Kristin Fischer
Sweet Alice
My mother sits in her wheel chair at the nursing home. A man visiting his wife tells me that he flew fighter planes in World War II. I ask if knew my father.
"His name sounds familiar, but I’m not sure," he says. I think it’s sweet that he is trying to remember, but I’m skeptical. This place is full of empty words.
Then he says with a smile, "Sweet Alice! That was the name of his plane. He never went out drinking with us. He was always writing letters home. "
My mother points to herself. "Sweet Alice," she whispers.
Paul Knudsen
Fate of a Hero
"I think it's a beautiful waste," she said, her hero lying broken on the ground.
"He fought bravely for you," remarked the general coldly.
The woman turned, an odd smile on her face, "Yes, but unspoiled heroes are so bland."
The general's gaze hardened but he said nothing.
"He was never so beautiful to me as he is today," her skirts swirled over the ruin of the hero's legs as she yawned and began to walk away.
The general glanced once more at the body, then turned in shame. Despite himself, he knew she wasn't wrong.
Jean Blasiar
The Good News
I pour him a big drink of Wild Turkey.
He’s happy to have me sit down with him, or is it the Wild Turkey he’s happy to see?
He relaxes. "I’ve been wanting to talk to you," he says unexpectedly.
"I’ve been wanting to talk to you, too," I respond.
"Me first. I’ve been thinking about quitting my job and writing that book I’ve wanted to for so long." He takes a drink. "What do you think?" he asks.
It moves. For the first time, it moves. It knows that we are not the good news tonight.
Kay Butzin
Family Tradition
Caroline walked out the screen door and pointed her daddy’s own rifle at him. I screamed, "Put that thing down!"
Jake laughed, and his daughter fired.
For twenty years I’d endured his tirades—black eyes and smashed china—because he said he’d kill me if I tried to leave. He would switch Caroline’s bare legs, and when she cried for me, beckon with his forefinger. "Come on, Velma. Get you some, too."
I knelt and checked Jake’s pulse. "He’s dead," I cried. "What are we going to do now?"
Caroline turned the gun on me and said, "Get the shovel."
N.D.M. Borchers
Not His Type
"I'm not your type," she smirked in response to his offer to buy her a cup of coffee.
"How can you possibly know that?" he teased, hoping to change her mind.
"I don't like you," she retorted, staring blankly emotionless.
"You don't even know me," he gaffed, thinking she could at least make an effort before casting judgment.
"So why bother?" she shrugged, reengaging the book in front of her.
"You're not very nice,"he retorted, glad she had said no.
"See, I told you,"she commented, smiling warmly at him for the first time. "I'm not your type."
Charley Barniskis "It's On Me" Jean Blasiar "The Big 'D'" Trish Bonsall "No Regrets" Annette Bower "No Name" Mary Jo Campbell "Mommy's Good Girl" Kathleen Gilbert "The Christmas Bazaar" Ryan Robert Hallett "The Man From Between the Seconds" Peter Head "The Answer" Andrea Klee "The Monk on the Mountain" Wendy Morrow "Thin Skin"
-- Idore Anschell