Flash Fiction February Day 7

On By WinstonIn Creativity, fiction, Flash Fiction February, homelessness, Society, Storytelling, Technology, Virtual Reality, writingLeave a comment

The Residence

“Welcome to The Residence!”, declaimed Harold Gorman proudly. “You’re making a bold, smart, home-buying choice!”

“Well, with the real estate market the way…”, Yuri began.

“Market, Shmarket!”, Harold cut him off. “The Residence is going to completely change the real estate game! The potential here is virtually limitless!”

Yuri Chernikoff cringed inwardly and hoped it didn’t show on his face. He loathed pushy salespeople, but this felt like his last hope to get a place to live.

“I appreciate that Mr. Gorman, it’s just…”

Improbably, Gorman’s smile got even broader. “Harry! Call me Harry! Mr. Gorman was my father and that’s another story altogether!”

Smiling back much less forcefully, Yuri found himself wondering what it took to maintain that level of enthusiasm.

Harry was talking again.

“So, when you first move in, there will be a number of thing that The Residence won’t support. No Pets. No Smoking. You will only be able to have a couple of types of beer and only Coke products for soft drinks.”

He paused, then asked. “Speaking of drinks, can I offer you anything? Coffee, soft drink, water, something stronger?”

“No thank you.”, Yuri answered. “I’m fine for now.”

“Great! Great!”

Yuri was getting used to everything being exciting to Harold. It was really annoying, but he just had to get through this. He needed this place. He had friends who had been moved into one of the public housing enclaves. He had seen one a week ago and could tell he had been put on Suppressors. It had been like talking to a mannequin in store window. He didn’t want to live out his life like that.

Harry was still talking. “Your food options will also be limited for the first while. We’ve got the licensing in place for a lot of media, so you’ll have access to a huge amount of video, music games and other entertainment. News will be limited to that within The Residence itself. You’ll get used to that quickly enough I’m sure and as more people move in, there will be more in house content all the time.”

He sipped his coffee and continued. “As one of the first to move into The Residence, you will be first in line to receive new amenities as they come online. The Residence contains, theatres, music venues, restaurants, coffee shops medical clinics, nature areas where you will be able to spend time surrounded by plants and animals that you haven’t seen outside in years! We’ve spared no expense!”

Yuri tried to remember where he’d heard that phrase before.

“Of course,” continued Harold “It’s all going to seem pretty empty at first until more people get moved in. We’re counting on early adopters like you to serve as welcome ambassadors helping newcomers adjust to life in The Residence!”

Harry paused to take a sip of his coffee. “The most important rule in The Residence is that once you move in, you can’t go out into the city again. That’s just not going to be possible. We want to provide a complete lifestyle experience and that means insulating all our Residents from the misery of the city.”

“In The Residence, you will work, play, live, love and have the freedom to become who you truly are, and do it all free from the poverty, danger, stress and hopelessness of the city outside! The Residence needs pioneers like you!”

“When I initially called, they said payment would be explained during this intake interview.” Yuri paused awkwardly. “I don’t have a job or even a Mincome. Records of my birth parents were lost in an anti-social incident years ago so there’s no proof I’m a citizen. I can’t really pay for any of this.”

“We already knew all that!”, Gorman said with a not unkind chuckle. “Doesn’t matter at all! Like I said before, once you move into The Residence you can’t go back out to the city. Even if you had a job, you’d never work there again. Once you move in, you’ll work for The Residence! We have all sorts of contracts outside so we are going to need a ton of workers, and you will be one of the first. Basically, we negotiate a period of indenture that you would work to pay for your Residence. When you complete the term, you live out the rest of your days in peaceful leisure.”

The over-sized smile contrived to look conspiratorial rather than predatory, like he was going to impart a great secret or show you how to run a confidence game.

“Don’t worry, it’s not like slave labour. You’ll work a regular shift, then your downtime is yours to do what you want… within the limits I’ve already mentioned. But don’t worry too much about those limits. They are temporary and they have a real benefit in the long run. If you move in now, those limits will figure into your employment contract and will shave a fair bit of time off your indenture! Pioneering a new reality has its perks!”

Yuri already knew what he was going to do, but in his whole life, he had never been less sure something was a good idea.

“Would it be possible to get that drink you mentioned? Maybe a rum and Coke?”

“That depends on you Yuri!” Harry leaned forward and put a hand on Chernikoff’s shoulder. “If you’re ready to pull the trigger on this opportunity, we need to sign you up first. For legal reasons, you can’t be under the influence of alcohol or other drugs when you sign. Once that’s out of the way, I’ll get you anything you want… subject to current licensing of course.”

