The Woman With Nine Lives

By M.P. Witwer

The first time she might have died came at age 17, when a saddle horse reared and threw her, breaking her back.

Over the years, she survived many more life-threatening events, each worse than the last: Guillain-Barré syndrome and its accompanying complete if temporary paralysis, pneumonia, spinal stenosis requiring two surgeries, an aneurysm (two more operations, and yes, they were brain surgery), a stroke, a heart attack, another bout of pneumonia. Resilient and resolute, she snubbed death eight times.

That last morning, she awoke with a little sniffle. By evening she was gone, done in by a common cold.

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© 2013 by M.P. Witwer • All rights reserved

Milly’s Magical Moment

By Carol E. Wyer

Millicent Jarvis thanked the air stewardess, stepped out from the aeroplane into the warm evening breeze at Larnaca airport, and promptly slid down the steps, landing on top of the man who had been her unfortunate neighbour during the flight.

“Oh Lord, I’m really sorry,” she spluttered, not for the first time in the last four and a half hours. She had already hit him over the head with her holdall as she tried to cram it in the overhead locker, and had spilt her glass of red wine over his light-coloured trousers. Each time, he had patiently smiled at her and told her not to worry about it. She loathed being clumsy. She was forever tripping over her own feet. Maybe if she were to wear her spectacles more often it wouldn’t happen so much but Milly hated her spectacles. They made her look crabby and old.

The man helped her board the bus which was rapidly filling with excited holiday-makers and insisted she hold on tightly to the strap above her head.

“Staying in Paphos?” his wife asked.

“No, Limassol,” replied Milly. “I’m meeting my parents at a hotel there. They’ve been there a week already. They booked this trip for me as a surprise. I’ve been studying for my finals for months and they thought I needed a break.”

The husband and wife exchanged a look of relief. At least Milly wouldn’t be bumping into them all holiday.

Sometime later, having done no further damage, other than standing on several toes while disembarking the bus and knocking a pile of papers off the desk at Passport Control, Milly arrived at the hotel. Continue reading

Breathless

Strawberries-and-Cream-Bowl

By Maggie Rascal

Okay, so we’re supposed to write this ninety-nine word story and — well, it doesn’t hafta be exactly ninety-nine words, it can be less — but anyway, I don’t know what to write about and it’s due tomorrow, so I’m thinking maybe I could tell about the time Grandma took me to tea at a fancy hotel and they served strawberries and cream mixed with maple syrup, but I don’t know if I can describe it in ninety-nine words, it was so opulent — I like that word, don’t you? — or I might talk about Sparky, he’s such a cute puppy, and…

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© 2013 by M.P. Witwer • All rights reserved

The Raft

Listen to an audio version of The Raft

By Cecilia Rogers

“I can’t!” My voice, high and strident, carries out across the water.

“Sure you can; come on, try.” My sister’s voice, low and calm, comes to me clearly.

“No, I can’t.”

“But you did last year.”

Last year. Perhaps. But this is now, and I know I cannot do it. I don’t answer her.

“Come on, just try.”

Still no answer.

“Do you want me to come and get you?”

My teeth are chattering together with the cold, so I nod, and watch as she swims toward me.

I am standing in the water, and when I look down my feet seem to be very close to the surface. There are little minnows swimming around — the other kids say that they nibble on your toes, but I don’t believe it. I’ve never felt them do that.

It is the first morning of our summer vacation, which we spend every year at the cottage. We got up early this morning, my older sister and me, in order to go swimming. While everyone else slept, we put on our bathing suits, found some towels and went outside. We didn’t bother eating any breakfast, but went straight down to the lake.

When we got there she dove in; she just went in and started swimming. I put one foot in, and when it was numb with cold, the other one. Moving by slow degrees, I am now just up to my knees, and shivering. Continue reading

Déjà View

By M.P. Witwer

After experiencing the scene again and again in his dreams, those awful nightmares that drew him here to Times Square, Evan knows every detail before it happens.

A flag twisted by the wind is about to tear free of its anchor and sail away. The Diet Coke ad will morph into a pitch for regular Coke. Someone wearing a red coat on the steps ahead is going to trip but not fall. And at precisely 2:17 p.m., a girl will plummet from the tower.

Quickening his pace, he steals a glance at his watch. He has less than a minute to prevent her death. But how? The dreams haven’t revealed that piece of information.

