Let Go, She Said

“What do you think you’re doing, young man?”

The waiting room on platform 10, a jewel of early 20th century art deco, was rather crowded, but Lady Sophie had – as always - the most comfortable seat. She lay down her book, a first print of ‘Homicide on the Western Rapid’ by Dame AC Miller. Lady Sophie was absolutely ill tempered, because she was about to discover what the brilliant detective Benoni Pommier was about to úncover.

“If you don’t let go of my handbag immediately, you’d better start praying. Let your undoubtedly very rare little grey cells do their work.”

From Guest Contributor Hervé Suys

Hervé Suys (°1968 - Ronse, Belgium) started writing whilst recovering from a sports injury. To impress wife, kids and closest friends, he does this barefooted and hatless.

Missing

He felt he’d been travelling. Couldn’t be sure. His memory was as misty as the panorama. It looked like Kiev: all those domed churches. How would I know that? The question hung there, unspoken. The answer ignored it.

He looked down at shapely legs and high-heels. What the–

The world spun. Elise was a woman: always had been. The last thing she remembered was the headache at Lloyds. Oh God...work. Did I walk out?

She reached into her handbag. Passport, cash, credit cards...no tickets.

She determined to make a doctor’s appointment the minute she got home.

From Guest Contributor Perry McDaid

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.