Yuri looked around the office they were in. Amazed again by the finishes, the lighting the ring around the inside of Harry’s coffee cup. If he hadn’t known better, he would have sworn he was sitting in a real office.

“This is what The Residence is going to be like?”, he asked.

“Not at all!”, enthused his virtual salesman. “The Residence is lot nicer than this! You’re going to be blown away when you get the full bandwidth experience! Blown Away!”

Harold ‘Harry’ Gorman digital frontman tapped the top of his desk and a screen appeared displaying a legal document. “Given your early entry to The Residence, lack of a criminal background, apparent skillset based off your employment aptitude tests, public health records, and all other factors, your indenture term would be fifteen years. If you agree, place your thumb in the box at the bottom of the screen!”

Yuri was thirty-seven. Fifteen years would make him fifty-two when he finished his term. 

“It still leaves you quite a few years to enjoy yourself, and as we add new and better data centers there will be more opportunities for that enjoyment as we go!” 

Seeing Yuri place his thumb on the screen, Harold crossed to the bar and mixed a rum and Coke. Returning to the low desk, he placed the drink in front of his client.

“Enjoy my friend! You’ll sleep on the cot in the room where you got set up today. Tomorrow, you’ll get fitted with life support and we’ll wire you into The Residence. Then it’s time to start your new life!”

“Welcome to The Residence Yuri!”

The opportunity to tell me what you think is “virtually unlimited”!

Cheers,

Flash Fiction February Day 6

On By WinstonIn Fantasy, fiction, Flash Fiction February, Loving Life, Simple Things, Storytelling, The Old Ways, Values, writingLeave a comment

The Maker

Yusuf ran his eye over the piece of hickory held in the jaws of the vice before him seeking imperfections. The plane in his hands would’ve shamed a razor with its edge. He made a few slow, smooth passes along the wood and looked critically at it again.

Master Marat had said many times, “Yusuf, it is an axe handle (or rake handle or some other tool) there is no need to make it perfect. It is going to get banged around and dropped and damaged. Don’t work so much at each one, they’re just going to get broken eventually.”

The boy would just smile his open, innocent smile and say, “But they aren’t yet, and it was you who told me when I started working here, ‘Any job worth doing, is worth doing right.’ Making handles is a job worth doing.”

The Master would walk away shaking his head. 

He loosened the vice and removed the handle. He slid his hand carefully along the shaft. Finding a few barely perceptible bumps, deftly working the plane while carefully shifting the wood in his other hand.

Turning, he placed the plane in its place on the shelf over the workbench. There was a strip of wood under one end keeping the blade from resting on the shelf which would dull it. All of Yusuf’s tools were protected like that. Tools which were used only rarely gleamed with a thin layer of oil to protect them from rusting.

Now, he took a freshly washed rag and dipped it into a small container of vegetable oil. Starting at the bottom of the handle, he worked the oil into the wood, slowly, methodically until he reached the place where the axe head would attach. Dipping the rag again into the oil, he started at the top and carefully continued oiling the handle to its base. After two more passes, Yusuf judged the wood had absorbed all the oil it would for now. 

Carrying the handle to Master Marat’s part of the workshop, he picked up the axe head the Master had completed earlier in the day. Before returning to his own work area he moved to the grinder and worked the treadle to bring the stone wheel up to speed. Moving with his usual care and dexterity, he worked some minor imperfections out of the edge of the blade. Once satisfied, he slowed the tempo of the treadle until the wheel stopped. He then took the axe head and handle back to his own part of the shop.

Yusuf placed the axe head on a piece of clean, soft leather on his bench. Taking down a small, square saw, he cut a slot lengthwise into the top of the handle. Next, he cut two evenly spaced slots across the short length creating a double-barred cross. 

He placed the butt of the handle on the floor, picked up the axe head and slid it over the crown of the handle. He thumped the handle gently on the piece of pine he kept nearby for just that purpose. Once the head was seated with perhaps a quarter-inch of handle sticking up above the head, he selected an oak shim, seated it and gently tapped it into place with a small wooden mallet. Using the square saw, he cut both the crown of the handle and shim off level with the top of the axe head.

In a drawer above his bench were a number of small brass shims. Selecting the four most promising, he compared them to the notches remaining in the crown of the handle. A few minutes work with a small file and they fit the notches exactly. Placing a thicker piece of flat brass across the tops of the shims, he used the mallet to tap them carefully into place. Finally, he filed the tops of the brass shims level with the axe head. Picking up a soft cloth, he wiped the finished axe carefully free of dust from the work he had done.

