Contributor: Brian Armour

- -
`In the brevity, was there capacity for colour, detail, familiarity, understanding or warmth in the progress, the structure, the bones - the necessities of function that need remain?’ considered Dr Eric Siedbet walking down the empty underground platform. He surveyed the grime besmirched cavern-like walls against which his steps echoed.
Screaming, twisted metal heralded the contorted misshapen first carriage filling the tunnel entry propelled by derailed carriages behind. Freed of the restrictions of the tunnel, a carriage leapt, side onto the platform and jammed against the wall wiped it clean, of advertising, furniture, signage, some grime, some soot and Eric Siedbet.
On the opposite platform, Jason saw events unfolding and dived for cover inside a stairway as metal and glass exploded into the space. He covered his head while the deafening steel and concrete argument continued, until gravity with an eternal groan, replaced momentum. The reverberating cries of the injured wove their way through smoke and broken, upended carriages to fill his ears. Though the ground beneath him ceased shaking, he had not. Broken glass fell from his back as he stood, knees buckling. Across from the opening was the top of a carriage, roof torn open, squashed beneath another carriage broken in two and compressed into the ceiling of the underground station. Jason climbed onto the wreckage to aid the injured wondering what the man on the other platform meant. He was sure he heard his thoughts. Kicking away the remaining glass of a window, he wondered about that too.
Jason lowered himself down through the opening into the carriage. He placed a foot carefully alongside an inert body under the frame of a seat torn loose, stomach down on a sea of smashed glass. To his right a twisted avalanche of metal fittings, seats, bodies, newspaper, bags and personal possessions formed a wall of compressed confusion and irretrievable misery. He turned away, the moans and cries of survivors coming from his left.
He knelt down beside a man in a suit whose leg was bent back so the heel of his shoe was behind his ear. From under his contorted body spread a growing puddle of blood.
"Hey there, mate.” He put his hand on the man’s shoulder. The man grabbed it. Jason felt him trying to contain waves of indescribable pain. “It’ll be okay. Hang on. The medico’s will be here soon.”
Leaving the man he looked down the interior of the mangled carriage. Midst a tangle of seats, he saw a woman lying by the windows rolling her head back and forth in pain. The entire right side of her face appeared ripped off, but there was so much blood he could not be sure. He wrenched away a pile of debris to get to her.
“It’s okay, you’re alive. It’s over now. Help will be here soon.” Pulling off his shirt, he wadded it up and held it against the side of her face.
“Wha . . . ap . . . n?”


- - -
Brian lives south of Sydney, Australia and is preparing another novel and a book of short stories for publication.

Read more »

These icons link to social bookmarking sites where readers can share and discover new web pages.

• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 

0 Comments

Author: Brian Armour

Contributor: Jeanelle Nicole Driver

- -
I can’t focus on the memories, shifting and swirling in an incomprehensible fog. My mind’s eye clouded by worries and doubt. I am a stranger in my own mind. I reach for still frames, snapshots, times when the world looked bright and carefree. Why is it all but lost to me now? Why can’t I break free?

This room is a cage, set up for my own protection…

“Where are you at, Alexis?” my sister said.

Her voice sounded tinny and far away, her touch but a shadow in my thoughts.

“Don’t bother me, Diana,” I said. “It doesn’t matter now.”

I heard her sigh and flop down on the bed.

“Oh, please, not this again.”

I scooted away from her warmth and opened my eyes. She would never understand, could never understand.

“You act like you’re the one suffering,” I said. “Why won’t you leave me in peace?”

She grunted and sat up. Ready to launch into the same tired argument.

“I’d leave you in peace if I could, believe me,” she said. “I have to stay.”

I shoved my feet off the bed and began to pace the small generically furnished hotel room, the white walls and worn bedspreads bringing me no solace. I suppose it was better than the alternative, but I hated it just the same. Nothing felt right anymore.

I became more and more agitated as my footsteps pounded across the room back and forth and back again.

“I don’t need a keeper. I don’t need your pity,” I said balling my hands into tight fists. “Get out of here before I break you too.”

Diana watched me. I could feel her eyes boring into my back. Her feet hit the floor and her arms wrapped around me. I gritted my teeth as she slid her hands down my arms and pried my fingers open. Her head rested like a lead weight on my shoulder.

