Hard To Swallow

We take the caddy everywhere; it is a modern Grand Tour.

During our European escapades my brother was the fourth cavalier, so we are retracing our trip of a lifetime: Oslo, Paris and Tuscany; Ljubljana and Granada.

Back in England, my wife welcomes us before we leave for the final destination: Bibury, the most beautiful village in England.

She makes steaming mugs of tea and we toast my friend, my brother, tears welling in our eyes. Then it is time to move, and I pick up the caddy.

It’s empty. He’s gone.

My wife is ashen-faced.

And we turn green.

From Guest Contributor Hugh Cartwright

Flying Jack

CONTEST SUBMISSION:

Jack watched the planes fly with wonder. As a puppy, he aimed high. As a teen, Clark Kent and YouTube inspired.

He left soaring.

Networking at airport lounges was his forte. Frequent flyer points reached Gold Star status, so he flew over many oceans visiting his poodle friend Jeanette in Paris, Rob Retriever in St. Louis, and Sheepdog Barbie (named after the Barbecue and not the famous long-legged, wrinkle free doll) in the Aussie Outback.

When jet lag took its toll, Jack chose rails. When arthritis restricted movement, brimming with nostalgia, he watched the planes fly by, grieving what was.From Guest Contributor Isabelle B.L

Isabelle is a teacher based in France. She has published a novel inspired by the life of a New Caledonian feminist and politician. Her work can be found in the Birth Lifespan Vol. 1 and Growing Up Lifespan Vol. 2 anthologies for Pure Slush Books, Flash Fiction Magazine, A Story in 100 Words, Visual Verse, The Cabinet of Heed, Ample Remains, Found Polaroids, Five Minutes, Kitchen Sink Magazine, and Splintered Disorder Press. Her work is forthcoming in Drunk Monkeys.

A Piece Of History

The suicide stopped drowning for a minute to pose for the art students sketching on the riverbank. It happened about the time Sartre claimed he was being followed through the streets of Paris by a pair of rare blue lobsters. The bearded lady sat at the window, beautiful in her own way, but struggling to decide whether or not she should start to shave. Even though Hitler was dead, the screams from the gas chambers went on. People in the surrounding area would later say they thought it was just the collection of apple-cheeked Hummel figurines above the fake fireplace. From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie is the author of The Death Row Shuffle, forthcoming from Finishing Line Press. He co-edits the online journals Unbroken and UnLost.

Later Life

Given the choice, I would want to be the sort of shrewd, goatish old man it’s said Rodin was, strolling the broad boulevards and ornate arcades of Paris after a productive morning in the studio, a young Russian-born French lady leaning lightly on his arm, and if her eyes were too wide apart for her to be considered a classic beauty, or if she didn’t actually read any of the books he recommended, he wouldn’t care, because it had just turned fall, and the air was like a crisp white wine, and they always felt at least a little drunk.From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie co-edits the journals Unbroken and UnLost.

The Appointment

“But everything looks so tired and worn here.”

“You were the one who wanted to come to Paris to die.”

“Doesn’t everybody?”

I took her hand and pointed. “There it is. That’s the café.”

We pushed through the crowd at the door and found a table for two.

“Everyone here looks so old,” she said.

“Except for that beautiful girl at the bar.”

“Madame et monsieur. Vous desirez?”

“Do you speak English?”

“Yes.”

“Who is the beautiful girl at the bar?”

“That is Death.”

“But I thought Death was...”

“Monsieur, the older one gets the more beautiful Death becomes.”

From Guest Contributor Reynold Junker

The Scent Of A City

She hasn’t unpacked yet. The clothes still smell of Paris. No, not of butter and cigarettes. Of that indescribable smell that is the smell of the City of Light.

Cities are redolent beings, each one with a distinct indescribable scent. Indescribable because Bombay doesn't just smell of sea waves caressing concrete, raindrops infusing with sweat on a monsoon day, or fried green chillies consorting with vada paos. Bombay smells of Bombay.

She needs them clothes now.

They didn’t tell her that you can carry a smell across 7,000 kilometers but there’s simply nothing you can do to make it stay.

From Guest Contributor Sheena Arora

Is This The Beginning Or The End Of The Story

Gary swatted at the prick on his leg. Of all the days to get a bee sting, it had to be his wedding day. He wasn't allergic, but it hurt like hell. He walked with an obvious limp for the rest of the day.

When he visited the doctor in Paris, three days later, the swelling had grown to the size of a tennis ball. The pain was debilitating. The doctor came in with a look of concern.

"The bad news is you're dying. The good news is that your bee sting has opened a gateway into a parallel universe."

Mona Lisa

The murder happened right in front of me, yet not one of the detectives ever bothered to question me about it. They had to know I was a witness. I've witnessed so many things during my lifetime that it gets rather tiresome not to be able to share.

I suppose I should give you some background on the whole affair. You've probably heard about it by now. A murder in the world's most famous museum tends to make headlines. Jean was an overnight security guard in the Salle des États who was found dead on the morning of October 22, 2012. He did not die of natural causes.

I was privy to much of the early investigation. The body had no outward sign of physical trauma, but based on the extreme contortion of Jean's corpse, the Paris police suspected a homicide. More than one of the attending magistrates remarked they had never seen such a horrified expression and everyone agreed that Jean must have died in tremendous pain. I could have confirmed their suspicions, and told them things about Jean that no one else has ever known. I have a gift for drawing secrets out of a person.

After questioning Jean's wife, they learned about his marital troubles, about his mounting debt, about his failure as a student and lack of career prospects. They probably read a few of his poems and combed through his journals and emails. They would have seen my name written down, but still, no one thought to ask about my involvement. They were focused on the wife, even though she didn't care enough anymore to commit murder.

Jean's death, because of the location and the mysterious circumstances, made national news. As the investigation dragged on and no suspects panned out--even the cause of death was still a mystery--the national police fell under heavy criticism. Dismissal wasn't an option, but several investigators were moved to lesser departments and it would be years before anyone associated with the affair was promoted.

The museum directors at first pushed for a speedy resolution. They wanted the crime scene opened back up to the public immediately and were pushing for suicide or heart failure as the cause of death. But they soon realized that the sensationalism of the press coverage was driving attendance to record levels. I felt trapped inside a Dan Brown novel.

Time passed, as it always does. By this point, most people have forgotten about Jean. His wife has remarried and his mother has entered senility. He never had any children, and, more tragically, his poetry was never published. You never know which creative works will be cherished by future generations.

I still remember. What I recall most fondly about Jean was the way he looked at me. He'd stare for hours all by himself, as if I were the most beautiful woman in the world. He'd ramble and share his ideas and recite drafts he'd written, but mostly he just stared. It was as if he knew that sometimes, even when you're surrounded by people all day, it's still very easy to feel alone.

In the end, my desire to have Jean all to myself overcame my modesty. His life may have belonged to others, but his death was all mine. It wasn't enough to overcome my loneliness, but there are always small comforts to be found in other people's secrets.

This longer piece was written for the Flash Fiction Challenge at Terrible Minds.