Replacing the cloth, Yusuf walked to the door, the axe still in his hand. He was still a youth, just thirteen summers, but years in the workshop had made him strong for his age and the axe sat easily in his hands. Night had fallen as he worked and looking east, he could see a twinkle of fires on the distant hills and knew they were the campfires of armies. The war was all the talk in the village, but Yusuf never bothered about talk like that. He preferred just to work and make himself useful. He knew that one day, the war might come here and he would need either to run away or try to defend the workshop. 

But that wasn’t right now, and as he turned from the distant fires thoughts of war slipped from his mind like a bead of mercury sliding off a steel ball. Placing the axe on a rack where its new owner would collect it the next day, he went to the rack of wood and selected a long, slender piece of ash. The springiness of it would make a good handle for a hoe. It would be less likely to break when thumped into the hard ground to remove the weeds in someone’s garden. Returning to his workshop, he picked up a spokeshave and set to work.

When I change a pace, I don’t mess around. As always would love your thoughts!

Cheers,

Flash Fiction February Day 5

On By WinstonIn Creativity, fiction, Flash Fiction February, My Chaotic Mind, Storytelling, The Choices We Make, writingLeave a comment

Don’t Open That Window

“Does that plane look like it’s on a normal flight path to you?”

Doug’s wife looked up from the novel she was reading. “What plane is that then?”, she asked peering skyward and feigning and interest she definitely didn’t feel. She was just getting to the juicy bit and didn’t feel like being interrupted.

“I’m sure the pilots know more about what they’re doing than you do.” With this pronouncement, she went back to the Duke and the bartender anxious to find out what that was going to turn out like.

Sparing Denise a quick glare, he went back to anxiously watching the plane in question. It was passing from view over the house. Getting to his feet, he hurried through the house to stand on the front step waiting to catch sight of it again.

Doug couldn’t say what looked off about it, but there was something for sure.

His neighbour Terry was watering the flower beds beside his front walk. When he saw Doug staring intently at the sky, he turned to see what he was looking at. There was a plane arcing peacefully across the sky, but that couldn’t be it.

“Whatcha lookin’ at Dougie?”, he asked good naturedly. Terry was fundamentally good natured. It was his default setting and sometimes, it could rub people the wrong way. They didn’t understand him and tended to think he was somehow making fun of them. 

Looking over for a moment Doug replied, “It’s that plane up there. I can’t put my finger on it,” his eyes were already tracking back to it “but there’s something just doesn’t look right.”

Terry peered more closely at the plane trying to see anything unusual to be a supportive friend. 

Young Carol Martin was riding past on her way to her friend Diane’s place so they could study (mostly teen hotties online but officially math). Seeing the two men staring upwards, she stopped her bike and looked at the sky curiously. She didn’t know what they were looking at but assumed she would know it if she saw it. After a few minutes of seeing nothing, she pushed off and pedalled on her way to Diane’s.

Presently, the plane disappeared over the truncated horizon of the nearby rooftops.

“Looked normal to me.”, Terry said apologetically and went back to his watering.

Shaking his head and still glancing at the now empty sky, Doug stood thoughtfully on his step for another minute before returning to the backyard and taking his seat on the lounge chair next to Denise.

“Doesn’t that plane look just like the last one that flew over a little while ago?” Doug asked his wife. 

Denise looked up annoyed from her book where the Duchess and a bartender were about to get juicy. “What plane?”

He pointed at the aircraft arcing gently across the bright, cerulean sky. “That one. Doesn’t it look like the one like twenty minutes ago?”

She gave an exaggerated sigh as she tended to do when she wanted him to understand he was getting on her nerve. “There was no plane twenty minutes ago.”

He started to say something, and she held up a hand palm outward in the universal gesture for “shut up”. “Even if there had been a plane twenty minutes ago, there are only so many types of big passenger planes so of course they’re going to look similar. It’s the mechanical version of convergent evolution.” Denise didn’t always read smut and sometimes liked to remind her husband of that fact.

Unconvinced but unwilling to annoy her further, he returned to his own book but continued casting furtive glances at the sky.

The third time the plane started its lazy crawl across the sky, Doug didn’t say anything to his husband Dennis. He just got up and went through the house to stand on the front porch and watch the plane.

Dennis barely noticed him leave. In the book he was reading, the Duke was about to get juicy with a blacksmith and he wasn’t about to let Doug interrupt that.

Terry was still watering his plants although as far as Doug could tell, he was watering the same ones as he had been half an hour ago. He was on the verge of saying something when two very unexpected things happened. Carol Martin cruised past on an electric scooter heading the same direction as she had been going earlier on her bike. More disturbingly, he realized he didn’t have a husband named Dennis, but rather a wife named Denise. Rushing back through the house, he realized that many of the things he was used to seeing every day were subtly different.