“None of that,” she said. “I am not letting you go back there.”

I tried to pull away but she held me fast, her grip bruising. This only frustrated me further.

“Damn it, Diana, can’t you see that’s what I want?” I said. I’m no good to anyone like this. I’ve lost myself. No medicine or vigil will bring that back.”

Diana turned me around so fast I couldn’t fight her. I saw her face tight with anger, her eyes shining with tears. I was unmoved.

“I am not giving up,” she said. “I will not break. Mom and Dad can argue about this all they want, but you’re my sister. I will help you if it’s the last thing I do, Alexis.”

I felt tears tracing down my cheeks and I threw my arms around her neck. Clinging to her, the one solid force left in my spinning, chaotic world. I would be lost without her.

“I hope you’re right, Diana,” I said. “But, I think it’s time for my pills.”


- - -
Jeanelle Nicole Driver is a single mom of two kids.
She loves to write and share her stories.
She is working diligently toward a career in Creative Writing.

Read more »

These icons link to social bookmarking sites where readers can share and discover new web pages.

• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 

0 Comments

Author: Jeanelle Nicole Driver

Contributor: Anna Philpot

- -
Lorraine watched her daughter’s hiking boots inch further over the cliff’s edge.

Cass turned, pushing her thick, dark hair, polished mahogany, from her cheek. She sipped from her water bottle, then hurled it into the ravine. Pebbles spit down the rock face and Cass’s feet slid forward.

Lorraine yelped as her hand snaked around her daughter’s arm, pulling her back.

“I’m done,” Cass whispered.

“You couldn’t know you and Jeremy both carried the gene. The chances are one in over 1,600 for crying out loud! Cassie, you’re a scientist. You understand probability.”

Lorraine shook her daughter until Cass’s head snapped back and Lorraine looked into her daughter’s tear-glaze eyes.

“ Jeremy was going to leave,” Cass said, eyes flashing defiantly. “Leave me to deal with Angela’s dying. He told me so. But she died that day. He had to watch her die, too, knowing we did that to her. Cass’s voice drifted off, just as her eyes slid back to the precipice.

“Cassie, I’m here. We can make it through.”

“I don’t know how anymore,” Cass murmured, shoving her wet hair from her face, wiping her dripping nose on the thick fleece sleeve. “I think about what she’d be able to do now. Walking, talking. We didn’t get to any of it.”

Cass rested her head on her mother’s shoulder and wept.


- - -
Anna Philpot is a freelance writer whose work has appeared in American Way, Celebrated Living, Parenting and Virtuoso Life magazines. She prefers writing fiction while sitting at her kitchen table, her huge dog snoring at her feet.

Read more »

These icons link to social bookmarking sites where readers can share and discover new web pages.

• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 

0 Comments

Author: Anna Philpot

Contributor: Jerry Guarino

- -

Julie walked in with her laptop case over her shoulder. Her long brown hair pulled through a crimson velvet scrunchy, draped behind her blue blazer, over the cranberry cardigan sweater, over the white oxford, accented by the Harvard tie which went with the plaid, pleated skirt that highlighted the knee socks which sat atop the cordovan clogs. In short, she was the dream girl of every code savvy programmer in Cambridge. “Hi, my name is Julie Bowen.”

“Hi Julie, I’m Zach” said the college sophomore in jeans and t-shirt. Zach was one of those code savvy programmers, working a part time job in the hopes of meeting girls like Julie. He wasn’t a bad looking guy, just not in the same league as Julie, sort of like your company softball team versus the Red Sox.

“Hi Zach.” At this point, Zach could feel his heart beating. Not that this was the first time he talked with such a vision. In fact, beautiful women were lining up to meet with him on a daily basis.

“How can I help you Julie?” Zach could smell the expensive perfume Julie was wearing, light but classy, just like her.

“There’s something wrong with my mail program. It works on my phone, but not on my laptop.” She smiled at Zach in that way beautiful women do, not encouraging anything more than friendship, but genuinely grateful.

“Well, let’s see what we can do.” Julie put her laptop on the counter, turned it on, entered the password and passed it to Zach. “This doesn’t sound too serious.” He quickly and deftly checked the mail program, the settings and tested the incoming server. “Yes, I see the problem. But I know how to fix it.” Within minutes, her program was working again.

“What was wrong?” she said while flicking her bangs to the side.

