Singularity

Universe of skies
collapsing
g r a v I t y
spinning compasses
forge their deviance
inward
magnetic poles drift
                    s
                    o
                    u
                    t
                    h
      whisper secrets
      squeezing truth
until you
*STOP*
Just stop.
      Just stop.
Waterfalls
In the dark
Wash the entire world
My hands
Don't know
what
to touch

Winner Announcement--Endless Hour Short Fiction Contest

The moment you have been waiting for has arrived! It's my pleasure to recognize the following writers:

1st Place--TREVOR RECORD, Sleep (#40)
[Prize: $25 Amazon gift certificate, 8 x 10 print of the "Endless Hour" photograph (inscribed by Jason Evans)]

2nd Place--SEAN FERRELL, Talking Down the Flames (#35)
[Prize: $20 Amazon gift certificate]

3rd Place--REBECCA HENDRICKS, Superstar (#54)
[Prize: $15 Amazon gift certificate]

4th Place--JAYE WELLS, Werewife (#7)
[Prize: $10 Amazon gift certificate]

5th Place--KATHERINE NAPIER, Reality Bytes (#19)
[Prize: $5 Amazon gift certificate]

Honorable Mention--JUDE ENSAFF, Case #453 (#13)

Honorable Mention--BRILLIANT DONKEY, It's All Relative (#25)

Honorable Mention--BETH, Things We Cannot Say (#26)

Honorable Mention--G. LI, Afterglow (#36)

Honorable Mention--JOHN MCAULEY, Steak & Pork Brains (#55)


READERS' CHOICE AWARD:

Readers' Choice--JAYE WELLS, Werewife (#7)
[Prize: $15 Amazon gift certificate, 8 x 10 print of the "Endless Hour" photograph (inscribed by Jason Evans)]

1st Runner-Up, Readers' Choice--ESTHER AVILA, Table for Eight (#31)

*********

Now that you've caught your breath, let me thank you again for a wonderful contest. As usual, choosing from among the top scorers was horribly difficult. So many were strong. There are more deserving entries than are recognized here, I assure you!

STATS
Just how successful was it? Your writing has generated 12,182 hits from 2,666 unique visitors! You should give yourselves a round of applause.

MORE COMMENTS
Over the course of next few days, I will be adding a comment to each entry saying what I liked best. If you would like constructive comments by private email, just let me know at jevanswriter at yahoo dot com.

KEEP THE COMMUNITY GOING
Don't let the community end here. I hope to see all of you back here at The Clarity of Night and on your own blogs. Let me know if you'd like to trade links.

*********

And now, I'll wish you all a good night. Feel free to contact me anytime. You'll always find a welcoming place here.

(Normal Clarity of Night content returns tomorrow.)

Readers' Choice Voting is Closed

It's Saturday night at 11:00 p.m., so that means Readers' Choice voting is closed. Thanks everyone for the amazing entries, the comments, and time you took to cast your votes!

**Winners Announcement Sunday Night**

I hope you have your acceptance speeches ready!

See you soon.

The Witch of Blackberry Hill

(Anne Frasier has been a great friend both to me and to The Clarity of Night. After reading your entries, the Endless Hour photograph must have burrowed into her brain, because one morning she woke up and pounded out this story. You can find her, and more about her painfully cool novels, over at her blog, Static.)

***Keep those Readers' Choice Votes coming!***

The Witch of Blackberry Hill
by Anne Frasier

Once the snow melts, they come.

Curiosity seekers searching for my house, looking for a thrill and maybe a bit of immortality. They bring cameras and equipment meant to find me, meant to capture my shadow or the whisper of my feet against the stairs. Some of them have been here before. Some have been here many times.

But they don’t know me. None of them know me.

There is no one left to tell of the rivers I swam, the sandcastles I built, or the hearts I broke. They will never know of the man I loved and the children I never had. It doesn’t bother me. I look forward to the spring when the snow melts. Occasionally I will caress a cheek or the back of a neck. The curious will turn and almost see me, the fear and life in their eyes a reminder that I was once more than this.

I can hear them now, their voices echoing through the woods.

They come.

Saturday Afternoon

(I can't help joining in myself! Here is my vision of the Endless Hour photo. I'm also happy to announce that The Clarity of Night hit a milestone yesterday, it's 100,000th visit! The lucky person is J. Scott Ellis, Entry #15. He's earned himself a $10 Amazon Gift certificate in honor of occassion. Thank you everyone!)


Saturday Afternoon
by Jason Evans


"What's your name again?"

"Derek."

"How are you holding up?"

"Fine."

"Tell you what Derek. We've got this ridge covered. Can you swing down along the road? We don’t have many searchers there."

Derek nodded.

"Appreciate it."

The guy's radio squawked, and Derek followed the pointing arm.

Up the mountainside, the treetops blushed red. Buds were splitting. In a slant of sunlight, pear blossoms flamed like bouquets of snow.

Three volunteers emerged from the old Raster cottage ahead. A ragged hole cratered the roof, and every window was broken.

"You think they'll find her?" one said.

"I hope so."

The tall man shook his head. "Look, kids don't wander off and disappear. Someone grabbed her."

Derek hung back. He didn't want to talk.

Poking the bushes, the group circled the cottage. Their calls faded.

Derek slipped through the doorway. Such a disaster inside. Piles of junk and twenty years of mold.

He sat in the shade and drew a deep breath.

A fly hummed by.

Strange how no one belonged here anymore. Except maybe someone lonely like him.

Maybe.

He blinked away his thoughts. Flies crept through the cracked paint under the sink. They slipped in and out of the cabinet. Way too many flies.

Bile seared his throat.

When he saw her on TV, he should've known he would never save her. Heroes find little girls, not dead bodies.

He slunk outside and shoved through the next wave of volunteers toward home.

Something else might be good on TV.

Readers' Choice Voting

My friends, the "Endless Hour" Short Fiction Contest is now closed. Thank you for another great turn-out with excellent writing!

**WINNERS ANNOUNCEMENT SUNDAY NIGHT**

But the fun is not over!

READERS' CHOICE AWARD
Voting for the Readers' Choice Award is now open!!

This portion of the contest is open to all people who submitted an entry. Here are the rules:

1. Contest participants are invited to vote on their top 5 favorite entries by emailing me their votes to jevanswriter at yahoo dot com.
   
2. Please vote by entry number and list your votes from 1 to 5 with 1 being your top vote.
   
3. I will award 5 points for your 1st vote, 4 points for your 2nd vote, 3 points for your 3rd, 2 points for your 4th, and 1 point for your 5th.
   
4. You may not vote for your own entry. Please specify your entry number at the beginning of the email.
   
5. At the close of Readers' Choice Award voting, I will tally the points. The winner will be the entry with the most points.
   
6. I guarantee at least one Readers' Choice Award; however, depending upon the results of the contest, I reserve the right to award additional Readers' Choice Awards in the order of their rank. Additional awards, if given, may be with or without a prize.

Keep your favorites in mind. Enjoy your own judging, and above all, have fun!

Cast your votes before 11:00 p.m. Eastern Time (U.S.), Saturday, April 28, 2007.

Lastly, in the tradition of contests at The Clarity of Night, tomorrow I will share with you my own vision of the "Endless Hour" photo. Have a good night!

The "Endless Hour" Short Fiction Contest

***THE CONTEST IS CLOSED***

Click HERE for the winners announcement.

Click HERE for the contest announcement, prizes, and rules.

Index of Entries

Ares, Tricia, Hand Me Down (#5)
Avila, Esther, Table for Eight (#31), 1st Runner-up, Readers' Choice
Baker, Jack, On the Set of The WaterGIRL (#57)
Best, Mark, Loyalty Above All Else, Except Honor (#27)
Beth, Things We Cannot Say (#26), Honorable Mention
Brilliant Donkey, It's All Relative (#25), Honorable Mention
Canterbury Soul, Moebius (#34)
Chong, YL, Kak Left With the Postman (#44)
Cunningham, Mike, The Message (#46)
Dawson, Bob, Fertilizer Becomes Her (#23)
Douglas, Sam, Life Till Now (#28)
Ellis, J. Scott, Never Eat the Worm (#15)
Ensaff, Jude, Case # 453 (#13), Honorable Mention
Evans, Jason, Saturday Afternoon, Your Host
Ferrell, Sean, Talking Down the Flames, (#35) 2ND PLACE
Flemming, Susan, Care and Cleaning (#48)
Frasier, Anne, The Witch of Blackberry Hill, Special Guest
Gagnon. Donna, Domestic Spirits (#10)
George, Kaye, The Last Hour (#51)
Gilbert, Kaye, Through a Clean Circle (#11)
Gordon, Betty, One Last Time (#30)
Haws, Joni, Break (#12)
Heather, Again (#33)
Helene, Michele, Too Late, He Said, Too Late (#16)
Hendricks, Rebecca, Superstar (#54), 3RD PLACE
Hoffman, Gary R., Two Ways to Die (#20)
Jennifer, Entry #8
Johnston, SF, Skeleton Life (#32)
Kearney, Seamus, Marble Point (#17)
Kintheatl, Like Magic (#18)
Lazzara, Stephanie, After the Flood (#58)
Lehane, DBA, Never Never Land (#37)
Li, G., Afterglow (#36), Honorable Mention
Liadis, Paul, College (#1)
Longoria, Aaron, The Quiet Time (#50)
Lynn, Terri, Unwanted Life (#4)
Martinez, Mike, Janie’s Endless Hour (#41)
Maser, Jill, The Call (#14)
McAuley, John, Steak & Pork Brains (#55), Honorable Mention
Mermaid, Escape (#53)
Minx, Coming Home (#29)
Mutley The Dog, Washing Up (#21)
Napier, Katherine, Reality Bytes (#19), 5TH PLACE
Nolte, Roberta, Waiting It Out (#9)
Nothingman, Dirty Rose (#43)
Piper, Fran, Belonging (#59)
Procopio, Leesha, Desolate Heart (#47)
Rakeesh, Navatha, The Mind Games (#24)
Record, Trevor, Sleep (#40), 1ST PLACE
Rel, Realtor’s Gaff (#38)
Scheer, Wayne, Another Evening Like the One Before (#52)
Schprock, Mr., Darkness (#45)
Seamans, Sandra, Retaliation (#39)
Smith, Christian, Hot Shot (#22)
Wandering Author, Unkind Truth (#42)
Wavemancali, Weep Willow, Weep (#6)
Weagly, John, Mama’s Drapes (#2)
Welch, Terri, Domestic Bliss (#49)
Wells, Jaye, Werewife (#7), 4TH PLACE & READERS' CHOICE
Wells, Maht, Without Rose (#3)
Wright, C.Z., She Wanted to Be a Trapeze Artist (#56)

