres disconnect and drift, but our thoughts are together still, sitting at that bench in front of the Sound.


- - -
Chelsea Resnick is a Texas-born, Kansas-bred writer with works published by Hallmark Gift Books, Every Day Fiction, and StressFree Living Magazine, among others. She currently lives in North Carolina.

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Author: Chelsea Resnick

Contributor: David Macpherson

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My father was beside himself over the dirt bikes. A bunch of the neighborhood teenagers had dirt bikes and they rode through our subdivision late at night, every night. Because our house was on the corner of Hemlock Lane and Elm Street, they cut through our lawn, tearing up the grass every time.

His first course of action was talking to the dirt biker’s parents. Did he really think that was going to help? It seemed that the ruts in the lawn got deeper.

Next, my father reasoned that he should make the lawn less appealing to the dirt bikers. He bought a large landscaping rock and placed it in the middle of the lawn, the place that the bikes always appeared to go through. In the morning, we woke to see that this large half ton rock was rolled up right next to the house. Like a giant Easter egg roll, they pushed the offending lawn obstruction away from their preferred bike path.

My father had the rock returned to its place and planted pricker bushes all around it. The bikers responded. The bushes were pruned down to the roots and the rock was now just gone, never to be seen again.

It was here that he stopped seeing them as annoying kids with dirt bikes and only as the enemy. He taught my sister and I a new word, proliferation.

From a Korean War buddy, he scored a half dozen or so landmines and as a family activity, we planted them in the lawn. It was similar to our gardening chores, if the geranium bulbs were hollowed out and filled with nitro glycerine.

We were awoken by two shattering explosions and pleas for help. No one was killed, but two of the kids were without dirt bikes and one was missing a pinky finger. That was the last time they tore through our yard.

The only thing, my father was not in ordinance back in Korea; he was a desk jockey. His ability to retrieve unused armaments probably was a tad underdeveloped. My sister discovered this fact as she ran through the yard for the school bus. She heard the distinct click of a landmine being stepped on.

She stopped and and cried for help. She stood there for seven hours. They had to call the bomb squad from Chicago to deal with it. When she was finally taken off the mine, she had no more tears to weep. She was haggard and exhausted.

My father swept her into his arms and bombarded her with apologies. He was so sorry. How can he prove to her he was sorry? What can he get for her so she will forgive him?

My sister looked at him and said, “I want a dirt bike.”


- - -

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Author: David Macpherson

Contributor: Brent Rankin

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    Our baby was born a…ah…I don’t know how to say this.  Even now, I shutter when I think about it.  When delivered, our baby was…a frog.  A tadpole, actually, with the little green arms and legs just forming, and a tail to match.  Huge bulbous eyes, both with convex lens like swimming goggles, filled with a clear fluid.  Water, I think.  A toad.  When slapped on its bottom (where ever that was), it didn’t cry.  It just went “ribit…ribit…” and licked its long slanted forehead with its elongated tongue.
    I realized it was time to have a talk with the wife, but she was sedated.  So I waited in the room where fathers’ wait.  How am I going to explain this to the family?  Who is even going to believe me?  Where is my sedation?  I’ll be put away.  Locked in a room with padded walls, where the books have short words, large letters, and plenty of pictures.  What was I to do?
    The nurse sauntered in and announced that my wife was awake and wanted to see me.  She made no mention of the amphibian in the cradle (an aquarium, really, on rockers) beside my wife’s bed.
    When I entered the room, she could tell by the expression on my face that something was greatly amiss.  I sat down in a chair on the opposite side of the bed from the…baby…and stared at my wife.  For a while, anyway.
    She opened her eyes wider, smiled, and then said, “Beautiful, isn’t he?”
    “It’s a frog,” I said.
    “Oh, my little prince, of course he’s a frog.  What did you think?”  When there was an argument, I was called The Little Prince.  Always The Little Prince, like the fake compliment would ease the tensions.
    “I expected something more…human,” I said, “You know, pink and bald, ten fingers and toes.  You know?”
    “Oh,” she cooed, closing her eyes, “That’s right.  You forgot.”
    “Forgot?  Forgot what?”
    “When we first met, I was enchanted by you.  Do you remember?  You, sitting there, all proud and regal, wearing that cute tiny crown.”
    I squinted, put my face closer to hers and said, “What are you talking about?”
    “The pond was so very calm and the lily pads just floated on the water, gently, like cotton.  “Kiss me’ you said.”
    “I asked you to kiss me?  By a pond?”
    “Not by a pond, you where in a pond, sitting on a lily pad.”
    “What?”
    “You said that if I kissed you, you’d become a handsome prince and love me forever.”
    “…what…?
    “So I picked you up and gently kissed your mouth, because you didn’t have lips.  And here you are.”
    “You kissed me and you fell in love with me?  Are you still doped up?  What do you mean that I didn’t have any lips?”
    She turned her head to the side and giggled into the pillow.
    And then she said, “Silly Prince.  Look at your son.  Frogs don’t have lips.”


- - -
It's true. One has to kiss a lot of nasty things, until you find the real one.

