Category: Latest Wit

by Sarah Masters

Oh here you are, Jason, right on cue. Welcome to my cave. It’s only been 2000 years and you’re right, time flies in these legends. Give us a twirl, it’s not often I see humans. Nice robes. And I like the stick. Not a stick, you say? Fair enough. You forged it yourself? Clever. No, I don’t need to see it. No, put it down –

The thing is, Jase – I can call you Jase, can’t I? This golden fleece I’m sitting on, you can have it. Yes, gratis. No need to fight me. No need at all.

What, you don’t want it? You ungrateful little shit. Oh, an anti-climax, yes, I suppose so. They do like to spin out these legends, don’t they, the writers. Always got to have a struggle. Well okay, tell me what you’ve been up to. A little birdie said you got to the land beyond Bear Mountain, and then – oh, yes, that does look sore. Exciting! No, not exciting? And the Clashing Rocks? Nearly crushed? Rescued by a dove? Your arms ache from rowing? Oh, you poor thing.

Yes, take a pew. You want to know about here?  Sorry, Jase, but nothing ever happens here. Walls, gold, flames, that’s it. You want to see flames? Okay, lean back, I’ll breathe the other way. Impressive, eh? I didn’t hurt you, did I?

I know, Jase, I can see it looks relaxing, and the cave’s very cosy, but it’s been soooo boring guarding this fleece. Tbh I envy you, out there on the high seas, swashbuckling. Medea, is that your girlfriend’s name? Word in your shell-like: I wouldn’t trust her. She may seem besotted but she won’t be good for you in the long run. Don’t shake that thing about, you know I’m right, and I already told you, you can have this fleece. Oh, you’re still harping on about being a dragon. Well I’ll tell you, you live here and you need a hobby. You’ve got a hobby, you say? A potter? True, there is a lot of clay round here, a whole cave full in fact, and it’s a doddle firing it, you just open your throat and – yes, you could use that stick thing to cook food, just like a spit. You’re a clever man, Jase, no wonder they made you a hero.

A deal, you say, Jase. Now that’s an interesting idea, and not as difficult as you might think. Basically, we just swap costumes. I know! That’s magic for you.  All I’ve got to do is pull this bit here and I’m like a new born babe. Voila! Put your stuff down there and pull this on, and we’ll do a swap. Yes, the sword too. Wow, it fits you a treat. Beautiful.

You want to roar? Yes, you just pucker your lips and – no, not yet, Jase, not yet – !

Bio:
Sarah Masters lives in York and teaches English for Speakers of Other Languages. She has tiny stories in Full House Literary, Roi Fainéant, The Hooghly Review, CafeLit and Shooter Flash. Contact @serreyjma

by Jude Potts

‘Today we’ll focus on your fears. See if we can’t unpick them. How does that sound?’

I know how she sounds. Smug. Her fears are rational. Mine are an army of mutant beasts with orange balloons, riding unicycles.

‘Terrifying.’

‘Humour as a deflection – we’ve spoken about that at length, haven’t we?’

She has, for sure. Smugly explained I was being defensive, attempting to distract her with gags. Talked so much we never spoke about my childhood. Worked a treat, I’d say.

I nod dumbly.

‘So, what are your biggest fears?’

‘Earwigs. Spontaneous human combustion. Getting stuck in quicksand.’

‘You read a list of childhood fears from the seventies didn’t you?’

‘Nope’

 I did. But I’m not admitting that to Smug Britches.

‘How about some real fears?’

‘Crowds. Being alone.’

‘Hmhm.’ scribbling smug little notes with her fancy pen in her expensive notebook.

‘Falling down the stairs, dying and being eaten by Alsatians.’

‘In your bungalow?’

‘Why do you think I live in a bungalow?’

 More smug notes.

‘Getting trapped inside a never-ending supermarket.’

‘Sounds unlikely.’

‘Supermarkets though, mess with the space/time continuum. Bigger on the inside, like the Tardis. It’s all that choice…’

There’s no point trying to explain, she isn’t really listening.