Entry #59

Belonging
By Fran Piper


The photograph of the woman peeks from the drawer. She wears a pinstripe business suit and an expensive haircut. Theresa regards her reflection in the mirror; sun-dried hair grown wild and long, cheap sundress, worn flip-flops. Who would recognize her? Of course, that was always the point. But now she can't even remember how it felt to wear a suit.

She had imagined a solitary life in the desert. When she arrived, she found her new home in the middle of a trailer park. Trash floated in the gritty wind; old air conditioners droned and clattered. It was like a foreign country. But he would never think to look for her here, so she stayed.

A knock at the door. Sharona calls "Hi, honey! You home?"

Almost immediately people had begun to stop by with food and curiosity; solitude was impossible.

"Hi, Sharona. You want iced tea?"

The tea jar sits among the dirty dishes. It's not that she's lazy. She's found that around here there's just too much living to do. People watch soap operas and the shopping networks, drink and fight, make up and make love. There's no time for neatness.

"You look tired, sweetie," Sharona says. "How about a movie? Luanne can
babysit."

"What's showing?"

Sharona shrugs. They both know it doesn't matter. The point is to drink
soda and eat popcorn, make eyes at the guys in the next row.

Theresa slams the drawer; the woman disappears.

"OK," she says. "Let's go."

Entry #58

After the Flood
by Stephanie Lazzara


She came home late that afternoon in July. The front door stuck oddly to the old oak floors so she had to squeeze her body sideways to get through. The sound of water dripping was heavy and so steady her pulse quickened. She heard the cats cries from the basement and ran through the foyer, into the living room, her feet slipping on the soggy green rug. Water rushed and pulsed through the walls, the flowered wallpaper and blue paint bubbled and bulged below the burst pipe. Sections of ceiling hung down in spots, delicately dangling by threads of plaster and paint. She crouched and put her hands over her head as she crawled to the kitchen, water falling faster than rain. The cats cried out to her louder, their desperate moans almost unearthly. Her hands shook frantically as she tried to push open the basement door. Water followed her down the steps as she waded through half sunken boxes of old family photos, her dead mother's clothes. Cartons of her wooden childhood toys floated to the surface and she pushed them away with one hand. She called out the cats' names because she couldn't see them in the dark. There was no answer. The water was cold and deep and her legs were numb, unable to move fast enough. Her hands searched surfaces for familiar softness of fur as she scanned the room, her body heavy with the weight of water, fearing she was too late.


(Stephanie Lazzara was previously a modern dance choeographer and performer and she is now focusing on motherhood and writing. She lives in Brooklyn, NY with her husband and son.)

Entry #57

On the Set of The WaterGIRL
      Starring:Ali Larter, Chris Klein, and Cathy Bates
      StarringTagline: He was The Devil, she’s just Mephistopheles!
by Jack Baker


The irony is that this is a set. It has been constructed very carefully so that you won’t notice. The light coming through the window is not the sun on a cloudy day, but a bank of lights that rents for $2,000 a week. The rusty cans belong to Sony. The stains of food on the dishes will never sprout mold because they were applied with paint by a graduate of the USC film school named Jerusa Cohen.

Jerusa loves film more than anything in the world. She knew she wanted to make movies when her parents made a choice that was every bit as right artistically as it was wrong parentally; they showed Fellini’s Satyricon at their only daughter’s eighth birthday. It set Jerusa afire. She produced her first film exactly one year later. She called it Mockumentary of My Ninth. Jerusa placed her father’s American Express card in the pool and filmed it. Then she pushed Valerie Guggenheim into the water. When Valerie told her parents what Jerusa had done, Jerusa showed them the tapes spliced together. Valerie was grounded for trying to steal Mr. Cohen’s credit card.

Jerusa spends over an hour setting the sink and then she takes a still shot of it for her resume. It is the emptiest thing she’s ever seen. It breaks her heart. She cannot help stealing a rose from the adjacent set and tossing it in the sink. She takes the photo again and then throws the rose away.

Entry #56

She Wanted to Be a Trapeze Artist
by C.Z. Wright


Paint thinner in the yard and mamma’s not in the house. She’s at the back door. Her feet are in the yard, with her hands. I brought her a glazed ham so she’d lay off me for being too thin, for the lack of hair on my chin. I guess she never really ate much ham anyhow, just liked watching me eat it. There are newspaper clippings where clean linoleum used to be, last time I was here. I am sixteen, on the one hundred yard line and screaming in black and white, covering the plastic tiles that are starting to come up at the corners. He bought her that knife set for Christmas one year and she cried. He never did understand the difference between good knives and Fine China. Figured if she liked the one, she oughta like the other. Suppose a knife don’t have to be clean to cut, so I slice right through that ham, sitting in my old spot at the table. Honey glaze never tasted so strange. My bare hands. I never ate in this house without a fork. She did say it was getting quiet here without him. She did say, “Come home”. Here I am, huh? She is holding something wood. It is tucked between her and the grass. The photograph of Dad isn’t there on the wall. There’s a dark square, like the ghost of an old frame, like them shadow walls in Hiroshima. I never did take her to Japan.

Entry #55

Steak & Pork Brains
by John McAuley


I called for the fire department. Wasn't any fire--I just knew by the stench I'd have to borrow an oxygen tank and mask before opening the trailer door.

Boog Lee on the kitchen floor, dead so long he'd almost melted into the vinyl.

Hadn't seen Boog since 2003. I'd arrested him for writing bad checks. "It was for food," he'd said.

Boog was never real smart, but I grew up with him and knew he had a good heart.

That's why I didn't hit him with a felony.

I was genuinely glad when things got a lot better for him after that
.
I didn't know he was back around here until his sister called from Atlanta saying she hadn't heard from him in two weeks and wanted somebody to check up on him.

That surprised me; she's not known for compassion. I say that from experience.

So I found Boog in a kitchen full of maggots and empty cans of pork brains in milk sauce.

And what seemed to be a self-inflicted gunshot wound to his head.

I'm no expert on decomposition but found it unusual that I couldn't see the bones of Boog's hands.

Then I heard a dog whimpering.

I ran out of the trailer.

The firefighter retched when I returned his face mask all full of scrambled eggs and ketchup.

The coroner said, "Man, winning the lottery didn't do much for Boog. What you want to do next?"

"I'll be driving up to Atlanta."

Entry #54

Superstar
by Rebecca Hendricks


INT. ABANDONED HOME - DAY

A DESPERATE MAN backs into a dimly-lit room, EVAN coming after him with SHOTGUN aimed. Cold light comes dimly from a window over a dirty SINK, DISHES piled high, and a hole in the roof, illuminating an unnoticed BODY OF A WOMAN on the floor.

EVAN
You are number seven.

DESPERATE MAN
What—you can’t—what do you want from me?

EVAN twitches violently, and the SHOTGUN BLAST throws DESPERATE MAN against the sink, dishes CLATTERING to the floor. EVAN steps forward, jaw clenched in concentration, and BODY OF A WOMAN fights to lay still as yet again, take number twenty-fucking-eight, the superstar steps on her forearm in his precious-fucking-focus.

EVAN
Let me count the ways…

As EVAN recites the litany, BODY OF A WOMAN hears the whir of the camera coming around. Her open eyes sting, her heart pounds and she stares forward, a dead woman, dead, dead, dead. She stares at the bent curtain rod, the cold light, the peeling wall above the sink, the artful smear of blood, the perfect image of forgotten with IKEA dishes broken on the floor. What about the line she was supposed to have? Not after nine years of auditions and bit parts and extra work. Not at forty. Not now. Not ever.

BODY OF A WOMAN fights the sting in her eyes, but then she sees the BOOM MIC dip right in front of the window, and she closes them.

DIRECTOR
Cut!

Let’s take it again.

Entry #53

Escape
by Mermaid


The walls were closing in. The dirt was everywhere. On everything. Rusted cans, filthy bottles, and grimy plates. A second skin grew on her, constricting her breath, her blood flow, even her ability to think clearly.

She was raised as an only child and was used to her own time and space for discovery. Marriage and motherhood had changed all that; it bled her creativity dry into an arid shell of a woman. In a last ditch effort to find herself, she escaped to the woods, to the quiet space where earth and animals speak in foreign tongues misunderstood by the modern man.

