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Post by QueenFoxy on May 17, 2020 13:34:36 GMT -6
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Post by QueenFoxy on May 17, 2020 13:43:36 GMT -6
The Sock by André Goiuyneau Dear Madam,
Further to your advertisement, and having myself lost a sock one day, I can reveal all the consequences of this loss to you. I searched for the lost one, its sister in my hand, until weary of the battle I sat down, thoughtful.
Why did I not just throw away the other one? Well no, I had the notion, goodness knows why, to put it on my right foot and leave the other foot totally bare. I walked about in the house, each foot producing very different feelings: the weight of my body; the temperature and texture of the floor. Managing not to be seen, I went outside and planted my feet on the extremely rough doormat at the entrance.
Thus, I accepted that my sensitive soles had toughened up. I threw caution to the wind: I tested all sorts of surfaces; all kinds of places; all sorts of temperatures; even snow and black ice. This story of feet opened my mind. What if I lost or willingly threw out something, to see what this loss would bring about? If I threw away a bulky piece of furniture that eats up space in the room. If I took down an unnecessary curtain which kills the daylight. If I cut down a hedge and couldn’t care less about being visible.
Oh yes and I also told a cousin, who is too keen to take advantage of me, to get out of my life, with no justification on my part: he seemed surprised.
After the objects and my cousin, I tried to get rid of, let's say, false and preconceived (putting it politely) ideas. That really raised my spirits. Of course, nature abhors a vacuum, so other, equally useless ideas crept into my mind.
This is all to say that if this blasted sock has gone missing, then it’s probably going to produce a butterfly effect in you.
Kindest regards,
A friend.
Butterfly effect is the concept that small causes can have large effects. cf, Edward Lorenz. ~⚡ |
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Post by lostineternity99 on May 18, 2020 7:04:23 GMT -6
This writer has a vivid imagination; cool story  |
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Post by QueenFoxy on May 18, 2020 9:44:32 GMT -6
Working Christmas Again by Sheila Ash I always draw the short straw to a chorus of ‘Bad luck’. A reiteration of last year and the year before, and the year before that. Throughout the day, my ‘C’est la vie’ chimes on a constant playback loop. My expressionist shrugs repeat themselves as a well-practiced and perfected dance of indifference. My colleagues consolatory slaps on the back reprise their attempts to comfort whilst in their hearts gladness reigns. Already their minds are joyfully foreseeing the day from morning rumpus with its colorful collage of wrapping papers through to the evening chaos of tinsel fall. Their stomachs are no doubt churning in anticipation of indulgent pudding treats and excess chocolates as we head over to the canteen for our customary bland sandwiches. By knocking-off time everyone knows. The last act of solace is complete. By tomorrow everyone will have forgotten again until next year. Except me. ⚡ |
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Post by lostineternity99 on May 19, 2020 5:41:52 GMT -6
Yes ... the unfairness of having to work on a holiday almost everyone else has off.
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Post by QueenFoxy on May 19, 2020 11:27:40 GMT -6
I know and I really hate that.
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Post by QueenFoxy on May 19, 2020 11:37:36 GMT -6
3. Secondhand Santa by Michael FredrickThe late model sedan sputtered, coughed and dutifully careened forward on a cold December evening.
Fred hit the gas pedal & ruminated as he always did, wondering again why life had dealt him this hand? Christmas Eve, foraging for returnable bottles to make ends meet.
The chill was broken by the cry of Fred's daughter, Heather,
6 going on 36 in her own mind, the same age her Mom was when she lost her in the fire.
"Daddy stop!.. It's a Santa.. in the trash!"
Fred had no choice but slide-brake the car into the curb just ahead, He uttered a silent prayer that the road they traversed was free from the nearby Holiday mall traffic.
"Can we take it?.. Pleeze Daddy?.." Her head was outside the window now, the words tinged with frost."Just a minute, let me take a look."
Fred was no stranger to seeking treasure in trash, his home a monument to curbside chic.
A worn out vintage 4-foot Plastic Santa with a few small dents held court between a pile of black plastic cleanup bags and a dilapidated BBQ grill in front of a Cape Cod with no sign of life.
"Daddy, Look, Santa lights up!"..Heather was pointing to the broken light bulb screwed into a rusty socket that was mounted inside the plastic relic,
"Don't touch that, You are going to cut yourself." Heather knowingly backed off,
"OK, OK, Secondhand Santa is coming home with us, but now you really need to be good!"
