Straight or Left

lake-pontchartrain-ksbrooks-creditedBy M.P. Witwer

Taking a deep breath and pursing her lips, Tanya depressed the accelerator. Straight it would be.

Straight away from her lifetime home. Straight into the unknown. Straight onto the longest bridge in the world — ironic for someone panicky about crossing bridges, but that was how desperate her situation had become.

After discovering his great-grandmother’s “collection,” Jesse had immersed himself in the dark arts, over time morphing into a scary and paranoid Doppelganger, the very opposite of the man she had married.

When Tanya confronted him, he claimed it was all in fun, that the bizarre rituals he performed didn’t really do anything. But she knew better, on both counts. The last straw came when she found him, trance-like, mumbling an incantation over their wedding photo. Tanya waited until he’d left, then packed the car and headed for the bridge.

Her fear lifted as she drove. She felt ready to start over, comfortable facing the unfamiliar.

All too soon, however, the “other side” began to seem familiar. Frighteningly familiar. Spotting a Piggly Wiggly store just like the one at home didn’t unsettle her, but seeing the identical twin of their local diner next to it did. An exact replica of Pontchartrain Elementary three blocks away sent her into a cold sweat. Tanya haltingly followed her usual route, dread growing with each well-known landmark. She parked and sat in terrified silence, staring at her house — and Jesse out front, expecting her.

“Welcome home, darlin’,” he drawled, his eyes gleaming red. “Welcome home.

* * *
© 2015 by M.P. Witwer • All rights reserved

Originally published at www.indiesunlimited.com on April 10, 2015. Photo of Lake Pontchartrain © K.S. Brooks. Do not use without attribution.

Woof

Jack-Russel-TerrierBy Steffanie

It’s a dog’s life looking out for family.

“Hello, boy.”

“Woof.” It’s Twink, actually.

“Here, boy.”

“Woof. Woof.” Watch it, stranger. Don’t go getting familiar. I need to check you out first, give you a good sniffing and…

“C’mon, boy. Come here.”

“Woof. Woof.” What’s with the orders? I don’t think I like your attitude. This is MY neighborhood and I’m a double-hard Jack Russel. So behave or I’ll…

“Come on. Come here, you little…”

“Woof. Woof. Woof.” Right. That’s it. I warned you. Now have some of THIS. Continue reading

Sweet Things

candy

By Allison M. Dickson

As the author herself puts it, this is a sinister little tale. Consider yourself warned.

It was Halloween night, so of course…razor blades. Also needles and wood splinters and rat poison. But just a dash. He didn’t want to kill anybody. He just wanted them to cry. Maybe they would never eat candy again. Maybe they wouldn’t turn into fat little slobs. Maybe they would live longer and have better teeth.

Maybe he was saving humanity.

Parents were crafty little inspectors, so he’d honed his skills over the years, each little candy bar a painstaking operation that would make a surgeon weep with envy. A singular puncture hole, a slightly imperfect seal, and all his hard work would be so much refuse for rats or other garbage bin carrion, and that would not do.

The right tools were essential. Fine tweezers for opening the ends of each package, a commercial heat sealer for closing them back up again so they looked fresh from the factory. A pair of tin snips for making the bits of needles and razor blades into devious silver confetti to be sprinkled carefully throughout each confection. A mortar and pestle to grind the rat poison into a fine powder so that he could combine it with a viscous mixture to be inserted with a hypodermic needle, undetectable particularly amid the caramel varieties.

He found a soldering iron to be useful for melting the chocolate back over the places he’d inserted his special ingredients. No one would detect his trickery—until it was too late. After his treatment, the candy looked just as it did before. Perhaps even better.

He was a maestro of the subtle. Continue reading

Savages

Winner of the Stories Space ‘Darkness and Light’ Contest

By Steffanie

It would be a much darker world without choice.

A female has moved into my territory, a healthy young blonde, ripe for breeding and bearing good child. She could be my mate, once I’ve captured her, subdued her and proved my worth as her man.

Sounds easy enough, but this female is small, flighty and quick. One stray sound and she’s off like the wind, racing through shadows to seek cover amongst the ruins and rubble. I’ve no hope of chasing her down, so instead I’m intent on outwitting her and steering her into a trap.