She hoped to regress, to travel back in time to when she was a deer, or a tree, or maybe even the river she heard babbling outside the cabin. Her heart sank deep into that river. The cabin was in shambles; she was a mess, and only one geometric view of the woods through a veiled window could give her any hope of a light struggling desperately to shine through.

Entry #52

Another Evening Like the One Before
by Wayne Scheer


In my romance novels, no one ever stares at a sink of dirty dishes.

Buddy would be "a strapping young man eager to make dreams come true." But he's just a boy remembering his high school football glory days. Although it's been nearly five years since he graduated, he still sees himself as the quarterback calling plays and expecting me to cheer him on. Damn, I don't even have the energy these days to do the dishes.

He's full of piss, vinegar and dreams. He plans on owning his daddy's gas station someday. He wants to add on a restaurant and put me in charge.

It sure would be better to run a restaurant than work as a waitress the way I do now. But I know it's just a dream. I don't know anything about ordering food and paying taxes and bribing food inspectors. Buddy knows less than I do, and his daddy knows less than both of us combined.

Mr. Landrum would be happy to just fix cars and grab at my ass. He humors Buddy, but no one's going to take over his business until a car falls on his head and turns him into one of those cartoon pancakes.

I used to imagine some millionaire polo player sweeping me off my feet and flying me to his world. Now I just read my paperbacks and fall asleep while Buddy dreams.

The dishes will have to wait for tomorrow.


(After teaching writing and literature in college for twenty-five years, Wayne Scheer retired to follow his own advice and write. He's been nominated for a Pushcart Prize and a Best of the Net. His work has appeared in The Christian Science Monitor, The Pedestal, flashquake, Flash Me Magazine, Apple Valley Review, Stone-Table Review, The Potomac and Triplopia. Wayne lives in Atlanta with his wife and can be contacted at wvscheer at aol dot com.)

Entry #51

The Last Hour
by Kaye George


“What’s the matter?”

He’d asked me that before. And I could never answer him. I only knew what I felt: despair, blackness, hopelessness; depression. Sometimes it came on suddenly. Rolled over me like a flood tide. Other times it built gradually until it rose and threatened to drown me.

But this time was different. This time I knew. Here I was, trying to wash dishes that would be crawled on by cockroaches in the dead of night, trying to wash them with the last remains of watered-down detergent in a sink that hadn’t been scoured in a month for lack of cleanser, in lukewarm water because the bill hadn’t been paid and the hot water had just run out.

I was trying, that was the thing. And he wasn’t. I knew where he’d been last night. With Her.

It all made sense now. Those extra jobs he’d been picking up in the evenings hadn’t seemed to bring in any extra money. When the bus took a detour on my way home from cleaning the last house yesterday, I’d seen our car in Her driveway, which wasn’t cracked like ours. The curtains at Her windows were snow-white lace. I spied a pool in the back. I doubted She had cockroaches. And I knew then that He wasn’t working extra jobs. That’s why we had no extra money.

The depression kicked me in the gut. I clutched my tattered curtains as it drove me to my knees.

Entry #50

The Quiet Time
by Aaron Longoria


Fischer pulled himself from the warm confines of thick, woolen blankets as he left the comfort of his sofa. Images from the television permeated the darkened living room, some dancing along the opposite wall. He walked towards a window. At three-o-eight on a Saturday morning, the street was deathly quiet. The soft luminescence of neighborhood street lamps bathed portions of his block.

Fischer loved early Saturday mornings better than any other day or night of the week. It was his personal quiet time from the hectic, work-a-day world. He gently opened a sliding window. The cool morning’s air was fresh and chilly.

It felt as a thing alive and stirred his sleepy consciousness.

Fischer walked into the kitchen. The stove light was always on, a perpetual night-light. He looked at the sink stacked with dirty dishes. Nothing dampened his serenity of the quiet, magical three o’clock hour more than an ill-kept kitchen.

Fischer peered outside the kitchen and down the hallway. He spied a light from his partner’s bedroom. Gunderson read throughout the late-night hours while Fischer watched his old, familiar television shows.

Fischer returned to face the kitchen to resume rustling up a snack. Approaching the main counter, Fischer spied assorted ice cream containers neatly arranged atop the speckled, pressboard counter. Each container had been scraped clean, spoons presumably thrown in amidst the mass of sink-filled dishes.

“Why are there empty ice cream containers left out?” Fischer asked loudly.

Something unintelligible was his response.

Fischer shook his head.


(Aaron is a dog handler for a Doggy Daycare, and on some evenings, he waits tables for a well-established, Chicago-based pizzeria. He's a writer, voice-over actor, and creator of fantasy and science-fictional worlds, and getting back to avid reading.)

Entry #49

Domestic Bliss
by Terri Welch


My bare feet patter on the stone floor. Today is no day for shoes - midsummer heat smothers everything, except the stone beneath my feet. It stays cool, no matter what.
I wish I were cool no matter what.

If I were, the curtain rail would still be hanging over the window instead of almost in the sink. Curtains: Nil, Tantrum: One.

A bumblebee thuds into the window then flies away, unharmed, leaving a mark on the glass; another thing for me to clean.

"Breathe..." I tell myself.

Laughter bubbles in from outside where the children play in spray from the sprinkler. Rudy watches from the shadow of his umbrella, the book on his belly unread. Watching the children is more fun. The book is just window dressing.

Remorse sets in. He didn't deserve to be shouted at like that. He's a good father, a good husband.

Resentment takes over. I should be outside with them, not stuck inside, constantly cleaning up after them!

"Breathe..."

I push the curtains out of the way and start on the dishes. My mother's voice echoes in my head, "Ah, the joys of motherhood, Katie."

A tear squeezes down my cheek. I miss my mother and wish she were still around.
I wish I knew why I was so damn upset today!

Then all thoughts freeze and I count days backwards.

A smile starts from my cool bare feet and spreads upwards.

I wonder how the twins would like a new brother or sister?

Entry #48

Care and Cleaning
by Susan Flemming


As Jean looked around her mother's small apartment, she hated that it had come to this. Hated what that disease had done. How far her mother's mind had descended into disarray. The evidence was all around; from the sour odour of dirty dishes stacked in the sink to the floors spotted with juice and coffee stains that her shoes stuck to as she walked across.

When he was alive, her father loved to brag, "Ain't no better housekeeper in the world than my Ann. You could eat off them floors."

Not anymore, Jean thought. Not anymore.

It was a neighbour who'd alerted them. Called to say, "Your mother doesn't answer the door now for two days. We don't ever go that long without a good gossip."

Ed lived the closest, so got there first.

The ambulance was just pulling away as Jean pulled up.

Ed would follow in his car. Be there to start filling out the paperwork. Jean was to pack a bag and bring it along. His quick description of the state of things didn't prepare Jean for the sight that greeted her upon entering the apartment.

This was not how her mother would have wanted her house left. And not how Jean wanted to remember it in the endless hours of waiting she knew lay ahead of them at the hospital.

Instinctively, Jean began to clean, in the manner her mother taught her. By the time she finished, the dishes and the floors were eating clean.

Entry #47

Desolate Heart
by Leesha Procopio


Walking into the kitchen was entering a different world. Reality was so distorted. A few weeks ago, a clean kitchen had been normal. Expected. Pursued. With ritualistic fervor, she’d never let the dishes sit, even overnight. Unreal, she thought, seeing the cupboards devoid, the sink unreachable from the piles of dirty dishes.

She detested chaos. But life had become chaotic, cluttered with emotions: love, hate, denial, grief, shock, anger. Each had taken the opportunity to beat her, confuse her; driving her to the rim of insanity. Voices in her head begging her to let go completely.

Wailing, on her knees, she watched a line of ants marching along the edge of her countertop, dutifully gathering each crumb. Gripping her shirt, wanting to pull off her skin, she stumbled to the sink. Throwing the first plate, then again and again, shattering around her like explosions in a minefield. Hurling them at the floor, the wall, the window, never feeling the cuts on her hands, the shards digging into her bared feet, she couldn’t stop. Until they were all broken. Like her. Like her life.

Gasping, heaving, she collapsed on the glass strewn linoleum. Closing her burning eyes, she sobbed, realizing there’d never be resolution, only endless heartache and horrifying memories. The semi-truck lights bearing down, the wind rushing around her frozen face, the vibrating rumble of its engine, the squelching crush of metal, and then the screaming silence of being alone. She hadn’t even told him it was coming.

Entry #46

The Message
by Mike Cunningham


He placed the key into the lock, twisted it and the door swung open, the hinges creaking in protest. He entered the darkened living room, then strode quickly across to the kitchen door. He entered the kitchen, sniffing the strong odours of spilt beer, old curry and more beer. Spotting the note as it had been laid purposefully just where his eyes might find it, in the light coming through the window where it wasn’t shaded by the drooping curtain, he lifted the section of torn computer paper away from the pile of dirty dishes in the cluttered sink, unfolded it and flattened it against the grubby kitchen table.

His eyes scanned the message contained within those cursory sentences, and, smiling broadly now, he went back into the living room and picked up the bag which he had dropped upon entering the flat. He reached down, found the new wall plugs bought within the hour, and walking back into the kitchen, plugged in the electric drill and re-did the fixings for the curtain-rod which had fallen out.

After re-hanging the curtain, he fetched the bag into the kitchen and, delving inside, he retrieved the detergent and, flipping it open with one finger, walked back into the kitchen, ready to do his duty.