She beamed in a look that Fred had only seen before in her Mother's eyes back when they actually had a life.
"We are leaving Santa outside tonight, Tomorrow we'll see about patching him up.."
Heather set the plastic relic on the driveway between the car and their door of the rundown duplex they called home. The snow was beginning to fall. The forecast was for a white Christmas...
They both woke up at 4AM, They both felt the light before they saw it.
Secondhand Santa stood in the middle of the snow blanketed front yard, lit up like a holiday
lighthouse. He was now closer to 8 feet tall and glowed with all the spirit of the day.
Sleigh bells rang in the distance and got louder. The snow sang as it fell, Happily.. ⚡
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Post by lostineternity99 on May 20, 2020 5:44:08 GMT -6
A super happy Christmas for them  |
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Post by QueenFoxy on May 20, 2020 9:26:27 GMT -6
Yes Rick. Even the very poor can enjoy miracles.
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Post by QueenFoxy on May 20, 2020 9:41:41 GMT -6
4. Pills and Capsules by Rekha Viswanathan I wake up to a crisp, clear and sunny morning. The fresh coffee smell beside my bed tempts me. One long sip of the coffee and my senses kick in! I have a long day ahead. At least that's what the papers at the foot of my bed say. Glancing at the paper I see appointments scheduled. A cardiologist, neurologist, psychiatrist… wow! Is my "Pills and Capsules"pharmaceuticals company doing so well? A knock on the door takes my eyes away from the appointment list and some other gibberish on the paper.
“Hi there! Good morning” I turn to see a young girl with a chirpy voice at the door. “How are you today dear?” She seems to be a new helper! I need to speak to the manager about the frequent change in housemaids. “I’m Emily, can I help you with a nice long bath?” I wave her off but she doesn't want to go. I assure her I will call her if I need her.
I wear my long flowery gown and she escorts me to the breakfast table. I complain. ‘It is so crowded and noisy. Elena, could I have breakfast inside my room please? I'm already running late for the day.” She looks around, shakes her head in disagreement and insists I have breakfast with everyone. I reach up to the nearest dish. The label reads pasta. I must applaud the cook for trying out new dishes. I drop some while helping myself with a serving. Clumsy me!
The maid, what was her name again..yeah Edna...age sure is catching up with me. So Edna ushers me to meet the doctors through the day.
At the end of the day I ask Esther “why were the doctors asking questions about me and not the deal we were to make with my company?” She replies. “It's a general protocol to have a full medical examination before signing any important deals.” Sounds convincing? I can't decide. Anyways, I've had a long day and I tuck myself into bed.
I wake up to a crisp, clear and sunny morning. The fresh coffee smell beside my bed tempts me. One long sip of the coffee and my senses kick in! I have a long day ahead. At least that's what the papers at the foot of my bed say. Glancing at the paper I see appointments scheduled with doctors…..
Somewhere at the far end of my room is a file.
Case number 41256AH
Name Unknown
Date of admission 2.1.2008
History 20 yr old female found unconscious on the highway. Admitted with a severe head injury.
Other details Sole survivor of a car accident. No relatives or friends have contacted in 10 years.
Medical condition Progressive Alzheimer's
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Post by lostineternity99 on May 21, 2020 6:56:43 GMT -6
Spooky!
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Post by QueenFoxy on May 21, 2020 11:09:41 GMT -6
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Post by QueenFoxy on May 21, 2020 11:17:03 GMT -6
Indeed!! What could go wrong? LOL!!