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Author: Brent Rankin

Contributor: Jerry Guarino

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    Times change and we change with them.  Television, movies, clothing, food; you could probably name your own list.  Technology has probably been the most significant catalyst of change.  Think about the cell phone, digital camera and the Internet.  Joey was one of those people who resisted change, someone still looking for phone booths and mailboxes in 2013.
    “I’d like a roll of stamps please,” said Joey.
    “Sorry, we don’t sell stamps anymore” replied the pretty teenager.
    “But it’s Sunday.  The post office is closed.”
    “You can always email,” said the grocery store clerk.
    “I don’t have a computer,” said Joey.  The girl just shrugged a little, not knowing what to say.
    Guess I’ll just go to the library.  Tony figured he could get a book to spend time with.  As he drove into the library parking lot, he noticed designated spaces for fuel-efficient vehicles, school vans and compact cars along the front entrance.  His 1978 Cadillac didn’t fit any of these categories, so he parked in the back and walked up.
    When he arrived, he saw the modern, grey Formica desks in neat rows, at least 50 of them, with black computer keyboards and monitors.  No computer boxes, just thin coated wires running into the floor.  He looked for the library card catalog, but he didn’t see it, not even a Dewey Decimal system sign to direct him to the non-fiction history titles he liked to read.  Hmm.  How about that?
    He walked up to the checkout counter, but no one was there.  What kind of library is this?  He saw people checking out their books by scanning their cell phone over the bar code.  Joey didn’t have a cell phone; in fact he still had a rotary dial phone at home.  Guess I’m just a dinosaur.  The woman walked up to the checkout counter.
    “May I help you?”
    “Yes, I’m looking for books on The Civil War.  I didn’t see the card catalog.”
    “No, sorry.  We replaced those years ago.  You can use the terminals over there.”
    “I don’t know how.  Can you just point me to the right aisle please?”
    “C’mon.  I’ll walk you over to it.  We don’t have many people looking for American history anymore.  It’s good to know someone does.”  The Asian beauty didn’t look like any librarian he remembered.  “Here we are.  Civil War books are on this shelf here.”
    “Thank you” and he watched her walk away.  The books were older, some with broken spines and several with dust on them.  Oh, let’s see.  ‘The Red Badge of Courage’ by Stephen Crane.  I’ve read that.  Maybe something about Lincoln.  What’s this one?   ‘Abraham Lincoln and Civil War America’.  Joey took the book out, hoping the librarian was back at the check out counter.
    She was.  “Hey, you found one.  Yes, this is a very good book.  Give me your library card.”  Joey handed her the card and the librarian quickly scanned the book.  “Here you go.  It’s due in three weeks.”
    “Thank you again,” said Joey.  He walked out of the library, admiring his new book.  
    Turning the corner, he heard a loud honk.  He looked up just as a motorcycle hit him.  Joey fell hard and hit his head.  The next sound he heard was an ambulance siren.
    “Just lie still sir; don’t try to get up,” said an EMT.  He scanned Joey’s head with some space age gadget.  Joey heard beeps and other sounds.  “You’re going to be fine sir.  But we’re going to take you to the hospital to make sure.”
    Joey went in and out of consciousness during the ride in the ambulance.  Meanwhile the EMT monitored his blood pressure and breathing.  He slipped away again as they rolled him into the emergency room.
    A nurse attached an IV bag of fluids to his arm and an oxygen clip to his index finger.  The doctor examined his eyes, pulse rate and other vital signs.  “Do a CBC and keep salts and fluids in him.  His breathing is fine, but let him rest.  Call me when you get the blood count.”  
    The nurse stayed with Joey as he slept, monitoring the heart rate and oxygen levels.  Another nurse returned with the doctor as he scanned the blood count numbers.  He walked over to Joey, just as he was waking up.
    “Mr. Wilson, I’m doctor Rivera.  You were lucky it was a motorcycle.  Otherwise you might be looking at broken bones or worse.  It looks like you just have a concussion, and we’re going to keep you here overnight for observation.  If everything is OK in the morning, we’ll release you and you can rest at home.”
    Joey looked up, trying to focus his eyes on the doctor, still hazy from the bump on his head.  His speech was soft but understandable.  

“Do you sell stamps?”

- - -
Jerry Guarino’s short stories have been published by dozens of magazines in the United States, Canada, Australia and Great Britain. His latest book, "50 Italian Pastries", is available on amazon.com and as a kindle ebook. Please visit his website at http://cafestories.net

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Author: Jerry Guarino

Contributor: Jeremy Levine

- -
Jeb was puttering along, sitting atop his tractor, its rattling vibrations shaking his gritted teeth. He turned his head skyward, observing a hawk glide across the cloudless sky in effortless circles. While his gaze was distracted, there was a crashing and a clunking, a rumbling under his vehicle.

“Tarnation!”

Jeb tuned off the tractor and jumped down from it, stumbling as he landed on the soft earth. He spotted a flash of red on the brown dirt by the front tire. He rushed forward and knelt down. Sheriff was there, crushed under the wheel, stone dead.

“Ma! I need you!”