The scrawled words which lit up his mind read “Gone to get my hair done! The kitchen curtain is down again because you are still useless at d.i.y. Do the dishes; it’s your turn!

Love you lots!

Sarah!”

Entry #45

Darkness
by Mr. Schprock


When you close your eyes at night, you can be anywhere. Darkness brings you where you want to be. You can change your space, right there in your room, the same room with warped paneling and stains everywhere that won't come out; your room can be the palace at Versailles, I swear. Who's to say different when you're all alone?

Morning is harsh, though. Damn sun finds its way in everywhere, birds won't shut up either. Motes of dust slow dance in the air, hanging there, hanging there, refusing to breathe or come to a point. Place is a wreck today. I forget all that went on last night. Somebody said something, it might have been her, it might have been me. She took off in the truck, I don't even need to look to see that. I'll find out later what she took with her.

Sometimes inertia isn't a choice. The fight just goes away. Struggle to your feet all you want. Get up, take a leak, brush your teeth, fry an egg, pop a pill, fix the curtains, sooner or later down you go. Down . . . you . . . go. Man, I need the darkness. Got to get me some darkness real soon.

Entry #44

Kak Left With the Postman
by YL Chong


"Boys and girl, we are back!" both Caron and her husband announced as they tiptoed into the living room, expecting to be greeted by two lads and their four-year-old sister they had missed for seven days. Perhaps, it's good to see the maid, Kak, too, as absence makes the heart fonder.

There was a distinctive "stink" of stale food in the air. Dad eyed the remnants of some fried chicken and hamburger left on a plate near the television.

The couple peeped into the master bedroom, the boys', then Abigail's rooms, and finally, Kak's.

Not a soul, and Caron's voice now hinted some alarm. "I'm afraid, Gary, there's no one around!"

"What a mess!" Caron let out a shout as she entered the kitchen -- eyeing in dismay unwashed dishes, stale food on the plates that emitted such stench that Gary had to hold a handkerchief to his nose.

"I'm gonna fire that blardy maid!" his voice was raised, but the only sound answering back was some running water from a tap at the sink.

Just then the front door burst open. In rushed three kids as they ran to embrace their parents.

"Now where have you been?" demanded Mum.

"We went to KFC for our dinner plate," explained the eldest child.

"And where's Kak?" Dad's voice was still stern.

"Kak left the morning after you people left for your vacation," chirped in the second boy.

"She left the second morning, riding pillion with the postman," said Abigail.

Entry #43

Dirty Rose
by Nothingman


“Ring Ring” says the phone.

Dinah doesn’t pay attention to it. She flips the channel on the tv.

“RING RING!” the phone says again, a bit louder this time.

Dinah looks at the phone with contempt in her eyes and the phone returns a sheepish look.

“Ring Ring?” the phone questions in a hesitating, pleading tone.

“GAAH!” Dinah grumbles to herself and finally picks up the phone.

“What?” she sneers into the phone.

“Party.” the voice at the other end answers.

“Where?” she questions.

“My room.” the voice says with confidence.

“How many?” she says with irritation creeping in her voice.

“Seven.” the voice says comfortably.

“What was it?! A party or a funeral!” she almost laughs. “Any girls? she asks.

“Just one.” the voice says.

“Perverts.” Dinah chides the voice at the other end.

“Hey, come on!”

“Yeah, I’m coming.”

“Thanks Dinah, I owe you this one.”

“It’s ok son, that’s what mothers are for.”

So, Dinah the cleaner woman picks up the tools of her trade and gets up on her old tired knees to clean up her son’s room next door for the umpteenth time. The son puts down the phone in the next room, looks at the sink with its dirty dishes and throws in an old, dirty rose from last night for mother dearest.


(Nothingman likes to write short stories with at his blog A Story A Day.)

Entry #42

Unkind Truth
by the Wandering Author


Alex stood in the tiny cabin, staring at the spilled crumbs of what was once his grandmother's life. He'd always believed she died before his birth, but when he had to go through his mother's papers as she lay dying, he learned she lived until he was almost fourteen.

A frantic search through whatever records he could find revealed little else, but did lead him here. Grandma must have been deserted by everyone, not just her daughter. No one even bothered to wash up the last few dishes stacked in her sink.

A sad scent, the peculiar odor of an abandoned home, filled his nostrils as he sifted through the papers scattered across the floor. In his haste, some of them slipped from his fingers. He needed to understand the secret that haunted his family.

His eyes lit on a crumpled, worn photograph, of a girl with dark hair and a wry smile. Hours later, he found what he sought. A brittle document, with a picture of the same girl, pale and unsmiling, pasted above his grandmother's name, and a few particulars that revealed she'd been a prisoner at Dachau.

He crouched there, unmoving, for hours. So much made sense now, his grandmother's isolation, his mother's own strangeness, even her sardonic amusement and disgust at what he'd become. Still he crouched, until at last a single, hot tear dropped to the back of his hand, rolled across the swastika tattooed there, then was chased by another, and another....

Entry #41

Janie’s Endless Hour
by Mike Martinez


Janie stood just inside the rusting screen door surveying the damage. It was another Friday and she was not about to be forced into doing all the chores again. This time it was worse than ever. Both her parents’ cars were gone which could only mean one thing, they expected her to clean the place up again. Not this time she thought to herself. They complained no matter how hard she cleaned and it was their mess to begin with. They would turn back into a wreck in no time at all.

What goes on here while I’m gone? Do they intentionally dirty every dish just so I have to play the maid? And, how did they manage to break the curtain rod too? She saw the bottle; they had been drinking that cheap wine again. The place was such a mess, and smelled like an ashtray. Janie wanted to cry but didn’t have the time. She had to pack her tote and her homework and get over to Gina’s before anyone got back.

Suddenly she heard the tires on the gravel drive. It was time to move, and fast. Janie made short work of packing as the front door creaked. Then she heard her father’s boots on the wood floor. He was staggering to the couch beer in hand as she slipped out the back. She was across the fence to Gina’s as she heard her parents begin another fight. Good thing she packed enough for the whole weekend.

Entry #40

Sleep
by Trevor Record


The world came to an end overnight.

Rivers stopped running, high force winds abated, ice melted, and tropical vacation spots became lukewarm. The heart of the world had ceased beating.

But it wasn’t the end of life, or even of humanity; everything just stopped. In the morning, those who bothered waking decided that there was no need to go to work. There was no news coverage of the end because there was no news: All of the news anchors and camera operators failed to show up.

Some technicians momentarily worried, in a half-hearted manner, that without maintenance the nuclear weapons would explode. They soon came to the conclusion that some one else would deal with it, and shuffled lazily back into bed. It turned out that formerly unstable atoms had become too lethargic to be bothered with splitting or decaying.

People no longer played card games or basketball, they only thought about the days when they used to. Dust gathered, but not cobwebs: The spiders had taken to sleeping in and did not care for catching flies or building web. There was no more hunger, there was no more sex, there was no more killing. Dirty plates sat by kitchen sinks, untouched and unused. War became like a distant nightmare, and love faded away with the dying hum of electricity.

The world did not end in blood or fire or drowning. It became very tired, and settled down to slumber forever.

Entry #39

Retaliation
by Sandra Seamans


Mary grinned as she glanced around the kitchen one last time. The room was a salmonella nightmare. Dirty, food-encrusted plates were breeding bacteria in the sink, open cartons of milk were sunbathing to a perfect curdle on the countertop and several pounds of naked chicken breasts were dribbling sticky juices across the glass top of her husband’s pristine kitchen table. Thoughts of Frederick keeling over dead of a heart attack when he entered the desecrated kitchen danced through Mary’s head. Then she sighed, life wouldn’t be that obliging.

She ran her hand across the purple bruise that swelled across the left side of her face, flinching as she touched a tender spot. She couldn't survive another bout with her husband’s obsession. Life was too short to waste on a man whose only passion in life was a sanitary house.

Entry #38

Realtor’s Gaff
by Rel


Genny, the realtor, asked if we minded stopping to look at a place in the nearby village. It was on the way. She knew we were looking for a place in the country with a few acres of land, but thought she’d show us this place that she’d just listed. I agreed reluctantly.

The place looked nice enough from the street. A white, two porched, late 19th century house situated on the uphill side of Main Street on a 1/5 of an acre corner lot. I stopped to let Genny and Diane out to go in the house via the rear /side entry. I parked the car. As I was getting out of the car, I overheard Diane exclaim; I love it! This is the house I want! I thought, “that doesn’t sound good.”

I entered a room which I supposed to be a kitchen of sorts. A gas stove was immediately to my right. The walls were unadorned plaster, except where it had fallen off, leaving the bare exposed lath. The ground was visible through the spaces between the floor planks. The sink was a filthy mess. The place looked like it was currently occupied and that the residents had just stepped out… a year ago and never returned. The house she loved and wanted looked like a lot of work to me, an endless money pit, so to speak!

Oh yes, we bought it, thirty one years ago.

Entry #37

Never Never Land
by DBA Lehane


Once upon a time Mummy used to read me fairytales at bedtime. Then she went and died and I suddenly realised there were no such things as happy-ever-afters.

I find the house in its usual state after school; dirty plates piling up in the sink, trashcans overflowing and Daddy snoring loudly on the couch – an empty bottle of vodka at his side and his special pills in his hand.

“They take me to Never Never Land, son,” he told me once. “A place where I don’t hurt for a while.”