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Post by lostineternity99 on May 22, 2020 7:22:24 GMT -6
Oh yes! LOL
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Post by QueenFoxy on May 22, 2020 8:56:02 GMT -6
Family Reunion
by Jim Harrington
I’m going to a family reunion soon—kind of. You see, I’m dying. The doctor said six months. Right around my sixty-fifth birthday. Bad liver, just like my Pa. Same cause too. We’re both drunks, but I didn’t go around beating up on women and children. In the meantime, I’m staying with my daughter, Cathy. The two grandkids are in college so there’s a bedroom available. I’m hoping to meet them before…well, you know. Cathy asked my doctor about a transplant. Doc said even if they found a donor match in time, my heart most likely couldn’t stand the stress. I spend a lot of my time on her back porch. The smell of the woods is therapeutic according to Cathy. At this moment, two blue jays are having a tussle near the tire swing. The squawking and flapping remind me of my family, at least the way it was before I ran away. I thought about going back a couple of times; but even after I’d sobered up, the drunk in my head convinced me it was a bad idea. No one would want me around after being gone for thirty-some years. Honestly, I probably wouldn’t be back now if I were strong enough to take care of myself. Cathy is inside preparing me a cup of tea with something in it she found on the internet that will cure me. The odor and taste make me scrunch my nose. She’s always giving me some dang concoction that’s supposed to help. I gave up trying to tell her it wouldn’t. Now I just drink or eat whatever she says. Of course, that doesn’t include booze. I tried explaining it couldn’t make me any worse than it already has. She wouldn’t hear of it. Her mother left me. Couldn’t take the drinking, even though I didn’t yell at her, or threaten her, or nothing like that. I miss Martha the most and can’t wait to tell her so. After the diagnosis—and a period of denial when I drank myself numb every chance I got—I began making a list of people I’d meet in heaven and what I might say to them. Besides Martha, there’s Ma, of course. I hated her for a long time, blaming her for not keeping Pa from hurting us. Blamed her for the booze, too. Sometimes she took my beating for me. Other times she was too weak, or sore or, on Pa’s really bad days, afraid to say anything. I told her many times we needed to leave. She said it wouldn’t matter. He’d find us. I suggested she call the police. She said that would only make things worse. Years later, I learned these are common reasons why woman stay in such relationships. I wish I’d known this back then. Maybe I could have thought of something to do. At some point, Ma died on the inside, then her heart had had enough. Next Thursday is the twenty-fifth anniversary of her death. That would be a good day for me to join her. I want to hold her and tell her I love her and forgive her. Uncle Billy made the list. He was Pa’s younger brother. He drank but wasn’t a drunk. I wish I’d inherited his genes instead of Pa’s. Uncle Billy took me in a few times and didn’t tell Pa where I was. He taught me two things: how to fix cars and how to swear like a disenfranchised Mormon. I never thanked Uncle Billy for helping me. I want to shake his hand and tell him how much I appreciated what he did. Cousin Rachel was the closest I had to a sister. She was the first girl I kissed, and the first girl I saw mostly naked. We were ten. I never told her how pretty she was. I don’t know if she cared or not, but I want to tell her anyway. There are others who probably should be on the list, maybe even a few who aren’t family. It’s funny how being sober—and dying—makes you more organized. So, I’ll make sure everyone gets on the list before I go. Of course, the one person I don’t want to see is Pa. That shouldn’t be a problem. He should’ve gone straight to Hell. The End ⚡ |
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Post by lostineternity99 on May 23, 2020 6:41:41 GMT -6
This would be good to focus on for someone in such a dire physical condition with not long to live  |
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Post by QueenFoxy on May 23, 2020 10:19:43 GMT -6
The House of Succor by Prospero Pulma Bathing in the light of magnesium, the shrine resembled a giant lamp drawing moths from the darkness, glowing brighter for the poorest of moths like Daniel standing by the gate. He looked at the buildings behind him as if he could see his father in their hovel, sleeping away his latest binge drinking. Then he remembered that he was in a city away from his father and his belt and broom. He looked behind him one last time before walking inside on his good leg.
Dan, get dressed. His mother used to whisper to him. We’re going to Baclaran. Daniel would immediately abandon his toys and playmates for the shrine that her mother and other people called Baclaran. He had asked his mother if it was Sunday because all that he could see from the shrine’s gate were people. Wednesday was her reply.
After cutting through the thicket of worshippers that stood between the gate and the church, she would unravel her chaplet at the narthex and kneel, approaching the altar on her knees. He would walk behind her, sometimes cheering her when she was faltering, oftentimes hopping on the aisle’s beige and green tiles.
Sometimes they would reach Baclaran close to suppertime and she would finish her weekly devotion late at night. Those were the nights when he would see the ragamuffins and homeless elderly retaking the shrine like natives reoccupying their land after the invaders’ departure. He heard the children laugh more than talk, and their laughter could jolt the bereaved back to living. They called playfully to him more than once. His mother’s chastising look burned each invitation.
Daniel and his mother had witnessed the shrine’s Liguorian Congregation rolling out casseroles of soup and watched the elderly queuing serenely while the snickering children would push one another off the line.
Just one bowl, mama. The aroma of the soup was so thick and inviting. They’re so excited to eat it.
I’ll tell your papa.
After Daniel’s mother had left her mortal shell, many Wednesdays passed without him straying to within sight of Baclaran.
