A Special Education

Our daily newspaper when I was growing up would publish on Saturdays a page of commentaries, advice columns, comics, etc., by teenagers. Although I can’t remember the exact subject of my commentary – the unfortunate phrase “the rising tide of communism” sticks in my mind – I do remember my intense pride of authorship. For the first time, I felt avenged on all the adults who had ever undervalued me. I deliberately showed the clipping, with my name and age, 13, in boldface at the bottom, to Mr. Eakely, my eighth-grade English teacher. “What’s that?” he said, pointing at the number. “Your IQ?”

From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie Good is the author of Failed Haiku, a poetry collection that is the co-winner of the 2021 Grey Book Press Chapbook Contest and scheduled for publication in summer 2022.

Muscle Memory

Other residents would cradle baby dolls, designed to match the heft of a newborn. But for Grandpa, who’d been one of America’s top reporters, only a typewriter would do. It didn’t even need paper; as the nurses discovered, simply sitting at the antique Olivetti was enough to quell his nightmares. Though his mind was gone, his fingers retained echoes of his memories, shaping them into the staccato sound of clacking keys.

He would sit there, morning to night, at his little utilitarian desk. And while he never produced a single page, we still cherished each and every word he wrote.

From Guest Contributor Keshe Chow

Election

It’s election night and everyone is on edge, waiting to hear if the candidate they voted for wins. I don’t discuss politics with friends or family since it only leads to arguments. In some cases, I blocked friends on my social media page because they’ve become too involved discussing politics and arguing.

Whoever wins I will be grateful whether it’s for the candidate I voted for or not. They are strong leaders and I envision a great country with a thriving economy.

The winner has been declared. It isn’t who I voted for, but regardless, I’m happy.

Bless this country.

From Guest Contributor Lisa Scuderi-Burkimsher

Echo Of Time

I watched the child in the blue sweatshirt jump in the leaves, laughing. What a delight to have heard the echo of his chortle as I sat with the cool autumn breeze against my face. I had my novel opened at the same page for the last fifteen minutes, my eyes focused on the fair-haired boy.

He plopped down, waved his hands through the leaves and looked at the clear sky.

I closed my book and lifted myself up with my cane.

The boy had gone and all I saw were leaves blowing in the park.

That boy was me.

From Guest Contributor Lisa Scuderi-Burkimsher

Possibly Stephen

The writer stared at the page, expecting inspiration to spring at him from the fibres of the old-style reporters’ notebook.

Words trickled...gushed...cascaded. He ripped the page out, rolled it into a tight ball and chucked. It bounced off the bin, thran as the incorporeal muse.

“What was wrong with that?” she asked, form flickering in the draught.

“It was in Latin,” he spat.

She giggled a bit. “Sorry, my mind wandered. I know, how about–?”

“Look, could you put on something less filmy. It’s distracting. Tired, not dead.”

“Tweeds okay?”

He nodded, and wrote Misery.

From Guest Contributor Perry McDaid

The Last Temptation Of Jane

The paper sat before her, yet Jane feared to look at what was written upon it.

Her training was very clear. If there was ever any doubt as to her immediate circumstances, she was to find a piece of written material. By looking at the words on the page, then turning away, then looking back, she could confirm whether she was in the waking world or not. If the words remained unchanged, she was awake. If the words had changed, it was a dream.

Dreams could be very dangerous. But if this was a dream, Jane didn't want to know.

Reflex Action

The front page of the morning newspaper is carrying a photo of the xenophobic, misogynistic new President.

Suddenly I spit. Expectorant deluges the photo and page. It is an uncontrollable reflex action. I couldn’t suppress it. It’s not like I knew it was going to happen or had planned it.

The commuters in the subway car look at me in silence. I am embarrassed. I am also sorry for damaging a complete stranger’s newspaper.

It was when he raised his open newspaper to read it, the front page photo loomed in front of my face triggering this; a reflex action.

Dysfunction 3

“Some days you just can’t write,” he said aloud.

The citrus-scented candle was not impressed. The flame didn’t even react to his big sigh. It sat on the side table oozing atmosphere but no empathy.

“Oh yeah?” he snapped at it. “When you’re burnt out that’s the end of you. I prevail.”

Hiatus… Odd looks in his direction and muttered comments from bar patrons fused as he tried to blink his tired eyes clear. In the bright honey light, they became drones attending the queen behind the counter: alkaloid aromas their insectoid murmurs of my intrusion.

The page remained blank.

From Guest Contributor Perry McDaid

The Poet's Life

I sat on the large stone in the middle of the picnic field. I had my notebook out and was busy scribbling away. There were couples and families and dogs and blankets. There was food and sport and laughter and a few tears. The more life unfurled around me, the faster my pencil lurched across the page.

This is the life of the poet. A life of watching. You might call me a mirror, or a tape recorder. I am an instrument.

But life is lived whether we laugh and love our way to death or record others doing it.

Endeavor

Chet sat his desk daily in four-hour shifts from 6am to 7pm, with fifteen-minute breaks in between. The working conditions weren’t the worst he’d encountered. At least they had a ceiling fan.

Chet’s job was to type the word “endeavor.” When he was first hired, sixteen years ago, his word had been “the,” but then Peterson had died and so he got promoted.

Every fifteen seconds, a new page was handed to him, and he typed his word. Then the page was taken away, and a new page came. They were distributed randomly, going from station to station, until they had 120 pages. Mostly the scripts were incoherent gibberish, but every once in a while, they’d have a blockbuster.

Though Chet didn’t think it was a very efficient system, Hollywood found it cheaper than training monkeys to use a typewriter. Chet certainly wasn’t going to complain. It beat crunching numbers.

Today's story is exactly 150 words, but you get it for the same low price as always!