He emerged into a back yard he barely recognized and looked up to see the same plane sailing smoothly across the sky. Doug fell on his ass on the patio and began to laugh.

At a university in Montreal Professor Douglas Grant glanced at his research assistant, a PhD candidate named Denise Hutchins. “It should have worked damn it! Maybe we’re never going to be able to open a portal allowing us to look sideways from one timeline into another similar but slightly different.”

Denise nodded. “Even if we could, there’s the danger of falling through. If that happened you could end up endlessly flipping from one line to another forever drifting further from the reality you know. I wonder if some of the people in asylums aren’t travellers who wandered too far.

In a nearly infinite number of realities Doug sat in care facility and laughed and laughed.

Take a moment and let me know what you think. If I don’t like it, I can always go look for a reality where you said something nice 🙂

Cheers,

Flash Fiction February Day 4

On By WinstonIn Bullying, Creativity, fiction, Flash Fiction February, magic, The Old Ways, writingLeave a comment

A Brand New Witch

Sheila looked at the book her friend Gilli had given her. It had a typically witchy looking cover illustration and was called “Simple Protective Spells”. She felt more than a little stupid and self-conscious just having it in her hand. She opened the paper bag on the kitchen counter. It smelled vaguely familiar, but she couldn’t place it.

She had tried to refuse when Gilli had brought the book and paper bag of “necessary bits and things”. 

“We both know there’s a lot going on in your life right now, and it’s not all good, no matter what you say to the rest of your friends.” As she thrust the bag and book once more towards her friend Gilli’s eyes flickered to the bruise, barely discernable under Sheila’s make up. 

“At least tell me you’ll look at it. Everything you need is there so it won’t even cost a dime to try. Worst thing that can happen is nothing. Right?”

Sheila had said she would think about it and taken the gifts her friend had brought. Her plan right then had been to take it just to stop Gilli pushing. She figured she would stick it out of site for a couple of days and then give the book back.

That had been the plan, but Gilli’s visit seemed to have woken up Geoff who had been sleeping off half a dozen beers in Sheila’s bedroom. She could still hear her friend’s steps receding down the hall when Geoff came out into the living room of the small apartment.

He crossed to her in two quick, angry strides. Not saying a word, he knocked the bag and book from her hands. A moment later he knocked her sprawling to the floor as well. He bent over and started slapping her over and over, hissing threats and profanities while spittle flew from his lips. She buried her mouth in the crook of her arm to keep from crying out and tried just to ride out the storm.

Eventually, the attack stopped and he grabbed her by the chin forcing her look at him. 

“I’ve told you before I don’t want you hanging around with her. She’s not a good influence on you. She’s a witch! How could she be a good anything? They used to burn people like her and as far as I can see, they still should.”

He kicked Sheila in the stomach making her grunt. “I’m going out and I want that book torn up, every page by the time I get back. That bag of whatever I want in the dumpster not polluting this place.”

He pulled his foot back and she braced herself but he changed his mind. He turned away and shoved his feet into his battered sneakers, grabbed his jacket and left. 

Now standing at the counter in the kitchen, instead of tearing up the book, she opened it and started reading. As she read, she took the items from the bag. There was a bundle of sage, a couple of black feathers, some dried herbs, string, salt, oil, a small bottle with a cork and a few other things. Continuing to read, she began humming softly.

Sheila was dozing on the couch when he heard the apartment door open followed by a muffled “What the fuck?”

Sitting up she looked over to see Geoff standing just outside the open door. She felt the old, instinctive fear start. Found herself wondering how badly he had lost at pool and how much he’d have to hurt her to feel like a big man again.

“Hey!”, he slurred, “Let me in!”

She stared at him in disbelief. “The door is open, I’m not sure what you want me to do.”

The usual nasty drunk look came over his face. “I don’t care if the door is open, I can’t get through it. Get your ass over here and help me.”

She was halfway to the door when she remembered how she had spent her evening.

“What do you mean you can’t get through it? Just step forward.”

He reached forward and quickly yanked his hand back with a yelp.

She moved closer. “What was that about?”

“I can’t get through the fucking door!”, he growled. “Did you or your bitch friend do something weird while I was out? I swear, if you did…” Geoff let the sentence trail off, redolent with the threat of future violence.

She moved closer to the open door. He sprang forward to grab her and was slammed against the opposite wall of the hallway. He slid slowly down to the floor a trickle of blood running from his nose.

“You bitch!”, he rasped hoarsely. “I don’t know what you’ve done, but you can’t stay in there forever. When you come out I’m gonna beat your ass so bad you’ll never even think about disobeying me again!”

Shiela smiled at him. “You can try, but the spell I cast will deflect any harm your try to do to me and return it to you three times over.”