“Sometimes the other company servers hiccup and it changes the settings. I just reset it. No problem.” Zach, always the professional, and hoping to prolong the encounter, offered his parting phrase. “Is there anything else I can help you with today?”

“I guess not. Thanks very much Zach.” She packed up her laptop, and then offered her hand. “You’re welcome,” said Zach. “Have a good day.” Julie turned slowly, giving Zach one more friendly smile. Julie glided gracefully toward the big glass door, and then looked back once more. Zach waved, sighing to himself. “I love my job.”

Later, at another bar, this one on Dunster Street, Zach and his friends were having a beer and watching the Celtics. “Looks like they’re ready for the playoffs” he said. “Yeah, and the Bruins too. Makes the cold Boston winter bearable. It must be tough for places like Toronto, stuck inside watching two lousy teams. Must be why they drink so much up there.”

Then he saw three Harvard coeds coming in, shaking off snow from their UGGs and taking off scarves and wool caps. Zach thought he recognized one of them. The girls sat down at a booth. “Excuse me,” said Zach to his buddies, as he tried to walk nonchalantly to the rest room.

“Hey, Zach” Julie said as he passed by while Julie’s friends looked up. Zach did his best to act surprised, even though he had smelled her perfume.

“Hi. It’s Julie, right?” Zach paused long enough to be polite, without acting too eager. “Mail problem?”

“Email, yes. This is Debbie and Karen. Zach fixed my computer last week. He’s a genius.”

“Small G, Julie, small G.”

“We’re just having drinks and some bar food. Want to join us?”

“Well, I’m with a couple friends” pointing to the bar, “watching the game.”

“That’s ok, we can go to that big table.” Zach called for the waitress to set them up. “Can we get six here please?”

Over the next hour, the six talked about living and working in Bean town, the sports teams, life at Harvard. Then Karen excused herself. “Well, I have an early class and a paper to finish. Sorry but I’ll have to go.” Julie and Debbie nodded that they should go to.

“May I walk you back?” said Zach.

“I’d like that thanks,” said Karen. As the girls left, Karen whispered something into Julie’s ear, gave her a hug and headed out with Zach.

As they walked out, Zach turned and looked back at Julie, smiling. Julie gave him a little wave and sighed to herself.

- - -
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

Read more »

These icons link to social bookmarking sites where readers can share and discover new web pages.

• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 

0 Comments

Author: Jerry Guarino

Contributor: Michael White


Giant centipedes terrify me. Giant centipedes have always terrified me. It might have a little to do with their many legs or their mini eyes or maybe those two horn-like things, which sometimes curl back to look like a gentleman’s mustache.

Whatever it is about giant centipedes, which continue to terrify me even now, my greatest fear, my strangest fear, this outrageous fear in me is that someday I will turn into one. I know this to be an illogical fear. But if you, like me, had way back seen a giant centipede tear a snake in two, then you, like me, might be afraid of the bastards too.

And maybe if you had been bitten by said snake and paralyzed by said snake and forced to watch said snake be torn in two, you, like me, might have experienced a giant centipede crawl about you with its many legs, look about you with its mini eyes, and prickyoukissyou with those two horn-like things, which sometimes curl back to look like a gentleman’s mustache.

Maybe. But I suppose I cannot be sure. What I can be sure of is what terrifies me, and what terrifies me is the giant centipede.

Now, I have been told before of the exotic tastes of those beautiful sun-dried Chinamen to the East—how on some streets and some stands one can buy a fat-fried centipede on a stick for cheap, maybe one American dollar or two American dollars, though never enough to paralyze your wallet. I wish to travel there someday. I will travel there someday. I am traveling there at this precise moment and on this precise plane of planes like a jet-fueled throne in the sky. And when I arrive, I will pay up to five American dollars to trample over my fear, tooth-by-tooth and bite-by-bite. In fact, make it ten American dollars, which I am afraid is worth much less now than before, but then again most things are.

Whatever the cost, whatever my fear, and however the giant centipede appeals and pleads, I will chomp down like a vice grip on its mini eyes, nibble on its many legs, and pick my teeth with those two horn-like things, which sometimes curl back to look like a gentleman’s mustache.