The female is cautious and cunning, she takes heed of her senses before making a move and takes no chances at all until the hot sun begins to go down. Only in twilight will she head for the water source and this evening I’m ready for her, I’m watching her every move as I lie hidden downwind.

She’s a survivor and clever as such, but not so smart as to realize that following predictable behavior is a serious mistake. I am the hunter and she is my prey. Her routine is her weakness and gives me the only advantage I need to help corner her.

My plan is simple and my trap is already in place. I’ll hold off a little while longer, then move in on her from the west. Doubtless she’ll break straight away, her fine legs carrying her east along the only clear alleyway, the one between what’s left of the two tower blocks.

She’ll think she’s heading for escape, with a choice of two corners leading to any number of hide outs. Only both routes are narrow and I’ve blocked them, nothing elaborate, but enough to delay her for a few precious seconds. That’s all I’ll need, a brief moment to catch up and grab hold of her.

Continue reading

The Spelling Bee

By Maggie Rascal


Some words that don’t exist, really ought to.   

“The word is ‘peppier,’ pronounced ‘pep-ee-ay’,” announced the spelling bee moderator.

“Definition, please,” replied the entrant, launching by rote into the set of questions she had been taught to ask.

“One who grinds spice onto a diner’s food at a restaurant.”

“What is the origin?”wordcloud

“‘Peppier’ is faux French.”

“Faux French?”

“Yes, that is, it is not truly a French word, but rather a made-up word pronounced in French fashion.”

“Oh, I see. Can you use it in a sentence, please?”

“Pepé, a pretentious, portly peppier with a prominent proboscis, was particularly parsimonious in peppering, his pharaonic phallus producing a paltry portion of the precious provision over my pappardelle pasta.”

“His pharaonic phallus? You do realize I’m in seventh grade, don’t you?”

“Our apologies. We can repeat the sentence without the offending terminology if you wish.”

“No thank you, that won’t be necessary. Peppier: P-E-P-P-I-E-R.”

“Congratulations, that is correct. Please take a seat with the others who have advanced.

“The next word is ‘hinge’; it rhymes with ‘thing’…”

* * *
© 2012 by M.P. Witwer • All rights reserved

Dave World

By Steffanie

There’s a Dave for everything.

The Rock Bar, what a dive, peeling paint on the door and Fat Dave still hasn’t fixed that smashed window. The place is dark and seedy but I love it, it’s where I first met the missus, God bless her.

Nothing much changes in The Rock Bar, same crappy fittings, same beer, same music. Although one thing is new, a Dave Grohl poster is up on the wall alongside the Floyd’s Dave Gilmour — quite an honor for the American upstart to be in such company, if only he knew he’d finally made it.

“Alright, Dave? The usual?”

“Yeah. Cheers, Dave.”

“How’s the little lady, Dave?”

Fat Dave always asks after Steffanie. He’s a bone idle slob but he’d stick his neck out anytime for my wife, she’s an angel in his eyes… and mine too of course.

“As air-brained as ever,” I tell him, which she is.

“Best barmaid I ever had,” Dave says. “You fixed that motor yet?”

Bit of a sore point there, one damn thing after another. New clutch, new diff’ and now a new alternator is needed. My bargain BMW is proving to be anything but. Continue reading

Cheese and Onion Sandwiches

By Steffanie

I don’t watch much TV these days, it keeps reminding me that it’s partly my fault our country is in such a mess. I’m not spending enough money to fuel our economy and when I do spend my only reward is a warning to save more to finance my old age.cheese-and-onion-sandwich

The newsreader says I’m using far too much electricity, oil and water, I also eat the wrong things and drink far too much alcohol in the evenings. I’m so useless I can’t even dispose of my rubbish correctly and if I take a walk along the beach I’m told my presence will only pollute it.

Where can I begin to help put things right?

How can I save the economy and the environment?

The answer is I can’t, not as things stand. The big social economy is doomed to years of stagflation and the elite who’ve grown fat on it should kiss good-bye to swilling champagne at their banquets. They preach austerity to me and my family, yet there’s no sign of them setting an example. We’re more than happy with tea and sandwiches and so should they be, seeing as they claim to be so concerned about our nation’s diminishing resources.

When I say “tea and sandwiches” I mean it quite literally, my husband now takes a lunchbox to work and we save almost two pounds in money every day. Our base costs have contracted and we’ve already noticed the benefits – which are far more than merely financial. 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.

* * *
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

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