She stepped through the door and stood over him. “Go ahead and hit me. Come on!”, she taunted, her voice rising and gaining strength.

“Why don’t you slap me, or punch me? Are you just going to lie there like a little bitch?” 

She started to laugh.

Geoff’s drunken rage overcame caution and he lashed out with his foot. He had been aiming for her knee and suddenly his own bent sideways and he shrieked in pain.

Neighbour’s doors cracked open at the noise and Shiela laughed louder. “I bet that hurt baby!” She hurled one of his favourite lines back at him and watched him flinch.

“I thought your were gonna beat my ass like all those other times. What’s the matter? You aren’t scared of a girl are you? Big, strong, vicious, cruel, petty, jealous, violent piece of fucking shit like you? Scared of little ol’ me?”

“Crawl your broken ass outta my building. While you’re at it, you may as well crawl all the way outta my city! I’m just getting started and you want to be a long way away before I’m finished.”

Sobbing with pain, Geoff dragged himself down the hallway trailing his broken leg behind him. Sheila looked at the nearest neighbour and smiled sweetly.

“So sorry about all the noise. I promise it won’t happen again.”

Settling back on the couch, she picked up her phone and called Gilli. “Wanna come over and hang out? Oh no, you can stay as long as you like, Geoff isn’t going to be a problem anymore.”

Love it? Hate it? Let me know!

Cheers,

Flash Fiction February Day 3

On By WinstonIn Global Issues, Environment, family, Reaping What We've Sown, Creativity, Flash Fiction February, fiction, writingLeave a comment

A Different Way

My father once told me that you can drown in flax seeds. Claimed it had happened to a neighbour’s child when he was a kid. I’ve never bothered to look it up, but it always sounded plausible to me. Probably because of how much a field of grain moves like the waves on the ocean when the wind is on it. I also enjoyed the irony of drowning so far from more than enough water to get your shoes wet.

Dad was born in ’29 on the prairies so I grew up on stories of drought and dust storms that raged for days. Stories of crops that just never had a chance and how food had to be shipped in because the farmers couldn’t even feed themselves let alone send anything to market. By the time I was born that was all behind us of course. But I never forgot those stories.

My parents remembered it more strongly so they wanted to be self-sufficient when it happened again. Which they were convinced would be any day now. So they moved to northern Ontario and bought a farm. Sort of a farm anyway. As much of one as they could afford. They got a cow and some chickens, some goats and a horse.

“You can’t have a farm without a horse. When the gas runs out, you’ll be damn glad to have that horse.”, was one of my mother’s favourite sayings when we would complain about having to care for that four-legged free-loader.

My father scrounged some old farm equipment which was more rust than anything else, but he got enough running to bring in some hay and plow up about an acre of vegetable garden.

Self-sufficiency was all well and good, but my Dad still worked in the mines. The employment people had said it was the best way for him to help the Province so that’s what he did. Once we finished school, my siblings and I would receive our work assignments too.

We went to school just like the world wasn’t actually ending. None of us put more effort into it than we had to and usually not even that much. It’s hard to feel motivated to learn algebra when you’re constantly hearing at home that you’re never going to need to know much more than how to survive the coming collapse. Funny thing was, nobody else seemed too concerned about it other than our folks.

Besides, getting up to start your chores at five-thirty in the morning before going to school tends to limit your engagement with “The Catcher In The Rye”.

The closest fires were still a couple of hundred miles away but if the wind shifted again, that was still too close. Even our more oblivious class-mates couldn’t miss that one. “What if the winds pick up again?”, asked Kelly Harris nervously. “Mrs. Chutney says the Premier should be doing more to stop the fires.”

As quick as that, the principal Miss Woolcroft was there. “Neither you nor Mrs. Chutney should be engaging in alarmist talk like that.”

She was speaking to Kelly, but her words were clearly for all of us. “Premier Harz has already said that there is no danger from the wildfires. Unless you’re saying the Premier is lying to us all?” 

If there had been any more honey on her voice, Kelly would’ve died of diabetes on the spot. She rallied and said smoothly, “Of course not Miss Woolcroft. Everyone knows the Premier would never lie to us. I was only repeating what Mrs. Chutney was saying.”

Miss Woolcroft looked sternly at her for a long moment. “Well, there’s no call to be repeating things that make the Premier look bad. They’re the only one keeping us safe from everything going on right now.”

Well, the winds did pick up and the wildfires jumped the break. Burned up a big piece of the Province. About half of the nearest city went up with it. My father died when the Minehead burned, trapping him and the other two-hundred and sixty workers on his shift with him. 

Mom’s lungs had never been good and she perished from the smoke. We buried her under some tough old wild roses on the hillside.

