FICTION   |   By Audrey Austin   »   

“You can’t make me do it again!” the old man shouts. 

I hear the alarm in his voice.  I see the fearful determination in watery blue eyes narrowly set above a nose that shows obvious signs of earlier breakage; a boxer’s nose but I know this man has never in all of his eighty-one years participated in the sport of pugilism.

And how do I know this?  Because I am beside myself!  Not only do I feel beside myself,  I’m outside of myself watching the too familiar unfoldment of a scene better viewed by a theatre-goer than from behind the drama playing out at my old scratched-up kitchen table.

“Sign the damn cheque!”

I prefer being detached and don’t want to return but I can’t bear to watch the old man struggle alone any longer.  Back inside my body I immediately feel the pain I had managed to escape for a brief interval, not that it doesn’t break my heart and not that it isn’t painful to see the old man being abused. But to escape the physical agony of large masculine hands clapping ears as one would a bass drum in a marching band offers some relief.

I find my voice and repeat my vow.  “No, Tom, you can’t make me do it again!”

FICTION   |   By Gloria Jean  » Winter had arrived in its entire splendor. Stately old pines drooped with last night’s snowfall, the canyon countryside now a soft white vista. My ski trail had become rocky and worn; this new cover would smooth it out nicely. 

I had skied this canyon trail for years, mostly alone. Few people I knew enjoyed the solitude the trail offered. They preferred the well-traveled ski trails of cross-country clubs. My tastes ran to peace and quiet of the back country, and the views from ridges I had known since childhood. Throughout my twice-weekly jaunts here, I could count on my right hand the number of people I had met on the trails. 

These were not the groomed trails of ski clubs. I plowed through knee-deep snow myself each winter to create an elaborate network of paths. My choice of path depended on whether I wanted to ski the lake, or up on the high canyon ridges. It boiled down to energy level. The lake was easier by far. 

Today was a Christmas card day, the spectacular scenery unfolding as I tackled the ridge above the tree line. An old trappers’ cabin was barely visible from the ridge. No one had been there for a decade or more, the last owner now in a nursing home where our bluegrass band volunteered. 

Fiction  |  By Charles Pinch  »  

«For Frances, every last word of it…»

You have to understand. You have to understand that it was real boulle. That is, translucent sheets of hawksbill turtle shell sliced wafer thin and applied over the wooden carcass of the bureau Mazarin. Curving shapes had been cut into its surface and into the shapes berainesque appliqués of smooth glittering brass (and sometimes dyed horn) had been glued with great care. And then there was the matter of the bronze attachments. That would be bronze d’ore in this case, perfectly fitted ‘slippers’ enclosing the curved feet, sabots to be precise. Prince Nathan would be quick to point out the indelicacy of using English words to describe les montres francais. So it was real boulle. Not the later desecrations of the same name you find in the bumbling stuff-shirt 19^th Century. Resin and painted spelter and God knows what else!

FICTION  |  By Shirley Green  »  Just as the end of October ushered in that time of year when the veil is thin between the worlds of the living and the dead, November descended with shrieking winds that tore through bare branches and rain that cried down window panes bemoaning autumn’s loss.

As she stood on the only grassy spot left in front of 171 Wicker Lane, Suzanne was crying too; crying for the loss of an old friend and foe.  Only memories remained. From her solid cement-block foundation to the rust red shingles, she had been Suzanne’s solid refuge against the overwhelming onslaught of childhood’s daily life. 

171 Wicker Lane had been built on a grand scale. Her outer dress had been cream coloured stucco, and the distinct placing of brown painted beams at both ends along with two chimneys rising on the front of her roof, had given her the right to be called ‘Tudor Style’ architecturally.  And now she was gone.

Nothing remained but a pile of rubble.  She had burnt beyond recognition.

FICTION   |   By Audrey Austrin   

“Dear Rolland, There was a moment when things were somewhat placid in our lives.  A moment when I thought that nothing was more beautiful, more inviting or more calming than our existence. I’m so sorry about what happened but, if this makes sense, I’m even sorrier that it didn’t happen sooner…”

“Claptrap!” I shout at the TV screen. “I’m sick to death of listening to all this corny romantic babble!  I can’t tolerate five more minutes of this garbage!  It’s just drivel; a waste of air space so advertisers can pedal their detergents!”   I push the off button on the remote plunging the living-room into sudden silence.

“Hey, I was watching that!”  Harvey yells.

“It’s crap!  I don’t want to watch it!” I yell back.

I turn my head and look over at Harvey wrapped in his lazy-boy chair. He’s holding a bag of Smart Pop in one hand and a can of Molson’s Canadian in the other. I love my Harvey but I wonder whatever happened to the good looking guy he used to be?  That fellow left a long time ago and I have no idea where he went. The large lump in the chair is a sad caricature of the man I thought I was marrying.

FICTION   |   By Hermes La Cache 

Introduction

Somewhere

“My name is Marchosias and I am a Marquis. I ascended to title many years ago. My language is quite different to the one I chose today but in the interest of comprehension I feel English as good as any.

“My old home was very beautiful. Harmonisation and balance were there before us, evident within us and around us; like a cosmic ballet through a perfect symphony. It was the absolute synergy of perfection. I recall it as if it was yesterday. My old home knew no pain, no anger and no hurt. It was a living pulse, a breath felt by all those who resided there. We were found not for ever wanting.

“I intend to return one day to that perpetual bliss. 

FICTION  |  By Audrey Austin   »   With trepidation John snapped shut his laptop.  He sat on his chair and stared downward at his quivering liver-spotted hands.  Before today he merely ignored the age spots and wrinkles but that was before he had typed the word, yes, into his last message.

An English teacher for more than thirty years John Rowe, now retired, had always impressed on the vulnerable young minds of his students the fact that words most definitely are important.  No one knew better than him that once a word is spoken there is no taking it back.  He could not deny that in his messaging with Mary he had perhaps exaggerated.

Throughout the six months he had been sharing on-line messages with Mary he had easily convinced himself that he was, indeed, a young sixty-two.  Sitting alone in his library tap, tapping the words onto the screen he had found it quite an easy matter and sometimes a downright amusing one to create an attractive, adventurous character whose attributes were far removed from those he possessed.

FICTION | By Charles Pinch » For Frances, nothing before you, nothing after...

First it was ‘Oh my God! Oh my God!’ then a gulp of champagne followed by a couple more ‘Oh my Gods!’ Trish couldn’t take her eyes off it. She wiggled her finger—“Put it on, please! I can’t wait to feel it on me!”—while spectrums flashed inside the diamonds and fireworks exploded inside her head. It was the most beautiful engagement ring she’d ever seen and between the two of them they must have looked at hundreds.

The center stone was easily a carat (must have cost you, baby!) and that was surprising. The diamonds in the other rings they’d considered weighed in at half that much.

By Perparim Kapllani  » I unburied my father, I cremated his remains and I put his ashes in a wooden urn in the shape of a bottle. I had him under my armpit, and then I placed him in my suitcase, as a part of my luggage.

My name is Mark Shkoza. I am 41 years old. I left my country 3 years ago, forever. I still don't speak English very well and I was working double shifts at that time. I had nobody and I was on the run to lose my mind, that's why I took with me my dead father. Address of the destination was Canada. My father kept talking to me from inside of the bottle.

“Mark, why did you do this?” my father asked.