You might be asking yourself, “Why would he perform such a frightening act?” Well I can tell you the answer to your quandary is both simple and sound—this is so with most quandaries after you have cleared away the grime of pretension. I answer you thus: I do this because I can, because the fear-ridden often become the best monsters, and because someone along the broken road once told me, “if you enjoy frightening others, you will be reborn as a centipede.” Very well, I say, very well—Ha!


- - -
Originally from Chicago, IL, Michael White is a current full-time student at Full Sail University in Winter Park, FL. He is working toward his bachelor’s degree in Creative Writing for Entertainment.

Read more »

These icons link to social bookmarking sites where readers can share and discover new web pages.

• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 

0 Comments

Author: Michael White

Contributor: Donal Mahoney

- -
In the summer of 1956, any Saturday at midnight, especially when the moon was out and the stars were bright, you would be able to see Grandma Groth sitting on her front-porch swing waiting for her son, Clarence, a bachelor at 53, to make it home from the Blind Man's Pub. He would have spent another evening quaffing steins of Heineken's.

Many times that summer before I went away to college, I'd be strolling home at midnight from another pub, just steps behind staggering Clarence. But unlike Clarence, I’d be sober so I'd always let him walk ahead of me and I'd listen to him hum "The Yellow Rose of Texas." Sometimes, very quietly, I’d join in. I don’t think he ever heard me.

However, on the last Saturday night that Clarence and I came down the street in our odd tandem, I didn't see Grandma on her swing even though the stars were out and the moon was full. For some odd reason, on this particular night, she wasn't waiting to berate him.

So far so good, I thought, for Clarence. He won’t have to listen to Grandma give him hell. But then, not far from his house, and without warning, he toppled into Mrs. Murphy's hedge. It was like watching a sack of flour fall, in slow motion, off a truck.

When I finally got him up, I managed to maneuver Clarence slowly down the sidewalk toward his house. He didn’t make a sound but it wasn't easy moving a man that big who was essentially asleep on his feet.

Somehow I got him through his back door only to encounter Grandma, a wraith in a hazy nightgown, standing in the hallway, screaming. She began thrashing Clarence with her broom, pausing only for a moment to tell me,

"Go home to your mother now so you won't be late for Mass. It's almost Sunday morning!"

After that, she resumed thrashing Clarence. He never made a sound, just took the blows across his back, head bowed, without moving. But Clarence was a man who said very little even when he was sober.

After that sad night in 1956, I never saw Clarence again, either marching to work in the morning, his lunch pail gallantly swinging, or staggering home at midnight from the Blind Man's Pub.

But many a midnight after that, years later, I'd be coming home from the other pub and I'd see Grandma reigning on her front porch swing, broom in hand, waiting. Maybe Clarence was coming, I thought. But if he was, I never saw him.

I remember coming home from college every summer and asking the neighbors if they had seen Clarence. Not a sign of him, they said. But on a Saturday night when the moon was out, they’d still see Grandma, on her swing, waiting.

Now, so many decades later, as I stroll home at midnight, after an evening at the Blind Man’s Pub, I can see the moon is as big as it was the last night I saw Clarence.

Suddenly I realize I’m older now than Clarence was the night he disappeared. And even though Grandma's been dead for many years, I can see her in the starlight. She's sitting regally on that swing, broom in hand, waiting. So for old time’s sake, I give her a big wave, hoping to hear her say, just one more time,

"Go home to your mother now so you won't be late for Mass. It's almost Sunday morning!"


- - -
Donal Mahoney has had work published in various print and electronic publications in North America, Europe, Asia and Africa. Some of his earliest work can be found at http://booksonblog12.blogspot.com/

Read more »

These icons link to social bookmarking sites where readers can share and discover new web pages.

• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 

0 Comments

Author: Donal Mahoney

Contributor: Andrew Vrana

- -
I was there this morning as the sun peeked coyly through steel mountains, standing in the incessant line like so many mornings before, taking step after mindless step to carry myself ever closer to those automatic doors that have an appetite for the chronically mundane. I had to step carefully: I could not encroach upon the body in front of me nor let the one behind get too close. We had to move as one droning entity to keep up the desired illusory order.

Before the sun showed me its full face, I was inside, shivering against the bitter cold and feeling naked in the filthy glow of artificial lighting. I was much more conspicuous once inside; the guards on either side of the door sneered at me through faceless helmets. As the doors shut behind me, I gave the tiniest of twitches and shifted my eyes nervously, though I knew anxiousness was unreasonable. They would all know soon enough I was different. I wanted nothing more than to reach the end of the line and run hastily back into the sunlight before crawling back into my hiding place.