That was early summer of 2064. Turned out the Premier had been lying to everyone and there was no turning back the clock on climate change. One of my brothers died in the collapse and my sister got religion and joined a band of travelling evangelicals. She stopped by a couple of years ago when they were passing through.

A few other folks joined us and we rounded up some stray animals from abandoned farms. It’s not the life we dreamed of. It’s hard and it’s dangerous. There’s no real doctors or medicine anymore so if anyone gets badly hurt there’s not much we can do. But we mostly have enough to eat  and it’s been a year or more since we saw any scavengers come through.

A week ago Kelly said, “Do you think we should maybe see if there’s anyone out there? Maybe join up with other people and try to rebuild?”

I thought about it for a little bit before I answered. 

“Maybe we shouldn’t try to rebuild what was there before. That didn’t seem to work out too well. I agree we need to be part of something bigger, to help build something. But it needs to be something different. A different way of treating each other and land. I don’t know if it will be better, but it has to be a different way of doing things this time.”

Any feedback would be most welcome!

Cheers,

Flash Fiction February Day2

On By WinstonIn Values, Personal Responsibility, The Choices We Make, The Bill Always Comes Due, Reaping What We've Sown, Creativity, Creative Drive, Mental Health, Flash Fiction FebruaryLeave a comment

A Thief’s Tale


Gabby moved smoothly along the crowded platform towards her mark. Slowly, casually closing the distance.

She had spent half the morning watching the jewellery store, waiting for the right person to make their purchase and exit. Pine’s Jewellers was a high-end store. She knew she could only dip one of their clients otherwise people start seeing patterns and then it’s three hots and a cot. Now though, this guy was it. She had watched the owner during the transaction, and you could see what a huge price tag this had from his excitement.

Gabby had drifted along in this guy’s wake, keeping her distance, waiting for a crowd. She had learned early never to dip on a mark if there was no one else around who looked more like they might have done it. She hung back and waited.

Eventually, he had taken the stairs down to catch this train. Now was the time. She closed the last few feet and waited another beat. A really sketchy looking guy bumped into the mark, and she made her dip at almost the same moment. Prize in hand, she excused herself around the person the mark would remember later for the police and headed to a different car.

This train would get her home so why waste the fare.

That evening, she was supposed to go out for dinner with her boyfriend. He had gotten reservations at the restaurant where they had gone on their first date. They both really liked it. The food was great and the staff were amazing. He had seemed a little weird and kind of on edge or nervous. Hopefully, she would find out what was going on with him over dinner.

On her way to the restaurant, she stopped by Larry’s place. Officially, he ran a combination corner store and mini arcade. But he also handled all the non-cash items Gabby and a few other “entrepreneurs” brought in. He had connections who paid top dollar and even after his cut it was better than risking any of the local pawn shops.

She had been waiting at the restaurant for over half an hour when she called Tom to ask if everything was okay.

“No.”, he said in a strained voice like he had been crying. “Nothing is all right. Nothing and it never will be.”

Gabby was shocked. She knew he had stress and anxiety issues that could make him really emotional at times, but had never heard him like this. “What happened?”, she asked.

“I had this whole big evening planned out.” His voice was almost a sob and she felt an edge of fear she couldn’t pin down.

“My brothers flew in from out of town. They were going to be in the crowd there. We were going to do this big song and then I was going to get down…” His voice choked off into a series of muffled sobs.

“I was going to get down on one knee pull out the ring… I had the perfect ring…” he sobbed again.

“I had seen this ring, and I saved forever but still didn’t have enough so Andy and Mark made up the difference. Not a loan, they just gave me the money.” He paused again, recovered and continued. “I was hung up at work, so Mark went to pay off the last of it and pick up the ring.”

She could hear him breathing careful, slow breaths to keep the sobbing at bay. “Someone pick-pocketed him on the subway when he was on his way back to my place. They took the ring. They took it and it’s a sign.”

Whatever he said next was lost in a rush of traffic noise.

“Oh my God Tom! I am so sorry!”, she gasped. She felt as if she had just been plunged into ice water.

“No.”, he said. His voice was hoarse with repressed tears.

“I’m the one who’s sorry. I’m sorry I wasted your time. I don’t want to waste any more of it.”

A horn blared over the phone and Gabby realized he had just jay-walked in front of someone.

“Tom!”, she called into the phone which suddenly seemed like the heaviest thing she had ever tried to hold. The weight of it pulled her down and she bent almost double at the waist.

“Tom, I’m still here.” Fear closed her throat and she felt her own hot tears spill down her cheeks. “I’m still here.”

“I know you are.”, he said and she could hear his tears again and the fear became a knife cutting off her breath.