I start tidying around. He’ll be angry if the place is a mess when he eventually wakes up. I know he doesn’t mean to hurt me like he does. He just misses Mummy too. I choke back tears trying not to cry. That makes him even angrier. I’ve got to be a big boy now.

My grades have started slipping at school recently and some of the kids have taken to teasing me about my smelly clothes and dirty hair. Sometimes I wish for some magic beans so I can climb a beanstalk and escape to some magic kingdom where I won’t hurt anymore. But big boys don’t believe in fairytales do they?

I creep over to the couch and carefully take the bottle of pills from Daddy’s hand. There’s at least ten left. I swallow them in one go and lie down upon the dirty carpet and wait.

Maybe I’ll find a happy ever after in Never Never Land?

Entry #36

Afterglow
by G. Li


It was different in the city now, burnt out and twisted in on itself, magnified exponentially since the grid had blown, everything charged one way or the other, positive, negative. Neutral spots popped up here and there, but they were unpredictable, and Michael knew they'd been lucky. No one escaped unharmed, no matter what the newsprint said.

He rubbed his eyes and listened to the soft sounds of Eli breathing, the wind whispering through cracks in the cabin, scenting the air green and wet and smoky. The last time they'd come up here the pump had frozen and they'd had to leave with dirty dishes still stacked in the sink, but that morning had been perfect, Eli naked and sweaty and twisted in these same sheets, his mouth open, his dick hard and hot between them, time standing still as he came, thick spurts Michael bent his head to taste before Eli rolled over, his arms stretched wide and his ass in the air, sunrise painting his pale skin.

Michael could smell the dawn coming like he couldn't then, could taste it in the air, gold and pink and burning honey, Eli stirring beside him, pulling him close. Michael sifted his fingers through the fine down that covered Eli's body now, beautiful, thick and feathery over his spine, and Eli shivered warmly, kissed his way up Michael's throat.

Everything was different now, as changed as the city, but Michael thought they'd be safe here, safe enough to see this through.

Entry #35

Talking Down the Flames
by Sean Ferrell


She'd always been an odd girl, nearly raising herself. As she got breasts and hips the boys complained that she was easy to get in the backseat, but afterward the car wouldn't run, not ever, like the engine died the moment they used her willingness up. So, they stopped asking her around.

When it was realized that she could talk fires out, the town began to send a car at the first ring of the fire-house bell. Initially, the fire-chief called, politely. She always said, "Yes, all right." Eventually they gave her a radio and she would hear the scratchy voice burble the code for a fire, at which she gathered her bag and shoes and flowered dress she wore to town.

She waited in the kitchen, looking out a window facing the road, her aged mother and father asleep or drunk or both. The fire-deputy pulled his Buick onto the yard. The deputy, too worried she might kill the car on the way, respectfully treated her rude and said nothing. She reciprocated.

None but the fire-chief stayed close when she did it, and even he wouldn't pay attention lest he hear something he ought not. But that one time he couldn't help but understand a few words, and he learned that Mother's love was just shy of brutal, and Father's brutality was a notch above profound. The words were slow and soft. And then the squad reached the scarred room, finding the burnt wood cool enough to touch.

Entry #34

Moebius
by Canterbury Soul


It’s 10.33 a.m.

I saunter into the kitchen. I stand up.

The end.

It is finished. I’m liberated, irrevocably.

It has been a protracted decision to do it; utterly iniquitous to myself. Vertigo has no meaning now. Sensation is found wanting at my limps. This is it.

In a fraction of a second, I am on top. 40 months of weight-training has primed me for this. I tighten my grasp on the grills.

Please, Lord, help me with my final impetus. I stare at the dishes and make my wishes. I’m now literally on my knees, if you can still spot them. I snigger again. Again the nerve tries to wreck me with pain. The skin just tears. Not as smooth, ’cos it has the v-edges. I pick up another piece and slit across the right one.

I chortle and cast it aside. The nerve tries to wreck me with the weapon, pain. The cut is clean albeit the trace of fluid has flourished. This piece’s appetite has been whetted over a long period and it shows. Almost instantly, my hand swiftly severs the left one.

I need to draw strength from you, Lord, please. I stare at the dishes and make my wishes again. The mind is acting up again. I pick up the pieces and begin to quiver. Please, Lord, give me the courage to complete my task. I stare at the dishes and make my wishes.

I saunter into the kitchen. I stand up.

It’s 10.33 a.m.

Entry #33

Again
by Heather


again. we've moved from one dump to another.
    he will promise this will be the last move until we can afford better.
    he will promise he won't drink and smoke his paychecks.
again. i will swear this is the last chance i'm giving him.
    i will swear that i will not raise my Child to live like this.
    i will try to clean while the Baby sleeps.
    i will try not to cry as i scrub away the grime.
again. i will salvage what i can from what was left behind.
    I will salvage what's left of my pride.
    i will wonder if we'll stay long enough to make it worth the effort.
    I will wonder about the history of this house. who lived here. who loved here.
again. i will form a story to tell our families about the move. and why.
    I will form a plan in my mind, a plan of purchasing and renovating.
Again. I will begin to Hope.
    I will begin to Dream.
Maybe this time my Hope and my Dream won't be crushed.
again.

Entry #32

Skeleton Life
by SF Johnston


You know those movies where you survive the big disaster and you’re the last person on earth except for the cute girl you meet six days later?

Well, it’s not like that.

Everything falls apart really fast, and yellow bones scatter across a fell-down world covered by rust and dust and silence. You forage for food. You search for people. Skeletons scramble through your dreams.

You never know what’s going to set you off. Last week it was those little plates in the sink, still covered in birthday cake crumbs. Yesterday it was those yellow curtains broken by the end of everything.

Today, a mother and her boy have me wailing into the emptiness, just the yellow bones of them sitting around a kitchen table, all alone.

The TV’s there – I bet they were watching it when that God-awful stuff came down from the sky. I bet they saw it on the news and then there it was in their own backyard.

Sarah blew me kisses with that hand. Cody threw me baseballs with that arm. I was hardly ever there to catch any of them.

I look over at those damn birthday plates again and my knees give out because I should have been here, at the table, but when Cody turned seven I was down at The Double Shot “needing to be alone” and hitting on Darlene.

I want to play catch, Cody. I do.

And there is no cute girl, Sarah.

Just a skeleton life.

Just bones.

Entry #31

Table for Eight
by Esther Avila


“Perfect,” Emma said to herself as she placed a small vase with a handful of daisies in the center of a small round table. Eight veneer dessert plates were already carefully placed – each on a pretty paper doily.

Emma glanced at the clock before smoothing her blue dress down with both of her hands.

She loved the color of the dress – and the matching blue ribbon keeping her long ponytail in place. It reminded her of the robin eggs she had seen while on a picnic with her mother.

“Look here, Emma,” her mother had said as the 9-year-old child peeked into the nest. “New life will begin soon.”

Emma tried to remember what they talked about. But she couldn’t. She missed her mother and she tried not to think of the day her mother left.

Emma peered out the large window. Her mother had called and promised to join her for tea. But there was no sign of anyone coming.

“Emma Johnson – a most interesting case,” said Dr. Jason Sanders to three young psychiatrist interns as they watched the little girl in the blue hospital gown through a two-way mirror. “Child Protective Services picked her up from a filthy home. Her mother had been dead for two days – alcohol and overdose. Poor kid. As they took her from her home, she ran to the sink and salvaged those little dishes. She sets that table every day and waits.”

Entry #30

One Last Time
by Betty Gordon


I gripped the edge of the kitchen sink—cold, hard stainless steel as I looked out the window straining to see a dark figure I knew would be there. He’d hate the dishes in the sink, he’d hate the half filled wine bottle, he’d hate a lot of things. I stared at the remaining fruit of the grape—all I wanted to do was curl up with it, forget the dishes, forget cans of opened food ripening and filling my nostrils with their stench, forget staring out the window.

I finally saw him moving between shadows. Minutes later he kicked in the door filling it with his muscular frame, arms struggling to free themselves from binding cloth. I grabbed the curtain rod—it collapsed. His hands circled my neck as we plummeted to the floor.

He was on top of me diminishing any force I could muster, slashing at my face with shards from a broken saucer. His torrid breath blanketed me with loathing. My knee caught him in the groin while my hands clawed the floor until I found a piece of metal crudely sliced from a can of beans. The serrated edge chewed my fingers. He started to say something, but before he could get the words out, I thrust my salvation into his neck severing his carotid. His startled eyes rewarded me.

I lay for a few minutes before forcing myself to stand. I grasped the wine bottle and raised it high—“One last time.”


(Betty Gordon’s debut mystery, MURDER IN THE THIRD PERSON, published by L&L Dreamspell, is scheduled for release September 1, 2007. Betty is a native Texan who works on her craft through membership in Mystery Writers of America, Sisters in Crime, Writers’ League of Texas, and Bay Area Writers’ League.)

Entry #29

Coming Home
by Minx


“Another one” I said putting the phone down.

“It will be just another wild goose chase, you know that.” Margaret said.

She found it hard to leave the house these days, preferring to sit by a phone that hardly ever rang, and certainly never rang with the words she wanted to hear.

“Where?” she asked.

Our conversation from here on was an exchange that ran on auto pilot. I left the house a few minutes later to chase the goose.

One crack house is much like another. I sent another prayer thanking God that Margaret had stayed at home. Coming alone was hard but we had long gone past that point where the police are still giving over manpower to a lost cause. As parents you never give up, never.