Will I never reach the end?

“Your ID please,” the plump woman said, not even glancing at me as she tapped a yellowish claw on the counter. She reeked of bad perfume and wore an air of superiority. Reaching a moist hand into my pocket, I set the plastic card shakily on the indicated spot. Hundreds of trips to dozens of different check-in centers made me dread what was coming next.

“Okay,” she said. “No, please stay there for now.” Here it was. “You—what’s this?” Her accusing gaze found my wide-eyed face for the first time, her mouth curling upward maliciously; I thought I might have seen her tongue shoot out to lick her glistening lips.

Leaning toward me but speaking in a voice that I was sure reached all the way to the doors, she said, “Not Officially Registered, huh? Something wrong with you?” She could hardly get the words out before a deep chuckle.

“Choice…” I said. My voice was a weak whisper, but it did not matter now. “It’s my choice. Do what I want. You know.”

The woman let out a hearty guffaw followed by an endless maniacal cackling, baring her yellow teeth and bombarding me with horrid breath. Behind me the line of bodies echoed her laughter and added audible commentary to intensify my mortification. I lowered my head, skin glistening with sweat that chilled in the cool air and made me shiver.

“Your identity is good for another week,” the woman told me between shouted laughter. She used a grimy fingernail to push my card back toward me. I took it and ran.

I closed my eyes as I reached the door, hearing the guards laugh their metallic song at me and pushing people from their precious spots in the line as I hurried through the door. I did not open my eyes when I saw the red glow of the sun upon my eyelids. I felt it happen. I felt it all crumbling away behind me. Bestial shrieks were drowned by the deafening sound of chaos as steel mountains crumbled inward. I ran on and on, over quaking concrete and melting grass and finally softness, where I at last collapsed and where now I wallow.

When the world on my eyelids turns to blackness, I curl up and hug my knees. I am the World Breaker. I know what I will see if I open my eyes: nothingness, a void, a blank space. I’ve done it again.

But later…

Later I will open my eyes as the World Maker, and everything will be the same again—no, it will be new, slightly different. New streets lined with new steel mountains reflecting the light of the orange sun. Yet I will stand in the same line and see the same people mocking me with blank stares. I will never change them or myself, but I will continue to change the world. Perhaps one day that will be enough.


- - -
I'm new to this.

Read more »

These icons link to social bookmarking sites where readers can share and discover new web pages.

• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 

2 Comments

Author: Andrew Vrana

Contributor: Jerry Guarino

- -

Joseph had a successful insurance business out of his home, a wonderful son and a marriage that had become more platonic than romantic, the only real frustration in his life. He had been tempted before in his 15-year marriage. Sales trips for a computer company and out of town trade shows provided plenty of easy opportunities for infidelity, but he stayed true to his marriage vows.

He gave up technology to work at home, to spend more time with his son. He coached him in soccer and helped him with homework after school. The upper middle class soccer moms smiled at him as they dropped off and picked up their boys for practice and games. But Joseph stayed true to his marriage vows, satisfied with fantasizing about the thirty-something lovelies in his small New England town north of Boston.

In his work, he needed an insurance agency management system, but didn’t want to spend the thousands of dollars it cost. Having that technology background, he wrote his own program and soon found that other small agencies would buy it. After a few hundred mail order sales, he started to get calls for training local agents in using insurance technology.

Joseph answered the phone and heard a pleasant female voice. “Is this Mr. Mariani, the person who wrote the agency manager?”

Joseph thought this might be another $250 sale, so he prepared to give his sales pitch over the phone. “Yes, I wrote the agency manager. May I send you a demo copy?”

“I was hoping you could come by and show us your software? We’re in Malden.”

Joseph knew that taking time from work for a small sale wasn’t cost effective, but was curious about the inquiry. “Well, I’d like to, but I’m also an agent and have my own work to do here. Most agents just try the demo and order the program.”

“We need more than the program. We need computers and a network too.”

Joseph tried to contain his enthusiasm, so after a pause, said. “Yes, I’ll be glad to visit to give you a quote.” He realized this could be a big sale, a couple thousand in profit and he was quite capable of setting up a network of computers. He made the appointment for the next day.