‘Being brainwashed into joining a cult. Wearing brightly coloured robes, giving  all my money to a cult leader who’ll spend it on guns and prostitutes..’

Lost her again.

Just because my fears are vivid and detailed. Not just vague ‘rats’ but specific, red-eyed, rabies-infected rats wearing top hats and monocles. Doesn’t make them less scary. More so, I’d say.

She thinks I’m being flippant.

‘The zombie chicken apocalypse.’ I whisper, voice hoarse, eyes fixed on the glass-panelled door over her shoulder, my only escape route.

She tosses her pen onto the desk with a sharp snort that they don’t teach in ‘therapist school’.

‘You’re not taking this seriously. You’re obviously not ready to embrace the benefits of therapy. Let’s wrap things up…’

She’s silenced by a blood-curdling noise I’ve been dreading half my life.

A cock-a-doodle-do from clucking hell. A ruffling of undead feathers, and a peck, peck, peck on the glass door.

She cowers behind her desk but, for the first time in years, I’m unafraid. The zombie chicken apocalypse is here and I’m ready to face my fears.

Bio:
Jude is a full-time carer and some-time writer currently working on a crime-comedy novel about beautiful lies, ugly truths and the extortionate cost of spa days. She dabbles in flash fiction, focusing on wry, dry and sly looks at human failings (usually her own). She believes in the magical capacity of shared joy and humour to change the world for the better and tries to contribute to that.

In the spirit of growing opportunities for our writers, we have put together a list of 100+ magazines that accept humour. Many are mainstream magazines that have demonstrated that they accept humour submissions.

If you know of any others, let us know via email at submit@witcraft.org with Subject: Humour mag list.

Mags accepting humour.xlsx

by Michael R. Ritt

My redheaded sweetheart, Tami, was playing one of her word games on her laptop the other day when I walked into the room. “Honey, I heard someone use a word on the radio and I don’t know what it means.”

She continued with her game without looking up. “What’s the word?”

“Perspicuous,” I answered.

She answered without missing a beat, “The meaning is ‘clear.’”

“Not to me.”

She looked up from her game and stared at me in confusion. “What?”

“What does the word ‘perspicuous’ mean?” I repeated the question, thinking that maybe I didn’t have her full attention the first time that I asked.

“I told you; the meaning is ‘clear.’”

“But it’s not clear to me.”

“Yes, it is. It’s clear to everyone.”

“It’s clear to you?”

“Yes.”

“And it’s clear to me?”

“Of course.”

“Then why don’t I know what it means?”

“I just told you what it means.”

“You haven’t told me anything!” I was starting to get a little irritated. “If you don’t know the meaning of the word, just say so. I won’t think any less of you.”

My redhead likes to play this game where she sighs and rolls her eyes into the back of her head and pretends like I said something stupid. She did the eye-roll thing now.

“I don’t have time for games,” I said. “I was just hoping that you knew what ‘perspicuous’ meant.”

I could hear her mumbling something under her breath, and I realized that she was counting to ten. That’s something that she does a lot, and has ever since we were married almost thirty-five years ago. I think that it helps her to refocus. Poor thing loses her concentration so quickly.

I let her finish counting. Then she gave another big sigh and said, “Let me try this again. If I give you a synonym for ‘perspicuous,’ do you think that you could figure out what it means?”

“Yummy!” I said. “That’s a wonderful idea. I could go for some cinnamon toast.” I turned to head toward the kitchen.”

“STOP!!” she shouted. “I didn’t say ‘cinnamon.’ I said ‘synonym.’ You know…a word that means the same as another word?”

“That’s a great idea, sweetie,” is what I said. But what I was thinking was that if she knew a word that meant the same as ‘perspicuous,’ she should have told me what it was in the first place. But I try to encourage her as much as I can when she is having difficulty communicating and expressing herself. After all, I’m the writer in the family. She’s not the professional communicator that I am. “Can you think of a cinnamon?”

“SYNONYM!” she shouted.

“Whatever. Can you think of one?”

“Yes, I can.”

“Well, what is it?” I was getting anxious to put this little mystery to bed.