It was not a Wednesday, so Daniel could see the church from the gate. Baclaran was wearing the same beige paint and none of the outlying buildings looked new. Children were frolicking in the courtyard but they had adults hovering nearby. He looked deeper, sighing from not finding a ragamuffin. He strode inside on his good leg, the left leg unmolested by his father’s belt. His right limb was leathery from the welts that ranged from his knee to his ankle, with some old and fresh welts forming hazy boundaries. Ridges of skin thickened by the belt also crisscrossed his upper limbs and torso.
Daniel limped around the church, checking every pew where soiled blankets covered snoring bodies. He looked closer and saw that they were the homeless elderly. He saw children in the church, but they were clean and escorted by an adult. Where are you? He sat on a pew and scratched a fresh welt on his right knee, his father’s reward to him for leaving their supper’s dishes on the sink. Beside it was skin broken by his belt when Daniel did not wash the laundry. His calf was tender where his father had pummeled him with a broom for feeling dust biting at his bare soles after ordering Daniel to sweep the floor. Yet he was not a total beast to Daniel.
A boy and girl were playing on the chancel, waving at the altar and the portrait of a woman above the tabernacle his mother called Mama Mary. Daniel thought of joining the children, but a man called them. The boy genuflected while the girl blew a kiss to the altar before jumping off the chancel. One by one, the washed children were heading to their clean homes and beds.
Daniel circled the courtyard. It was free of the playing children and the spot where the Liguorians served soup was clean. Where are you? He whimpered. He thought of screaming to attract them but his mother’s screams in her battles with his father had brought half of their shantytown to their doorstep.
With his eyelids coming together more frequently and sticking together longer, he returned to the pew and stretched on the varnished plank. Baclaran never closes its doors. His mother had said when he asked her where the homeless go at midnight.
The wild children could frolic around him, but he would not run and play with them tonight. He would seek them in the morning. Perhaps they would remember him as the boy with the woman in the sweater. Many devotees had sinned from taking humorously at his mother’s wearing a sweatshirt in summer. If only they knew of the bruises and welts beneath the warm fabric. If only. The END ⚡ |
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Post by lostineternity99 on May 24, 2020 6:36:46 GMT -6
Such a sad one  |
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Post by QueenFoxy on May 24, 2020 8:13:20 GMT -6
Very sad, Rick.
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Post by QueenFoxy on May 24, 2020 8:28:46 GMT -6
Click by B Whit Click! Mary took a picture just before she died. And it was a quick death. She plopped to the asphalt, her arm spreading like bike pegs. Painless. But before the gritty plop or the pulling of a trigger, the spiraling of the bullet, the penetration of the left eyeball, or the destruction of her brain, there was her purchase of the double-shot-no-foam-ginger-essence-chocolate-teased-mint-dipped-shaken-but-not-stirred–triple-cream-caramel-macchiato-Venti-double-cupped espresso. Her usual morning drink. And it was a usual morning. She got up out of her Californian King Bed, showered, peed, put on her Robert Rodriguez pencil suit, the gray one of course, and then squeezed into her pair of black Dolce and Gabbana heels. She put on her eyeliner carefully, flawlessly: first the left eye, then the right. Always the same. She kissed good-day to her owning-only-one-testicle husband still sleeping and would probably be wet dreaming when he would receive the horrid call. Despite his exhaustion and his single sacked scrotum, he was a good husband, at least for Mary’s purposes. He was all muscly and obedience. He would be all but perfect if his testicular cancer’s crappy treatment hadn’t required zapping and killing all his good life-giving swimmers and hadn’t killed her dreams of mothering a two point five member family. But that was gone. And here she was at the top of her career, near menopause, and childless. All she wanted was a little boy, a baby of her own.
She could get rid of her cancer-surviving husband and find a replacement but that would be just wrong. And wouldn’t look good in the public eye or at the office. No. But she could cheat with the cook? She often imagined his Jamaican accent calling her name as he thrusted his essence into her, and they would tussle over the marble satiny countertop. She would struggle then submit. Yes that would be nice but irresponsible. And she didn’t like jerk chicken, and she would be damned if her children had some ancestral desire for it.
Could she adopt? Of course, but that’s such a lottery. And she’d rather not risk raising a serial killer’s kid.
And on that usual morning, she turned into Starbucks for her usual espresso. Always the same. But somehow that college student always seemed to get it wrong. “I said chocolate teased!” she would always say, and he would smile. It was always a very cute smile. And she would think, does Starbucks have a large enough countertop?