When he arrived, the owner greeted him at the door. “Mr. Mariani, thank you for coming. My name is Maria Pantone.”

“Call me Joseph, Ms. Pantone.”

“Well, call me Maria. Let me show you around.”

Maria was professionally dressed in a black skirt with ruffled top, clearly Italian, perhaps in her early 40s. He followed around as she described her office.

“We have six people in house and two producers. We have been getting by on a couple of computers for rating and quotes, but we’re falling behind on service. I got a quote from that group in Chicago, but it was over $60,000. I don’t think we need that much of a system.”

Joseph took some notes and suggested they sit down. They went into her office in the back, a desk as cluttered as the room itself, the blizzard of paperwork an insurance agency accumulates.

“I can see why you’re ready to automate. I think we can put together a system for a reasonable price that will hold you until you need the big system.”

Maria adjusted her glasses. “About how much?”

Joseph tapped out some numbers on his calculator. “This is just an estimate, but I think we can put in four network computers, a couple printers and my software for about $11,000. Three computers for the staff and one for your office. The producers can share with the customer service people here when they are in the office.”

“I thought so. They were trying to sell me eight computers, the network and $30,000 for their agency management system.”

“Like I said, you might need that someday, but not for a while. With technology, it’s always good to just get what you need, not overspend.”

Maria liked what she heard. “And you can put in a network so everyone can share information and printers?”

“Yes, that’s not difficult.”

Maria stood up, smiled and shook Joseph’s hand. “Then I look forward to your quote.”

As she was showing him out, Joseph noticed the wedding ring on her right hand; one of those oversized ones you sometimes see. He turned at the door and smiled, taking her hand once more. “I’ll be back with a firm quote and my software to demo next week.”

“How about Saturday afternoon? About noon? You can show it to the staff before we close.”

“Sure, I can do that. See you then.”

Maria accepted the quote and Joseph began bringing in the hardware, network and software, installing on a Saturday after closing so he wouldn’t disturb her customers. Maria was there.

“Can I get you a sandwich and a drink? You’ve been here a couple hours and it looks like you’re going to be here a while.”

Joseph noticed that she had changed into jeans and a casual blouse. “Sure, anything, yes I’ll be another couple hours.”

Maria went across the street. Joseph realized he was alone with this woman, just about ten years older than him, but still quite attractive. He remembered his vows, his wife and his son, but fantasized a bit about Maria. “No problem with fantasizing” he thought.

As he worked, Maria puttered around the office, doing paperwork and looking over the new computers. Joseph continued the setup while glancing at Maria whenever she passed by. They were all alone, a perfect opportunity to make a move, but he left his passion in his head.

“We’re all done. I should come back later and train the staff, but I can show you the basics.”

Maria smiled and sat down at her computer. “OK, what do I do?”

Joseph sat down next to Maria and explained how to use the programs. He smelled her perfume and could see her shape through the jeans and blouse. “What am I doing? I’m married,” he thought. He was able to control his behavior but not his excitement. Maria noticed as he shifted in his chair.

“I usually spend Sunday afternoon here catching up on paperwork. Would you like to come by then? It would be easier to show the staff when the office is closed.”

Joseph knew he was better off around Maria with others in the room. “Fine, I can be here at 1:00.”

Maria led him out to the door. Joseph continued to fantasize while watching her in front of him. “See you Sunday.”

“Look forward to it” she said with her hand on her belt, perhaps an unconscious signal to him.

Over the next few weeks, Joseph came by to check on his major account, making friends with the staff and continuing the training to people unused to using computers, all the while a romance story played in his head.

But Maria’s staff was making minor complaints about using the system, mostly user errors that he could correct. Maria was always there and Joseph started to make his visits toward closing time, hoping he might be alone with her. Their conversations had gone from professional to personally friendly. His fantasies, however, had gone far beyond that. He thought about ripping her clothes off when they were alone in her office and ravishing her on the black leather couch. Maria seemed friendly but stopped short of flirting, until one day.

“Joseph you need to come by. Several of my staff are having trouble using the programs and don’t know how to fix it.” She was curt, but not angry. Joseph agreed to come by toward closing time.