Jeb pivoted in his squat, his eye on his home. After a few seconds, Jebʼs wife, Henrietta, was out in the field, her apron billowing in the dusty wind.

“Whatcha need, honey?”

“The dog, Ma, the dog!” Jeb said, a shaking finger pointing at the deceased
canine.

“Oh Lord in heaven, did you do that?”

“I know Ma, itʼs bad. Itʼs bad. I need you to break it to Betsy. Sheʼs a-gonna be home any minute.”

“Why me?”

“”Cuz Iʼmma run across to the Bakers. They just had a litter.”

“So this puppy that youʼre gonna steal was supposedly Sheriffʼs?”

“I donʼt know, Ma, I guess.”

“And Iʼm supposed to tell her that you hit Sheriff with a tractor?”

“No!”

“Then what do I tell her?”

“Make something up,” he said, walking away towards the Baker home.

“Right,” Henrietta grumbled to herself, her head spinning with semi-believable explanatory fictions. “Just leave me to deal with this one.”

There was a mechanical roaring behind her as the school bus kicked up a storm of dust out in the street. The muted pounding of the small, excited footsteps of a Friday afternoon were getting closer.

Henrietta left the field timidly in response to Betsyʼs two note whistle.

“Sheriff!” she called.

Clap. Clap.

“Sheriff!”

“Hi, honey,” Henrietta said, unhitching their squeaky picket gate and kneeling
down to give Betsy a hug.

“Hi Ma! Whereʼs Sheriff?”

“Honey, come on inside, thereʼs something I want to tell you.”

“Ma, whereʼs Sheriff?”

Henrietta opened the aluminum front door, ushering Betsy inside.


“Here, you want some cider?”

The kitchen was a dimly lit room with wooden tables and countertops. Squeaky clean dishes were arranged neatly cabinets with glass windows. Henrietta reached over the barometer for a ladle and began scooping helpings of apple cider into a a pair of glasses. Betsy plopped into a wobbly kitchen chair.

“Honey, I need to tell you something.”

Henrietta placed the two glasses on the faded green tablecloth and sat opposite her daughter.

“Betsy, you know that puppies donʼt always make it.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, when a puppy is born, it might get sick and die, which is a really sad thing.”

“Uh huh.”

“Well, the good news is that Sheriff had a baby puppy, and we kept him a secret from you just in case he didnʼt make it.”

“Because I would be sad?”

“Right.”

“But now heʼs gonna be fine?”

“Yes.”

“Yay!” Betsy jumped out of her seat and was dancing around the kitchen. “Now me and Sheriff and... and... and... Deputy! Thatʼs his name! Deputy! Me and Sheriff and Deputy can run around and play together and have so much fun!”

Henrietta got up and wrung her hands, reaching out to Betsy.

“Well, Betsy, actually, thereʼs something else that I have to tell you. You see--”

But Betsy was having none of it, gallivanting around the kitchen, rambling. “We can play fetch and weʼll train Deputy. Sheriff can help because Sheriff is already trained. I wonder if we have enough food. Ma, can we go get some more food? I donʼt want them to get hungry when we have so much to do.”

Henrietta stood up and walked to Betsy, gingerly placing a hand on her shoulder.

“Betsy, you see, there was a problem. We were keeping Deputy at the Bakerʼs house for a few days while we made sure he was healthy. When they were on their way here, a wolf came.”

“A wolf?”

“Yes. You know theyʼve been around the area lately. Sheriff got in front of Deputy, to protect him. The wolf attacked and Sheriff kept him off long enough for Deputy to run away back to the Bakers, but Sheriff didnʼt make it. Iʼm sorry, Betsy.”

“What do you mean, didnʼt make it?”

“The wolf, uh, got him.”

“Is he dead?”

“Yes.”

Betsyʼs lip quivered. Henrietta got up and walked the length of the table, half-
squatting to rub her daughterʼs back. “Shhh, Betsy, itʼs okay to cry. She died doing a good thing, protecting her baby. Thatʼs what a mama always wants to do. And now I donʼt want to see my baby all sad. Come here.”

Betsy buried her head in Henrietta's breast, sobbing into her apron. “Shh, shh, itʼs
okay, itʼs okay.”

The storm door banged open and a clawed scurrying was heard on the wooden floor. Deputy rocketed around the house, crashing into cabinets and walls.

“Hello ladies,” Jeb said, “I brought your puppy home.”

Betsy peeked through a gap between her motherʼs arm and her body to watch the dog bounce around the home. She smiled. Henrietta loosened her hug and Betsy jumped down from her chair and scampered off with the puppy. It jumped up and licked her face.

Henrietta got up and stood alongside her husband.

“How much did the want for the dog?”

“They had too many. There were just giving em away.”

The parents watched their daughter for a content moment, grateful that she
daughter had found another friend.

“I should probably move the tractor.”

“Yeah, probably.”


- - -
Jeremy Levine is a sophomore at Clark University in Worcester, Massachusetts, where he is the Editor-In-Chief of the student newspaper, The Scarlet. He is originally from Long Island, New York.

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Author: Jeremy Levine