No, no that would be irresponsible. But nice, really nice. She would smirk back.
And this morning was usual.
All those events happened just like she forced them to. But then she, only she, saw the toddler.
He, the toddler, walked alone. All alone.
Not like those playground kids with those watchful soccer moms. He was alone. Alone. And only she saw him. And Mary left her usual espresso on the counter to walk up to the solitary child.
“Where is your mama, mama?” She said and nodded her head and stretched her arms to him.
No answer. But toddlers aren’t known to be loquacious; but I could make him, I could be mama, she thought.
His eyes shined like bubbles caught in the morning light. His cheeks looked like they needed her lipstick on them.
“No mama?”
He tilted his head. So adorable.
His shirt had the silliest little stain. Maybe grape juice, such a sanguine color, she thought. Mary pulled out her phone and took a picture. Click! Then tilting his little, bitty head, smiling so much, the little guy lifted his gun and held it a millimeter from her iris. Mary’s eyelash touched the gun’s sight. Then he pulled the trigger. Click! Then a millisecond later POW!
Mary didn’t see the gun the midget held, but everyone else did. She didn’t see the carnage the small man left behind, but everyone else did. Nor did she see the bag of money at his feet. Nope. All she saw was the kid, the toddler, the baby she wanted, needed, and of course of course of course never ever will have. But she took the picture. Click! And the last thing she heard was the Click! of death. ⚡ |
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Post by lostineternity99 on May 25, 2020 6:54:11 GMT -6
Such a tragic story |
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Post by QueenFoxy on May 25, 2020 10:03:37 GMT -6
So much so, Rick.
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Post by QueenFoxy on May 25, 2020 10:14:35 GMT -6
No Wiggle Room by April Winters Lainie sat staring at the unopened envelope. She let out a long sigh, sliced the package open, and slid the contents out onto the kitchen counter. Three hours later, envelope in hand, she entered the restaurant looking hotter than a jalapeno. Dark curls swept up off her neck, her dress of champagne-colored lace blended with her creamy skin. She turned every head in the place … except two. Lainie strode over to a booth where a man and woman sat in close contact, quietly conversing. When her husband looked up, Lainie watched the color drain from his face. His eyes widened, and he sputtered, “Lainie! Wha … what are you doing here?” The woman he was with turned questioning eyes on Lainie. So, the rotten bastard didn’t bother to tell you he’s married, Lainie thought. Her face was filled with disgust when she looked back at Tom. “I’m certainly glad I insisted that prenup infidelity clause apply to both of us. Thanks for making this easy.” “Now wait a minute, Lainie. Margo and I were just having a business dinner … an oversight meeting, that’s all. There’s no reason for you to jump to the wrong conclusion, baby.” Margo gagged on her water. When she recovered, she glared at Tom. “You didn’t mention you were married. I guess this really was an oversight meeting!” She picked up her purse, slid out of the booth, turned and headed for the door. Sweat trickled down Tom’s temple, but he was a lawyer, a man used to talking his way out of anything. Just as Lainie expected, he put on his most charming grin. His eyes slid from her face to roam the curves of her body. “I’ve never seen that dress before. You look fabulous tonight!” Did he really think he was so irresistible she’d forgive him no matter what? Lainie realized in that moment there was no denying she’d married a scumbag. She squared her shoulders, glared, and said, “Tell it to my attorney.” “But, honey, you don’t understand …” “Don’t ‘honey’ me, Tom,” Lainie interrupted. “And I understand more than you know.” She dumped the photographs on the table, some of them landing in the unfinished dessert. Tom spewed his wine. Lainie picked up one of the pictures and gave it a glance. “Even I have to admit Margo looks pretty sultry in that red bra and panties. And look, your hands are all over her.” Tom stuck his finger between his neck and shirt then tugged as if someone were strangling him. Lainie’s eyes filled with sadness. “Unfortunately you’re not going to be able to talk your way out of this one. It’s over, Tom.” ⚡ |
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Post by lostineternity99 on May 26, 2020 8:19:30 GMT -6
This ended as it should have; good for Lainie.
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Post by QueenFoxy on May 26, 2020 11:13:25 GMT -6
I echo your sentiments, Rick.
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See you all more tomorrow. Happy Friday/weekend everyone 
See you all more tomorrow. Happy Friday/weekend everyone