Well, user errors turned to software bugs he hadn’t anticipated. Several visits later did not correct the problems. Maria’s staff was getting frustrated and so was Maria. After four calls with a resolution, Maria asked Joseph to meet with him after work.

“If you can’t fix these bugs, I’m going to have to ask you to take back the system.”

Joseph knew he couldn’t afford to do that. His profit margin was being diminished by all this time away from his own agency. In his mind, he felt fear and passion for Maria at the same time.

But even under this pressure, he thought he could make it right by settling Maria down. As she sat in her chair, he thought about standing behind her and giving her a neck massage, leading to relaxation and passionate lovemaking on that couch. He thought about soothing her stress with the shoulder rub, then leaning down to kiss her neck, then unbuttoning her blouse and finally kneeling in front of her for more ecstatic maneuvers. He imagined that if he did that, Maria could relax and give him more time to fix the problems. He wanted to do it. Maria looked angry. But it would be worse if his advances were met with a charge of sexual assault and decided he better just make his exit, never knowing if his fantasy would be reciprocated. At least he had kept his marriage vows, at least physically.

***

A week later he received a legal notice. Maria was suing him for breach of contract. Seeing her in the courtroom, he wished he had tried to win her over with a passionate affair.

The judge banged his gavel. “I find for the plaintiff in the amount of $5000. Please pay the bailiff.”

- - -
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

Read more »

These icons link to social bookmarking sites where readers can share and discover new web pages.

• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 

0 Comments

Author: Jerry Guarino

Contributor: J.C. Jackson

- -
Soup
“Soup or salvation?” she said.
“Beg your pardon?” He glanced around the room. A few old men sipped coffee and scanned the local paper. Dust drifted through the sunlight escaping the aluminum blinds like glitter in a snow globe. Fluorescent lights buzzed sporadically and an ancient window unit rattled behind a glass display full of Payday, Zagnut, Camel, and Lucky Strike.
“You want the soup?” she said. “Or would you prefer an eternity spent in the bosom of our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ?” He looked at the laminated menu on the counter. A quarter-sized stain, probably soup, had crusted over at the top of the menu and abbreviated a part of the block text centered there.

ALIFORNIA LUNCH ROOM
F OF SCENIC HWY 49 NEAR SUTTER CREEK
NG GOD AND GREAT FOOD FOR 25 YEARS!

“I’ll give you a sec,” she said, and pulled a coffee stained pot from the burner. He watched her reflection in the mirror behind the counter as she floated through the room filling the thick white ceramic mugs, humming a familiar tune and nodding politely to each customer as she worked. Each man thanked her in a different way as if communicating in some wordless language known only to blue-collar retirees. There were nods and points and grunts and winks and clicks in various combinations and she acknowledged each with a look of understanding. She stopped at every empty table to arrange the little groups of condiments by height - ketchup, hot sauce, and mustard at the back; sugar and creamer in the middle; salt and pepper at the front. She’d step back and admire each grouping with a little smile on her face before moving on to arrange the next family portrait of flavor. A damp rag was tucked into her apron and she gave each table a Zorro-like swipe, replacing crumbs and drips with a wide glossy streak that quickly evaporated into the dry air. An empty “Daily Deals” sign on the wall was just out of level and she touched it into place as she circled back around the counter.
“So, what’s it gonna be?” she said.
“I’m, uh…I’m not sure I understand the question.” He looked up as he spoke and flinched as she reached to tuck a cluster of reddish-grey hair back under her hairnet. His face was scrunched up like someone waiting for a balloon to pop.
“Listen, sweetie,” she said, “do you want the soup? Or, would you rather spend a thousand lifetimes baskin’ in the glory of heaven and God’s almighty goodness? ” She pulled an order pad from under the counter, flipped the page, and placed a well-worn carbon underneath. A piece of yarn dangled from the pad and held a stubby pencil wrapped with masking tape. She held it at a distance and examined the lead over the top of her glasses. As she touched the point to her tongue, she turned back to him, smiling. “It’s a pretty simple question, really,” she added.
He looked around the room for some sign of understanding. A logging truck roared past and rattled the blinds and the “Open-C’mon In” sign hanging on the glass door. The old men sat and noisily slurped their coffee. Occasionally one would shake and fold and shake a section of paper like a spasmodic cough until it was a manageable quarter sheet. The compressor on the window unit kicked on and off like an alarm clock signaling the next sibilant sip of coffee. There was silence amid a cacophony of sounds. He looked back at the stained menu.
“Take the soup.” An old man in a grease-stained Kenworth hat looked up from his coffee, and half-turned toward the counter. A week’s worth of white beard covered his cheeks. His Dickies work shirt was pressed, but only half-buttoned, exposing a white V-neck. A patch of silver-white chest hair poked over the V like a hood ornament. He paused for a moment, almost facing them then turned back to his cup. “Take the soup.”
“Cecil,” she said. “Mind your business.”
“Take the soup.” He spoke without turning around; his coffee cup inches from his mouth. His voice was deep and comforting, but rattled like the window unit. “Take the soup. It’s made with love.”
“I guess I’ll have the soup.”
She stared at the Cecil briefly, the returned to her pad, her smile only a little less broad. She checked the stubby pencil over the top of her glasses, and touched the lead to her tongue.
“Chicken Noodle, or Split Pea?”


