Fantasy Winners

Were the Newtown Bluebirds getting worse? Their last loss was 19-0. The one before that, 17-0.

Coach Mel Fromberg, at the practice field, addressed the Little Leaguers.

"Winners. We're going to be winners."

“Close your eyes, everybody. "

It was to be a group-fantasy-session.

"See yourself as a winner. Then, see the whole team of winners…"

"Eddie? A winner?" Steve Bramwell, the second-baseman, said he couldn't see it.

Eddie Franklin, the shortstop, said the same of Steve.

"Try again," demanded Mel, his eyes still closed. But Steve? Eddie? The Bluebirds? Winners? What kind of task had Mel set for them all?

From Guest Contributor David Sydney

Monty Rediscovers Home

Six-year-old Monty, a master of his plastic sword, calculates strikes against imaginary giants while he takes cover behind backyard trees. When his mother’s voice pierces through his fantasy, calling him for dinner, the warrior boy marches home victorious.

Forty-year-old Monty daydreams of being a fearless commander defending his country against terrorists and, at night, dreams of being a superhero saving his city from crime and corruption.

While cleaning out his garage, Monty finds his plastic sword and wields it again, destroying enemies with a battle cry whoop. The brave boy/man rediscovers his inner sanctuary to face his lackluster world.

From Guest Contributor Leigh-Anne Burley

Fantasy

Have you ever had a day where you just want to fantasize? I have. After long hours at a desk, on the way home after finding a seat on the railroad, I close my eyes and envision flying the Millennium Falcon. Chewbacca sits beside me, while Han Solo is working on something in the back room, cracking jokes. I make the jump to lightspeed and Chewbacca roars. I slowly cruise through the darkness of space and admire the surrounding planets.

Life is good and I’m excited about our mission.

The conductor announces my stop.

I exit the train to reality.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

The Land

Matthew leaned against the chain-link fence and looked out at the land which had once been his family’s land. Now a housing development was being built on it where the bountiful trees had once stood.

He had listened to his grandmother talk about that piece of land as if it was a fantasy that she could never quite believe was real. He sold it immediately after his father’s death.

Overcome with guilt and shame he stood there next to the fence for a while trying to remember what the land looked like years before but he just couldn’t picture it.

From Guest Contributor Zane Castillo

The Conductor

Sunil's adolescent fantasy of being a bus conductor was now fulfilled. Nubile women pressed against him in strategic spots, he smirked.

At Valanchery, a horde of schoolgirls boarded. Sunil could barely squeeze through to sell tickets. This was heaven.

At Vattappara, thirteen aunties got on. Commuters. Other passengers were in hell. Sunil attained paradise. Though paradise was slightly suffocating.

At Kakkad, the tension eased slightly, but before Sunil could exhale, twenty quavering old biddies surged into the bus. A handbag knocked against Sunil's temple.

When the bus pulled into Ramanattukara bus stand, Sunil was no longer in this world. Literally.

From Guest Contributor Aparna Nandakumar

Aparna lives in Calicut, India, and writes stories and poems. Her work has been published in Atticus Review and previously at 100 Words, and is forthcoming in Cafe Dissensus and Red River Review.

Fantasy Realm

From a young age, Donald preferred the life of his imagination to the doldrums of the real world. He concocted fantasies that transcended the bounds of his normal life, dreams that promised the fulfillment of wishes he barely dared to comprehend.

In his fantasy world, Donald was no longer trapped in the circumstances of his birth. He had the freedom to literally fly to distant lands and make choices for himself instead of being dictated to.

It was always with bitter regret that Donald abandoned those visions and was forced to return to his life as the King of Scotland.

Gothic Punishments

The idea was to keep piling bricks until you'd walled yourself into a tomb of your own making. It was all very Gothic, something straight out of Poe.

For Walter Rochester, however, the laying of bricks was not strictly a punishment. He found the monotonous labor helped to relieve his mind of thoughts of his unfulfilled existence and he embraced the endeavor. Where others resigned themselves with morbid indifference, Walter used the opportunity to indulge all of his latent fantasies.

His father had forbid him to attend architecture school, so his tomb would be a monument to those abandoned ambitions.

Forever Lost

Her most prized possession, what she cared for more than anything she had ever owned, more than her own person, was forever lost.

All that ever mattered to her was that small trinket, given to her by her dad, with the words, "Treasure it always."

She had been so young when he died, and that keepsake was all she had to remember him by.

Of course, she knew that it was all imagined, that her Dad was still alive, but the fantasy was more important than reality. She wanted this other life, and so she would keep looking for it.