The smell always hits first. A stench that I doubt will ever leave my memory. One day I may recognise it as the smell of my own despair, but now it only confirms that there is life here – if you can call it that. My hand confirms my only protection, shifting the cricket bat into a ready position as I chase the goose up the stairs, once again.

Like hell on a cold day I glance at my watch, my fingers never leaving that place on the neck that tells me that hope is being tempted, coaxed into reality.

He is here, the nightmare and the dream, and he’s breathing.

He is coming home.

Entry #28

Life Till Now
by Sam Douglas


Damn, he thought, somebody’s gonna have to deal with all that crap. He stared at the dirty dishes in the sink and the mess on the counter. How in hell can anyone generate this much crap in one day? He was sure Myra had cleaned up last night after dinner. She always cleaned up after dinner, usually bitching constantly.

The whole scene was very confusing, not at all like life till now. Life till now was Myra taking care of all the things that had to be done like fixing the meals and cleaning the house. But life till now was also Myra complaining nonstop as she fixed the meals and cleaned the house.

Still, life till now had been orderly. Priorities ebbed and flowed. Dinner was a priority until you ate. Then cleaning up became the priority. A constant priority with Myra was complaining. It was bearable when you were hungry and she was cooking. Once you had your stomach full, it was harder listening to the griping while she cleaned.

But, he reminded himself, that was all part of life till now. Life from now won’t have Myra. He guessed that meant that he must wash the dishes in the sink. He must tidy up the counter. He must fix the meals and clean the house. When Myra was doing all this it didn’t seem like that big a deal; now it seemed overwhelming.

But first, he thought, first - I really must dispose of the body.

Entry #27

Loyalty Above All Else, Except Honor
by Mark Best


Something had died in here, and it wasn’t the owner. I had been a cop long enough to recognize that smell. Judging by the condition of the kitchen, I was guessing a rat. My partner, Eddie, looked around. “She skipped.”

I wasn’t sure. She was scared…anyone testifying against a police officer would be…but she wanted him to pay. So did I. It made being a cop hard when goons like Jenkins disregarded the law. Eileen knew she was in danger, but I didn’t think she ran. “Someone got to her,” I said.

Eddie walked over to the oak hutch and opened the lower right cabinet. “Her purse is gone. I say she got scared and ran.”

At that moment, I hated being a good detective. “It’s nice that you knew exactly where she kept her purse, since you’ve never been here before.”

Eddie shrugged. “Jenks is one of us. Cops don’t do time, man.”

“Jenkins stopped being one of us when he crossed the line, the same line you crossed when you killed Eileen Hanratty.”

“You never did get it, did you Mike? You never really understood what being a cop was all about.” Eddie reached under his jacket. He had always prided himself on being a fast draw. I was faster.

I looked down at my partner, holding his bleeding shoulder and crying. I picked up his gun. “You’re wrong, Eddie. Sometimes I think I’m the only one who gets it.

Entry #26

Things We Cannot Say
by Beth


Hold the trash bag, pick up the garbage, and put it inside. Bleach and hot water in the bucket, scrub, and wipe with a rag. Bleach will wash away anything. The kids have to see the way it could be, but not this.

How would I answer when they asked where we now lived? “The Indian Village, a mobile home community.” A trailer park. No, I couldn’t say it. It’s not true if I never say it out loud.

*******

I thought about crashing my car into a tree yesterday. I didn’t think about the kids or my wife … just me. My boss said I was the best manager he’d ever had, and then fired me a week later.

I can’t do this anymore. I’ve been paying the bills since I was eighteen years old. I’m almost 40 and I’m scared. I yell at my wife and ignore the kids. How can I tell them? They lost everything because of me.

*******

Dear God, my brother cried last night in his room. We miss our old house and our friends. We don’t want to go to this new school. We’re scared everyone will pick on us for being poor. We know Mom is sad, so we can’t ask her to take us back home. I want to be back in my garden room with the picket fence border I helped her paint. PS, please make daddy talk to us again.

Entry #25

It's All Relative
by BD


"Best $1000 bucks you'll ever spend and he guarantees his work. I know it sounds crazy but it may well save your marriage!"

"I don't know," Dan replied skeptically.

"Look, your wife is driving you crazy right?" Constantly, nagging you about stupid stuff?"

Dan couldn't help laugh as Fred did a perfect imitation of his wife.

"Rinse out the dishes before you put them in the dishwasher."

"Pick up your socks."

"Put the seat down!"

"Yada yada yada, it never ends, am I right?"

"Yeah" Dan replied dejectedly.

"Well, THIS is the way to end it! You call the damned number, and in a week or a month ALL that goes away!"

"He isn't going to hurt her is he?"

"No", Fred replied with a chuckle. "It's nothing like that. You bring this guy home to live with you for a while. A long time friend that needs help getting back on his feet right? By the time he leaves she will realize that you are not so bad after all. Here, check this out."

Dan takes the picture and looks in amazement. "Is that your kitchen? That's disgusting!"

"Exactly! That is what he does. Before you know it, your un-rinsed milk glass doesn't seem so bad, and an occasional fart will be funny again."

"Really?"

"Yes really. He's a magician I tell you."

Dan begins jotting down the number.

"By the way, Dianne no longer complains about the sex anymore either."


(When Not writing or working BD consistently shows he is not brilliant on his far from serious blog, Briliant Donkey.)

Entry #24

The Mind Games
by Navatha Rakeesh


The A-Class 170 swirled through to the end of the motorway and set-off towards the beautiful and picturesque little village of Ambleside. The views were breathtaking; the mountains rose and fell not so far away; greenery spread across to the horizons; sheep appeared as cute woolly buttons stuck to the grass; the curves and bends of the B-road were playing hide & seek with the nature's beautiful aura. Lake Windermere was shimmering with glow, inviting the young couple with open arms. A surprising number of pedestrians flooded the pavements. Little girls adorned with angelic smiles and colorful dresses seemed like butterflies in disguise. In fact, it appeared as though, nature's beauty brought-forth the best in everyone.

Conversely, Sheetal gasped, she leaned back into the passenger seat and closed her eyes. She could not believe herself; she had an unfortunate curse, which would not let her enjoy this un-ending beauty. How she wished, he had understood her better. As the same dirty picture flashed in front of her again and again, she flinched. Her mind played the devil with her and tortured her to death.

She insisted, she would finish the dirty pile of dishes, before they started off this morning. Poor Atul had only intended to miss the rush-hour traffic. If only, he knew his wife's compulsion for cleaning-up; he would have preferred getting stuck in the traffic, for a couple of hours, than to foil a beautiful weekend at the lakes.

Entry #23

Fertilizer Becomes Her
by Bob Dawson


Poised and confident, Dressed in Armani, she stood in the kitchen doorway looking at the filthy unwashed dishes in the sink. In the living room, now an ironic label, the old man was dead, surrounded by yellowed newspapers, empty beer cans, and assorted bits of decaying food products. As if to make the scene performance art, his unshaved and disheveled appearance complimented the surrounding framework. She had called 911.

She lifted her gaze to look out the kitchen window. The half fallen, once white curtain blocked the bottom branches of the ash tree from which the old man had time and again cut the switches used on the effeminate boy she had been. All that could be seen now was the vibrant spring growth budding from the upper branches, brilliant green, even through the coating of grime. The sight dispersed the miasma of despair that had begun to once again envelope her, as if the old man, even in death, could still control.

She felt a great sense of release. Long before he escaped to become she, the old man had ceased to be her father. He no longer had power over her.

As she emerged from the house to wait in the yard, she took one last look back at the filth that represented the old man’s life, and the detritus of her past. If anything, she felt grateful. “Some people,” she thought, thinking of the house and the old man, “would call it dirt. I call it fertilizer.”

Entry #22

Hot Shot
by Christian Smith


God knows how long we drove before we found the house. Felt like days on the road without stop. We’d managed to steal gas in Jefferson City but now we were running on fumes. These days when you run out of gas, that’s your new home.

Deanna found the house by divine or diabolical grace on a country road by Clinton Lake. Back from the road, shrouded by trees. Whoever had crashed here before had left in a hurry, but had taken most everything worth taking. There were a few rusty cans of food which I wasn’t desperate enough to eat yet, and a few gallons of water in the toilet tank. The kitchen sink was piled with dirty dishes and rubble. Also this: the unmistakable debris of romance. A bottle beside the sink contained a dreggy quarter inch of red wine. A single red rose, amazingly still fresh, floated in the scummy rotten water.

From the windows came the omnipresent scorching glare, the murderous intrusion of our traitorous sun.

Deanna had meanwhile conducted a more practical search. With her junkie radar she had found the previous tenant’s works stashed behind a radiator in an upstairs bedroom. She was blue when I found her, the needle still hanging from her arm. She’d shot up blindly rather than risking having to share with me.

I placed the rose in her hair and set out on my own.

Entry #21

Washing Up
by Mutley The Dog


I put it all back.

Just like it had been.

After I had finished washing the knives that is, that bloody night of awakening - all of thirty years ago now.

They didn’t have forensic science then like they do now. The sink stayed as I had stashed it – for years. Years.

The Police never thought to check.

I would see the pots and pans and plates stained with moulds and food still sitting there for a while; unmoved and unmoving, as the house roughened up the way empty places do when bad things have happened. Grease and dust marked the windows, a pane or two got broke. Wooden planks, bright and new appeared one day – incongruous like a bloodstained bandage on an old wound, to late to staunch the flow – but hiding that families memorial.