- - -
Middle-aged author and QA Analyst from Nashville, Tn.

Read more »

These icons link to social bookmarking sites where readers can share and discover new web pages.

• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 

0 Comments

Author: J.C. Jackson

Contributor: Elizabeth Collins

- -
Once upon a time there was an artist. His name was Mikey and he lived near the heat vents on 33rd and Maple. Mikey was an origami master and could make anything and everything out of stray newspapers or fliers.

“How do you do it?” One tourist asked as Mikey handed him a replica of Mt. Rushmore.

“I’m not sure. My mama never showed me, and my pa only had one hand!” Mikey chuckled, showing off his seven magnificent teeth.

“You have to do something with this! The world has to know!”

The tourist took out his smartphone, and with a crazed look in his eye he started recording himself talking about the homeless wonder who was to become an internet sensation.

Mikey muttered to himself, “Sure, sure. Millions of views. Ahuh.” He put on his origami Napoleon hat, strapped his origami fanny pack around his waist, slung his origami backpack over his shoulder, slipped on his origami slippers, and slipped away from the tourist who was busy crying about how moving Mikey’s story was.

“I heard it all before.” Mikey told his squirrel-friend that night under their tree. “They can do all they want with the youtubes and the tweeters, but it don’t put food on the table, you know?” Squirrel-friend was sitting on an origami table nibbling on an origami apple. “Real food!”

Mikey and squirrel-friend laughed the night away, drinking from origami champagne flutes, and pointing at misshapen trees. The next morning a woman in a business suit approached Mikey and offered him a check for $10,000. “To kick-start your brilliant art career!” the woman told Mikey as he stared at the little piece of paper. After a moment his eyes lit up.

“Squirrel-friend! Where are you?! Lookit, we’re not gonna have no money problems no more!” Mikey looked around for squirrel-friend, and finally found him halfway across the road, and halfway under a tire.

Mikey was sobbing uncontrollably and the woman muttered something about “Good luck,” and “Sorry about your thing,” as she slipped away.

“Don’t worry,” Mikey cried out to his roadkill-friend. “I’ll take care of you! I’ll take…”

His words fell away as his fingers worked and created the most beautiful origami Viking funeral boat the world had ever seen. He pulled the bits of squirrel-friend he could get a hold of out from under the tire and placed them in the boat. He marched to the nearest pond, drew an origami match from his origami fanny pack, lit the boat on fire, and pushed it off into the pond.

As it floated away from him he could just make out the number on the port side of the vessel: “$10,000.” As the fire spread, the number diminished. “$10,00” “10,0” “10” “1” until there was nothing left, and the squirrel-bits sunk to the pond floor.

A few years later, Mikey was telling a tourist about how he had once been given $10,000 to kick start his art career but that he had turned the check into a Viking funeral boat for his squirrel-friend and then burned it on the pond.

“Oh.” The tourist said as he pulled out his phone to text someone. “Do you regret destroying that much money?”

Mikey glanced over at his origami table sitting below his tree near the heat vent on the corner of 33rd and Maple.

“Yeah, of course I do.”


- - -
Elizabeth is an English graduate student at the University of Northern Iowa. She lives with three fish and a sock monkey and still doesn't know what she wants to be when she grows up.

Read more »

These icons link to social bookmarking sites where readers can share and discover new web pages.

• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 

2 Comments

Author: Elizabeth Collins