As he sprints toward an unknown destiny, the events unfold on cue. The flag whips violently. The giant screen changes from white to red. His vision sweeps toward the red coat, but the lettering on the base of the intervening monument catches his eye and stops him short — “Father Duffy,” it reads.

He closes his eyes, envisioning the familiar image. The statue in the dreams depicted another World War I hero, Sergeant York, he’s absolutely certain. If the nightmares had been wrong about that…

Evan looks around, taking in everything. The woman in red glides down the steps without stumbling. The flag miraculously hangs on by a thread. No girl has fallen.

He checks his watch. 2:19. Feeling a mixture of relief and foolishness, he walks away. Time to go home to Kansas.

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This piece was written for and ultimately won a weekly Indies Unlimited flash fiction contest. Please see the original post for details of the challenge and the photo prompt referenced in the story: Flash Fiction Challenge: Déjà View

Perfectly Imperfect

lotion-stand

My lotion stand, may it rest in pieces.

 

By M.P. Witwer

Even though I don’t consider myself to be a perfectionist, I’ve learned that others hold a different view. My daughter has admonished me for it, my mother has teased me about it, and when the instructor of my clay class said there’s one in every group, all eyes turned toward me.

Two things should be pointed out from the start: 1. This tendency, which I will grudgingly admit may (does) indeed exist, extends only to professional and creative endeavors (as those who have observed my housekeeping efforts may attest); and 2. I do not hold anyone else to such exacting standards. Really, I don’t even expect perfection from myself, but it usually is my goal.

Armed with this knowledge, I have been proactively pursuing a plan to pocket my penchant for perfection. I’m also attempting to alleviate alliteration, but that’s another story.

It was with my perfectionism-reducing agenda in mind that I set out recently to make a ceramic tray for a lotion dispenser. I had a rough notion of what I wanted to do, but didn’t take any measurements or create a template for the project. My idea was to craft a rectangular tile with a circular indentation at one end for the base of the bottle to sit in, while the spout perched over the tray so any drips would wind up on the lotion stand and not on the bathroom counter. It didn’t need to be perfect, just functional. Continue reading

If Ignorance is Bliss…

DSC03392

By Cecilia Rogers

A few years ago, the first day of June had ushered in a heat wave that, as it turned out, would last for three months. No one knew it then of course, which was just as well. We all struggled through the hot, muggy days, shuttling back and forth from air-conditioned homes to air-conditioned workplaces, usually by means of air-conditioned transportation. It was supposed to be the best time of year and we were all trapped inside, trying to escape the heat. Casual conversations were peppered with endlessly repeated clichés as to how hot it was, how unusual a June heat wave was and variations on, Wow if it’s like this now what’s it gonna be like in mid-August! Repetitive though they were, those comments didn’t get to me. What got to me was that before long the refrain had shifted to the irritating inanity uttered by would-be comedians: Hot enough for ya, Marissa? Usually it was accompanied by a braying guffaw that no self-respecting donkey would ever produce and a hearty slap on the back, as though it were all just good fun and shouldn’t be taken too seriously.

When on a Monday in the middle of the month I had heard that from three different people before 10:30, I felt as though the day couldn’t get any worse: I was mistaken, as a mere ten minutes later it did. Continue reading

The Assignment

By M.P. Witwer

“He would never forget those hands.” Frowning, Karen crossed out the sentence — too ambiguous.

She shifted nervously in the waiting room chair, trying to concentrate on her creative writing assignment to “craft a complete, unequivocal story using six words.”

“Screw you and your impossible assignment.” Probably wouldn’t fly.

Eventually, just one line remained:

“Relief came, then tears: ‘It’s benign.’”

Perfect. With a wan smile, she nodded in faint satisfaction.

Upon hearing her name called, however, Karen’s anxiety returned. She stowed her notebook, rose unsteadily and followed the nurse — clutching a fervent hope that life was about to imitate art.

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© 2013 by M.P. Witwer • All rights reserved

A Word Geek Visits the Doctor

By Maggie Rascal

It’s a dire diagnosis for our intrepid heroine…

“We don’t see you in here often, Maggie. What seems to be the trouble today?”

“Well, doctor, its this darn apostrophe, thats how it started but things has got alot worse in the past couple days. I should of came in sooner. I know.”

“What exactly do you mean, ‘this darn apostrophe’? I don’t see any apostrophe.”

“Precisely my point! It went missing where I want it, than shows up where you know it should ought not be.”

“Ah, I understand. Your dilemma with apostrophe usage is just part of a much larger problem. Continue reading