As I walked past each day I would wonder –what would have happened- what could have happened to me if anyone had moved that stuff – if they had been worth the trouble, if it had not been so damn easy for me? If the Police – lazy, careless - had only thought to ask, had only known that the poor do wash up – at that time cleanliness was all they had.

That and sparkling carving knives. And bones.

I got away with it then – I’ve got away with it a thousand times since.

It gave me the taste – and when I have eaten I always do the washing up.

Its only fair after all.

Entry #20

Two Ways to Die
by Gary R. Hoffman


"Why? Why did I do it? You've got the guts to stand there and ask me why I did it? Look at this mess! Everyday it's the same thing. I come home from my pressure cooker office, and she tells me what a terrible day she had taking care of the kids, doing the laundry, and cleaning. And then I come in the kitchen to this disaster.

"And where the hell do all these dishes come from? She sure as hell never cooked. Most of the take-out food we survived on had paper plates with it, or we ate right out of the cartons. I think that one casserole dish is from three weeks ago when she made a tuna concoction one weekend.

"She wasn't a house wife. She was just a woman who happened to live here."

"So you weren't married to her?" the cop asked.

The man snickered. "Oh, we had the piece of paper. Not much else."

"Know what happened to that curtain?" the second cop asked.

"Yeah, she grabbed for it and pulled it down after I stabbed her with the fork." He looked at the floor. "One thing about it. If she doesn't die from the stab wounds, she'll probably die of some terrible disease growing on those dirty tines."

Entry #19

Reality Bytes
by Katherine Napier


“I have to go soon”, she typed. “I have a photo shoot to get ready for and I have to be on time. They’re sending a Limo.”

: Why a Limo?

“Because some idiot in a Chevy hit my Lexus and now it’s in the shop.”

: Were you hurt?

“No, I’m ok. I’m lucky I didn’t break like a stick, though, with so little meat on my bones. The E.R. doctor said it was lucky nothing happened to my face, as pretty as he thought I was.”

: Speaking of which… why won’t you send me a pic?

“You know why. My contract doesn’t allow a freebie.” She grabbed a cigarette out of the pack and lit it, the spark of the lighter sending 4 cats running for the kitchen. She took a swig of her beer and, cigarette drooping off her bottom lip, she began to type more. “I’m sorry I’m so exclusive.”

: I understand…I guess.

She flicked her ashes into an over-full ashtray. “I’ll be going to a premiere after the shoot, so I won’t be online until tomorrow.”

: Okay

“See you then.”

: Okay. Bye.

“Bye-bye.” She shut the computer down, stood up, and stretched her 5 foot frame as far as it would go. She stepped over the pile of newspapers on the floor, sending cats in all directions, and waddled toward the bedroom for a nap.

Entry #18

Like Magic
by Kintheatl


The fighting is over and mother is passed out on the couch like a rag doll. I cover her with one of those striped Mexican blankets that you can buy for $10.00 at gas stations all over the US.

I kiss her softly on the cheek and whisper, "I love you."

She does not tell me she loves me back.

I walk to the kitchen and think about how the chaos of this place tells you everything you might want to know about the story of my life. There is no hope here, no future, no light.

I wake up each morning and immediately start planning how I will get away. I go anywhere that isn't here. I go with anyone who isn't her.

"I'm leaving you," I say quietly to myself, because I am.

She doesn't know this about me-- how easy it will be for me to walk away from her and never look back. I think the things that you don't know about a person are the things that can break your heart.

I fix the curtains making them level again, knowing I'll be doing the same thing tomorrow because the hook was never secured properly. I turn on the hot water, squeeze in some yellow detergent, and swish it around with my hands till they burn fire-engine red. I watch the milky bubbles rise, making the mess in the sink disappear just like magic.

I dream of disappearing, too.

Entry #17

Marble Point
by Seamus Kearney


Not long after the smell of the date and walnut loaf had sulked away into the woods, the majority of the group made their awkward farewells and headed off along the mud track. Flo joined her dear friend, Tim, on the veranda, aware that the decision to put Marble Point on the market had hit him the hardest. She put an arm around him.

‘I thought we’d be coming here every year until we died,’ he whispered.

She avoided the view in front of them, the velvet valley that had seduced her and her eight university chums some 30 years earlier. ‘We’re the only ones who’ve really made use of the place.’

He folded his arms. ‘We all promised we’d never sell it.’

She pictured that summer of ’74: living in tents for two months, everyone chipping in to build their “castle”, starting the tradition of the date and walnut loaf. But that was before the weddings, the kids, the break-ups, the sickness.

He said, ‘Maybe we should’ve agreed to the access road, electricity, an indoor loo.’

‘We let them hook up the water! That was compromise enough … though we were the only ones who ever did the washing up.’

He almost smiled. ‘I’ll boil the water, and then we can take our last hike down to the waterfall.’

At that very moment Flo made a decision: yes, she would tell him about her divorce and the huge settlement, news that had been eclipsed by all the emotional exchanges.

Entry #16

Too Late, He Said, Too Late
by Michele Helene


“Where’s Inspector Harvey ?” Officer Garland asked the young PC at the front door who replied with a bored shrug of the shoulders then added: “Kitchen; maybe.” Garland followed the sounds of clinks and clatters and found Harvey with his shirt sleeves rolled up and his hands plunged in a sink full of suds.

“No family then.” Harvey stated.

“No. How do you know?” Garland smiled. “Intuition I suppose?”

Harvey looked back and smiled sadly at the younger officer. “The curtain had fallen down.” He turned back to the sink a sudden lump in his throat preventing him from carrying on. She had had no one to call for help. She had lain in her bathroom for weeks before the neighbours had finally noticed they hadn’t seen her for a while.

“Sad.” Garland sighed patting Harvey on the shoulder. “I see you put the curtain back up.”

Harvey nodded.

Later Harvey surprised his boys by picking them up after school, telling his wife to go shopping and treat herself and even though he’d seen his mother two days before, he took the boys to buy Chinese take away and they all ate it round at Nanna’s.

“What came over you tonight?” Harvey’s wife asked as she bustled around the room putting away her purchases. Harvey shrugged. His wife turned round and pulled the well worn Adoption Services envelope from his hand. “Are you going to call your birth mother?” She asked.

“Nah,” Harvey shook his head. “No point now love.”

Entry #15

Never Eat the Worm
by J. Scott Ellis


Back aching, he woke on a cold linoleum floor. His brain seemed over inflated, throbbing in his skull, threatening to burst.

Sitting up too fast, the hot hand of nausea clenched his guts. A belch erupted from the pit of his stomach, spewing bile into his throat, raking as if he had coughed up a cactus.

No mistaking the day-after taste: Mezcal.

One eye felt like it was glued shut. Peering through the slit of the other, glaring sunlight scorched his vision like a point of light from a child’s magnifying glass.

He lifted the object in his hand before him. Something was caked onto his arm, cracking like eggshell as he moved it.

His good eye popped wide open.

He held a cook’s knife, covered in the same dried-on blood that spanned the length of his arm.

His shirt was ripped.

A garbage can was tipped.

A curtain was torn from the wall.

In a haze, he stumbled along a trail of blood and broken glass into the next room, where it led to the lifeless body of the girl he suddenly recognized.

Sobbing uncontrollably, he tossed the knife and collapsed to his knees beside the girl he had hooked up with the night before.

The room exploded with laughter.

He whirled to see a group of his frat brothers, braying like donkeys.

The corpse couldn’t hold it any longer. Sitting up and putting a hand to his shoulder, she chided, “The look on your face is just priceless!”

Entry #14

The Call
by Jill Maser


Carol got the Priority One assignment. Alleged neglectful supervision of two small children and sexual abuse of the girl. Although the anonymous reporter had painted a vivid picture of squalor inside the home, Carol had still been overwhelmed.

Carol shuddered. She hated the cockroaches more than anything. They crawled all over the filthy kitchen. The tower of rancid dishes provided them an unending food source.

A blond boy wearing only a sodden diaper pounded across the floor to Carol’s side and smiled up at her. The ammonia smell of urine washed over them in a wave.

Carol swallowed hard and studied the child. His face hadn’t been washed after breakfast. At least he’d had breakfast to eat. “Hi,” she said with false brightness.

The child turned and ran. “Mommy!”

Carol followed the child, stepping over trash and clothing piled together. The television teetered on a rickety stand. She started itemizing the safety hazards and wished once again that she could pound common sense into her clients’ dull brains.

Carol’s thoughts were interrupted when a young girl shuffled into the hallway.

Carol peeked into the bedroom behind her. Soiled diapers had been tossed beside the bare mattress. Parts to broken toys littered the floor.

The girl’s hair hadn’t been brushed. Her threadbare nightie was stained with what Carol hoped was grape juice. She stared, unblinking, at Carol.

She recognized the girl’s expression.

She’d recognize it anywhere.

She’d seen it in the mirror.

The allegations were true.

Entry #13

Case # 453
by Jude Ensaff


It had taken us four months to find it. Four months. Not long when you have all the time in the world. But we didn’t, and that last hour had cost us. That endless hour: 4 till 5 p.m.

He’d said it was in the woods, deep in the woods.

‘Just turn off the highway, follow a dirt track,’ he said. ‘You’ll find it.’

His voice had a dismissive air about it; he seemed to be laughing at me as he spoke. In May.

‘Ain’t no point asking me which highway neither. That’d spoil the fun, now, wouldn’t it?’

We’d tried every psychology trick in the book- agreed with him, confronted him, pleaded with him, even got his long lost sister to talk to him, but nothing worked. In July.

‘Your psycho babble ain’t gonna work on me.’