“It’s ‘obvious.’”

“Awesome! I can’t wait to hear what it is.”

She looked like she was about to cry, so I put my arm around her. “Don’t worry, sweetie. If you can’t think of a word that means the same, maybe you can think of a word that means the opposite. What are those called?”

She sniffed and wiped her eyes. “You mean ‘antonym?’”

I held her close and spoke slowly. “No, sweetie, my aunt’s name is Elaine.” She had lost focus again and had gone down a bunny trail. “Do you need to count to ten?”

She jumped to her feet, her clenched fists at her sides, and shouted, “I’m not talking about your aunt, Elaine. I said ‘ANTONYM.’ It’s a word that means the opposite of another word.”

She was clearly starting to get frustrated by this point, probably due to her lack of communication skills. When you’ve been together as long as we have, you start to pick up on the subtle clues. “Alright,” I said, as calmly as I could, “what’s the opposite of ‘perspicuous’?”

“That would be ‘confusing.’”

“Well, it couldn’t possibly be any more confusing than the rest of this conversation.”

At that point, she threw her arms into the air and declared, “That’s it. I give up. Go Google it.”

“I can’t,” I replied.

“Why not?”

“I don’t know how to spell it.”

“Why don’t you call your Aunt Elaine and ask her.” She wiped her eyes and went back to her word game.

I didn’t say it to her face, because she was being overly sensitive at the time, but calling my aunt made more sense than anything she had said in the past ten minutes.

I just chalked the whole thing up to hormones. Tami has been going through “the change” for quite some time now, and I know how irrational and edgy she can get. Good thing for her that she has such a loving and supportive husband.

Bio:
Mike is an award-winning Western author currently living with his wife, Tami, in central Wisconsin. He has published numerous short stories and nonfiction articles, and his first novel was published in December 2020.

by Jennifer Worrell

My Cosmic Recipes
by Carl Sagan
May contain affiliate links.

Welcome to my kitchen!
You might be a food blogger if…you buy 1.85 million tons of carbon, then scramble around trying to decide what to make before it reaches its half-life. I started sprinkling it in everything—oatmeal, coffee, cinnamon rolls—before the idea hit me like a meteor air burst over Podkamennaya Tunguska River. Who doesn’t love the explosive taste of cinnamon?
Warm spices and apples never go out of season, and nothing beats homemade apple pie.
Today I’m sharing a classic, perfected eons ago by my great grandfather (raised to the power of 9).

BANGIN’ APPLE PIE
Go big or go home, am I right? Admittedly, this recipe is a bit time consuming since you must first invent the universe, but wait ’til you taste it…the center is pure fire.

Quick Ingredient Overview
 Hydrogen – for star formation. Since it makes up the majority of the recipe, use the best you can find!
 Helium – adds lightness. Nothing is less appetizing than a heavy universe.
 Oxygen – natural binding agent that doesn’t leave a bitter aftertaste.
 Carbon – marries all the other ingredients and gives you a next-level flavor profile.
 Neon – keeps your filling from oozing all over the place like some primordial soup.
 Iron – prevents the entire recipe from collapsing. The crust is a lot more delicate than you think!
 Nitrogen – crucial component of amino acids, the building blocks of protein. If meringue is wrong, I don’t want to be right!
 Silicon – great electricity conductor, especially at higher temperatures. Set your ovens to10^32 Kelvin for this baby!

Those are just the basic raw materials. There’s plenty of opportunity to switch things up depending on your cravings. Feel for a whiff of argon? A pinch of sulfur? Go for it! (You’ll assimilate these components during step 5.)