“I know you won’t do the right thing on your own, so I’m going to help you.”

Gabby clutched the wastebin beside her to keep from collapsing completely.

“I can’t let you throw your life away for a loser like me.”

“Tom!”

She heard the clatter and scrape that meant a dropped phone.

A moment later, she heard screaming down the street to her left. Lurching to her feet she sprinted in that direction. She pushed her way through the gathering crowd and saw a woman holding

Tom’s phone.

“What happened?”, she managed to ask still struggling to catch her breath.

Seeing her red-rimmed eyes and tear-stained cheeks, the woman replied. “He was talking with someone, then he just dropped this and threw himself over the railing. He didn’t even pause or anything. One second, he was here… then he was just gone.”

She held out the phone, but Gabby ignored her and pushed her way to the railing. She looked down and saw him thirty feet below. He was sprawled awkwardly in the street like child’s discarded toy.

For one wild moment, she thought about joining him. She backed away from the railing. That would be the easy way out and she didn’t feel she deserved easy.

When the police arrived, she approached one of them and told them the whole story. She used her phone call to tell Andy what had happened. Each of his sobs was another stone in her heart.

Sitting in a urine reeking holding cell, she asked herself how many other easy marks lives she had destroyed.

Flash Fiction February

On By WinstonIn Creative Drive, Creativity, Fantasy, Flash Fiction February, Old Gods and Magic FolkLeave a comment

So as you may have noticed, things here have been kind of quiet lately. Like REALLY quiet. The poetry hasn’t worked for a bit and I’ve been busy with other things. Which brings us to this.

Flash Fiction February is an annual challenge to write a short piece of fiction every day for the month of February (it’s in the name really). I figured maybe if I used a different format maybe the creative juices would start flowing again.

The jury’s still out, but here’s the first one.

The Wrong Queue

Teddy was the better part of 92 years old. Specifically, he was set to turn ninety-two in seventeen days. He’d also be the first one to tell you he’s not quite as sharp as he was when he was younger. He often gets confused and ends up having to get a cab back to the home where he lives. The staff have tried everything to stop him wandering off, but to no avail.

Today is no different. Today, he wanted to go to the movies, but got turned around (all too easily). He was on the verge of calling a cab to go back when he saw a queue of people and decided it must be the line to the theatre. Given that most of the people in the line were closer to his age than they were to forty seemed like a good sign. They also seemed unusually quiet except for a few who were muttering to themselves. Even the mutterers did so quietly. This was another good sign because Teddy hated people who talked at the movies.

“If I wanted to hear old farts talking, I would’ve stayed at the home.”, he muttered to himself and made a mental note (for what that was worth) to avoid sitting near the ones intent on chatting with themselves. Probably best to avoid that one who looked to be on the verge of tears as well.

The queue slowly wound forward and he was a little puzzled to notice that a fairly thick fog had come up and he couldn’t really make out the buildings around him anymore. This didn’t bother him much as he didn’t always notice things like that anymore. Not like when he had a young man’s senses (and lack of sense) he thought ruefully.

The fog reached the point where he couldn’t see the person in front of him, or looking back, the one behind him either. 

“Well,” he muttered grumpily, “I may as well keep going and see if I can get out of this bloody soup!”

A few steps later, the fog thinned slightly and he saw the most disreputable looking bum he had ever seen. The fellow was tall, appeared heavily muscled and was clad in worn rags so tattered Teddy wouldn’t have washed the floor with them (not that he had to do that in the home, but still). The figure leaned on a tall pole and held out a talon-like hand saying in a raspy, bass voice, “Two coins.”

“Coins?”, Teddy asked querulously. “Why would I give you coins?”

“Two coins or you go no further and wait here for one hundred years.”

Teddy backed away slightly. “I don’t think I’m that anxious to go to the movies after all.”

“Two coins.”, the figure rasped again in its sepulchral voice.

He backed away some more.

Teddy felt something against his back and was relieved to think that another person from the queue had joined him and would help him get past the coin-obsessed crazy and into the theatre. Turning, he was alarmed to see nothing but the fog behind him.

“No going back. The dead cannot go back.”, intoned the rag draped shape before him.

“What are you on about?”, demanded Teddy. “Are you threatening to kill me for a couple of damned coins?”

A look of shocked incredulity crossed the face of the towering figure.

“I do NOT kill.” If a giant bum dressed in rags could sound scandalized, that was exactly what it would have sounded like.

“Then why are you talking about me being dead?”, Teddy wondered. “I know I’m so far past my prime it’s more of a rumour than a memory, but I wasn’t dead when I got up this morning and so far as I know, that hasn’t changed.” Teddy paused then, “Who are you anyways?”