Why would it? In and out of hospitals all his life. He’d fooled them all. He was sane, civilised.

When we got to the cabin, time was up: there was no fooling us.

The child was the worst. Never seen anything like it. I had to turn away for fear I’d faint with the sight of it.

Smelt them before we even entered. Dishes piled up, drapes torn and them just lying there rotting, except for the child. She’d only been killed recently. Fresh blood splayed out around her and a note lay pinned to her, just like the others.

Time and date of death recorded: 4.23 p.m. August 1st.

Entry #12

Break
by Joni Haws


She stands stiff-limbed and tired at the kitchen sink, facing the window turned mirror in the dark of evening. A pale ghost stares back at her, hollow eyes shrouded in limp bangs. The ragged blouse. A mottled bruise. She holds her fingers beneath the faucet and waits for the water to warm.

…his hands on my thighs…

Her eyes drop, crawling over each greasy dish and rust-bottomed pan, each grimy crack in the countertop.

…under my shirt…

She thinks of his stained hands, blackened nails. Everything he touches remains oily, smudged. Dirty. Like the soiled tools on his workbench.

…stinking breath on my neck…

She sees her hands are shaking.

...in my hair…

She clamps her eyes shut. His voice floats through her mind like unsettled dust.

…I know what you want…

Her own voice is screaming. CRASH – a plate. CRASH – another. Another. Another. Awakened by rage her bare feet carry her over broken ceramic, wooden floor, cement stair. Grass, gravel, asphalt pass beneath her, the corpse of a house forever at her back. She will not stop. She gulps the delicious air, arms pumping. She will not submit. Not anymore. Yes, he will come, but she does not care. She is exultant, for she knows that however it ends now, she is running toward freedom.

Entry #11

Through a Clean Circle
by Kaye Gilbert


Logan pushed his fingers hard against his ears and fell to his knees. He closed his eyes and lifted his face skyward. He could still hear her scream. The same way he had heard her scream for the past eleven years, since the night she died in her bedroom giving birth to a stillborn baby, with four-year-old Logan as her only companion.

The scream died with the call of a crow. Logan removed his hands from his ears, rose to his feet, and started for home on the powdery dirt road.

“Dad, I’m home,” he called, as he stepped inside the dank house.

“In here, Logan,” came the nearly inaudible reply. “I…I’m resting a bit.”

He made his way toward his father in the darkness of the room, gently kicking the wine bottles from his path. Wind chimes, thought Logan, when they clinked together softly. He sat down on the edge of the couch and touched his father’s hand with his, and then kissed his hollow cheek. His father’s face was cold and sticky.

“I’m feelin’ good today, son,” his father slurred. He pulled a frayed afghan over his father’s chest.

“I’ll fix you something to eat now,” said Logan. “Borscht okay?”

A bit of light shone into the gloom of the kitchen, as Logan prepared the beets he had grown himself. Through a clean circle on the grimy window above the sink, he looked out upon a pale gibbous moon in a late afternoon sky.

Entry #10

Domestic Spirits
by Donna Gagnon


The teasing that goes on is almost unbearable. He knows I love to cook. Yet, he insists on distracting me during the process. I’m trying to multi-task, making sure the sprouts are cooked at exactly the same moment as the roast potatoes are ready to come out of the oven.

I tuck my hands into oven mitts, wipe my flushed face with the back of one of them, lean over to open the door and he’s blowing in my ear. It’s a wonder how I manage to get meals on the table for everyone, ya know.

Washing up takes hours. The grandkids park themselves in front of the television while we’re clearing the table and he joins me in the kitchen as I’m gauging the heat level of the water out of the tap.

“It’s hot in here, hon,” he says as he plonks another load of dirty dishes on the counter.

He presses himself up against me as I’m standing in front of the sink …

There’s soapy water on the floor now.

“Close the door!”

“Why?”

I turn off the taps. He’s already closed the door.

It’s on nights like this that I don’t care that we’re seniors. If those kids go home and tell their parents they heard noises in Gran and Grandpa’s kitchen, we’ll just blame the ghosts in this old house. If their parents don’t have ghosts like ours, too bad.

Entry #9

Waiting It Out
by Roberta Nolte


She leaned against the refrigerator, arms crossed against her chest, and watched the minute hand as it clicked against the clock face. She tried to remember to breathe. It took effort.

The television was on in the next room. News spots were clamoring that something was wrong at the school. They had spoken with him just last night. He was excited about coming home to this dilapidated trailer for the summer. “Home to the farm…” he’d said. Already a city boy, she knew he had a good heart and realized the sacrifices they had made for him. They’d even bought him a cell phone so they could contact him, or he them.

Panic is a hard emotion to control. Her beating heart beneath her crossed arms raced. There had been a shooting at school and he wasn’t answering his phone. That damn minute ticking against the white face of the clock was going to kill her.

She’d placed the call almost an hour ago.

She started hot water in the sink.

Reaching to fix the curtains, the phone rang. She grabbed the receiver from the wall.

“Hello!”

“Mom…?”

Entry #8

Entry #8
by Jennifer


"It's a real fixer upper," said the real-estate agent. He paused. "I have to warn you, it's just as they left it."

"Who?" I stepped in after him, my eyes taking a minute to adjust to the dim light after the glare outdoors.

"The family that lived here. Don't tell me you never heard about it? I guess you're not from around here."

I started to see details now. The old magazines on the coffee table, a faded doll sitting on the chair, and the table, set for four. I walked over and looked at the dishes, covered in a layer of dust. "What happened to them?"

"No one knows. They just disappeared. The house belongs to a relation who put it on the market last January."

"Four people vanished into thin air?" The kitchen was the saddest room of all. A fly batted itself against the grimy window. Someone had pulled the curtain down, as if snatched away from the sink. I closed my eyes and saw a woman reach out and grab the curtain, as if it would anchor her to the room. But she was whirled backward, out of the room, out of the world. Four people, and not one left to do the dishes. It was, as the man said, a real fixer-upper.

Entry #7

Werewife
by Jaye Wells


I should've turned around and left the minute I saw the kitchen. The penicillin growing on the plates could only mean one thing.

I glanced at the wall calendar next to the phone. Dammit. That time of the month again.

I cupped my balls as I walked into the den—just in case. Meredith lay on the couch with an arm covering her eyes. I tiptoed through the room, my silent feet dodging dirty clothes and empty dog treat boxes. Maybe she'd just ignore me.

"You're late," she barked. "Did you get the steak?"

I winced and turned slowly. No sudden movements, I reminded myself.

"I’ll go now."

Her eyes glowed in the dim room, a predator's stare.

"Don't bother.” She swiped a furry hand through the air. “I'll eat out tonight."

I felt the blood leave my face in a rush. "But, honey, last time—“

My words died as she hunched over, grabbing her belly. Sympathy and terror struggled for dominance in my own gut. She got on all fours and let loose an unholy growl.

Screw sympathy.

I sealed myself behind the basement door just before her body slammed into it. Her claws decimated the fresh coat of semi-gloss I’d applied a month earlier.

Finally, the snarling stopped —the thrill of the chase gone. Toenails clicked on the linoleum, followed by the sound of breaking glass and splintering wood.

A mournful howl split the night.

One of these days I really needed to install a doggie door.

Entry #6

Weep Willow, Weep
by Wavemancali


From the time I’ve been able to stand on a chair and help my mama with the dishes, I’ve looked out this window to the willow tree in my back yard.

It’s there now swayin’ in the breeze like it has been for the last seventy-three years I remember watching it.

There were days I was sure that God almighty himself had decided to tear that tree from the ground and bring it on up to heaven to plant in his own garden. But that tree musta had some of the devil in him ‘cause he stayed right here.

I look at that tree and I hear the sounds of supper in the kitchen and BBQ’s in the back yard. It’s under that tree that I stole my first kiss from Danny Washington, or he stole it from me.

There are two cats, three hamsters and a turtle buried under the tender shade of its branches. It wept along with us on those days.

If you look close enough you can see where Harold carved the initials of the children the day each one of them was born. It wept with joy for us on those days too.

Now them land developers are tryin’ to take that away from me. They say the mold count is too high around here because of Katrina and they’re gonna tear the whole neighborhood down and my willow tree with it. That ain't right.

Hand me my cane junior, let’s go see that judge.

Entry #5

Hand Me Down
by Tricia Ares


Life ends. Time does not. The aroma of okra, fried fish, and cornbread displaced by the pungent smell of must and mold. The clutter in the sink; the last remnants of dinner interrupted. I grip my stomach as I grapple with the paradox. It feels like yesterday...it feels like an eternity...since she slumped over just before grace.

Small wild flowers have begun to grow in the rotten floor boards, seedlings carried in through the mangled roof. The oak she climbed as a child, collapsed in grief three days after her death. The faint tap of claws scurry unseen while wings rustle over head.

“Hello?”

Just new residents who can’t read the notice posted on the door. I peek out the window remembering I should not be there either. Particles dance on sunbeams between the tattered curtains, as my eyes adjust to the bold light beyond this cool interior. No one has seen me enter. Or, no one cares. Either way, I am grateful.

Hinges creak as I open and close cupboards, finding only utensils. In the pantry, shelves are stilled stocked with canned goods and unused preserves. Her apron hung on a nail with butterscotch candy nestled in the pocket.

The drawer in the hutch catches what’s left, coupons, pot holders, a box of matches...and a book whose loose spine and brown pages crackling like autumn leaves. A salty tear joins the butter stain.