The figure drew itself up to its full, rather intimidating height. “I am Charron the ferryman.”

“Karen? Weird name for a fella but I guess that’s just how it is these days.”

“Well Karen, I’m Teddy, and I’m still definitely not dead, so how about letting me get out of here. If I hurry, maybe I can still make the matinee.”

Charron looked skeptically at the stooped and wizened man. “Give me two coins and I will tell you whether or not you can cross.”

“Cross what? I don’t see a street or anything but you and this fog!”, snapped Teddy. He was getting angry because none of this was making any sense and he was starting to fear he had slipped into dementia. Maybe being dead would be better.

“Give me the coins!”, growled Charron, also starting to lose patience.

Teddy flinched and dug into his pocket. He came up with a nickel and quarter and dropped them in Charron’s outstretched hand.

Both of them started (although for vastly different reasons) as the coins continued straight through and dropped to the ground.

“You’re not dead!”, the ferryman gasped in horror.

“Finally! Like me standing here talking to you wasn’t a give-away!”, mocked Teddy.

Charron only stared at him. “You aren’t supposed to be here. How did you get here?”

The old man didn’t understand what the issue was. “I was going to go to the movies and I apparently got into the wrong line, now here I am. What’s the big deal?”

Charron once again drew himself up to his full height. “I am the ferryman. I carry souls across the river Styx to the underworld. Only the dead can come to me.”

Teddy rubbed the stubble on his chin thoughtfully. “Well, my doctor says I’ve had one foot in the grave for years. I guess it was closer than I thought. So what happens now?”

“You cannot go back and you cannot cross because you are not dead.”

“So what? I stay here until I die, then I cross. Not that I’m saying I believe you, but if I did…”

Charron paused and seemed uncomfortable. “Time doesn’t work here like it does out there. You won’t get any older and you won’t die. You will just be here, like me, forever.”

“What?”, shrieked the old man. “You mean I stay old like this. No hair. No teeth. No dignity? Forever?”

The massive ferryman gave a small, almost apologetic shrug. “Sorry, but that’s the way it works.”

Feeling dizzy and more confused than ever Teddy sat on a nearby rock. He barely heard Charron ask, “Two questions. Do you like dogs, and do you know how to play cribbage?”

As always, I would love your feedback!

Cheers,

NaPoWriMo Apr 3

On By WinstonIn Enlightenment, music, NaPoWriMo, Personal, Poetry, UncategorizedLeave a comment

Music is Life

Music moves the human soul

More sure than anything

From classical to modern rock

To lullabies we sing

There’s nothing else will speak to us

Reach out and touch our hearts

Like that one song which resonates

In our most secret parts

From goths with Evanesence in

The headphones on their ears

To some Gen Xer cruising by

And blasting Tears for Fears.

A universal code is there

Locked in each measured beat

With all of life recorded in

A catalogue complete

It matters not if you’re alone

Or mingled in a crowd

A song so soft it’s barely heard

Or yet bone jarring loud

For music is as close as we

Will get to the divine

So please stay but a moment while

I share this song of mine

Cheers,

NaPoWriMo Apr 02 2025

On By WinstonIn Deeds Over Words, Personal Responsibility, The Choices We Make, UncategorizedLeave a comment

Deeds Endure

If you look back to cent’ries past
To names of great renown
We know the words ascribed to them
Are ones they did not sound.

It’s deeds we know for deeds endure
From one age to the next
And those who will do naught but talk
Will vanish as though hexed.

Qin Shi Huang, Napoleon,
Great Caesar and the rest
All of their words now naught but dust,
By their deeds know them best.

Your own deeds may reverberate
Down through the coming years.
And though your name is long forgot
Of your deeds some child hears,

Then what you’ve done, not what you’ve said,
Your acts though base or just.
May shape the course they take in life
Though all your words are dust.

Cheers,

NaPoWriMo Apr 01

On By WinstonIn Choose Gratitude, family, Grateful, Memories, Personal1 Comment

My Mother’s Love

From heaven fell those gentle drops
to kiss each leaf and bloom,
A gentle, restful tapping on
The window of my room.

My mother laid a cool, damp cloth
Upon my fevered brow.
She took my hand, she stroked my hair
Made soothing noises now.

The fever burned much hotter now
Could scarcely see or hear,
Yet through it all still I could sense
My Mother’s touch so dear.

The rain fell on all through the night
As fever raged and burned
Yet when the morning finally came
A corner had been turned

And in the golden light of dawn
I saw my Mother smile
Then both exhausted from the night
We rested for a while.

Although she’s gone these many years
Each day still feel her love
Now when it rains each gentle drop
A touch from her above.

Cheers,