We’re surrounded by the stuff of life, but if you can’t source everything easily, this recipe is pretty forgiving. The approximate ratio of ingredients is 1137:369:16:7:2:2:1:1, but don’t fret if you’re an atom short of this or that. Variety is the spice of life! Deviations give each little macrocosm the spark of pizzazz that make it truly yours. So if anyone asks how you did it, you can share the recipe but they’ll never nail it exactly. <wink>

Instructions

1. Blend all elements in your sturdiest bowl, then break up the hydrogen-rich molecules of primitive atmosphere.
2. Harness a smidge of electrical discharge with UV light from the sun, stirring until combined into indigenous organic matter. (Solution will be lumpy).
3. Eventually, molecules will bubble up and clone themselves. Let rise until concentrated into an extremely high density—set your timer for 1 million years. Trust me, the wait is worth it!
4. Expect a titanic explosion, followed by an expansion which will never cease.
5. Gently incorporate add-ins as mentioned above. Try magnesium and nickel for a treat.
6. Allow to rest 9.2 billion years, then shape into a ladder and twist into a helix.
7. Observe the beginnings of solar nebula. The early stages will produce preferential condensation of methane. Let rest for 40 to 70 million years.
8. Collapsing lumps of matter will form the first planets…
9. …and only 4 billion years later, apple trees! Before you know it, you’ll have more apples than you can shake a stick at.

You probably already concluded that this isn’t a busy-day recipe. Don’t let that
discourage you from achieving delicious success. The hardest part is over. You can do it! Remember, you are star stuff!

For part 2 of Bangin’ Apple Pie,
JUMP TO RECIPE

Bio:
Jennifer Worrell works in a private university library in Chicago. Her short prose and essays appear in subTerrain, Voices of the Winter Solstice, /tEmz/ Review, Inquisitive Eater: New School Food, Underland Arcana, and Lit Mag News, among others. Her debut novel, Edge of Sundown, is set to re-release later this year. More information is available on her website and social media via linktr.ee/jenniferworrell.

by Meredith E Baker

My cousins and I sit on our grandmother’s backsteps, listening to dishes rattle and Grandmama warble a hymn. Clark leans back on the step behind him and asks, “Whatchyall wanna do, today?”

“Make another maze in the cornfield,” I suggest.

“I ain’t breaking no more corn stalks! We got our butts cut for that,” says Wayne. “Wanna go fishin’?

“No way,” I reply. “You threw the guts in my hair last time you cleaned fish. A heart landed on my cheek, and it was still beating!”

Grandmama belts out the chorus, “For those in peril on the sea.”

“I got an idea,” yells Clark “Let’s build a boat!”

Wayne and I jump on board, and all of us head over to the forbidden part of the farm. We peep through the hedge to look for parts without raising suspicion. Clark eyes an empty natural gas tank that’s eight feet long and shaped like a bullet. “Looky yonder!” he yells. “That tank’ll make a great hull.”

“But we can’t get it,” I remind my cousins. They look at me like I said 2+2 = 5, so I repeat the warning we’ve heard since birth. “That’s where stuff spills on the ground when they load the tractor. If we walk there, poison will seep into our feet, get in our bloodstreams, and kill us within 24 hours.”

“That ain’t gonna happen,” reassures Wayne. “Besides, I don’t even know where my shoes are, and the soles of our feet are as thick as leather. If you’re too chicken, stay here.”

“I’m not chicken!” I lie. I’ll walk on my tiptoes to be safer.

Uncle Jim and Uncle Ed walk out of the office and grab two Pepsis from the cooler. The identical twins take identical swigs as they enter the barn.

Clark whispers, “On your mark. Get set. Go!” We sprint to the hunk of metal. “Meredith, watch for Daddy and Uncle Ed,” says Clark.

I keep an eye out for my uncles while the boys push the tank into the shed followed by me on tiptoes. Clark grabs a cutting torch and lights it with a lighter he carries in his pocket. “Y’all stand back. I’m gonna cut a hole.”

Clark has trouble piercing the side, so Wayne yells, “Bo, that ain’t gonna work. You need to start cutting at the top.”

Clark fires back, “Shut up, dummy. I know what I’m doing!”

The jagged hole Clark cuts proves that’s untrue, but instead of dealing with that, we move on to another problem.

“This thing’s gonna roll over,” says Wayne, “We need an outrigger.”

“What’s an outrigger?” I ask.

“You’re such a city-slicker,” teases Wayne. “It’s a float attached to poles that stick off one side of a boat. Clark, you and Meredith go get that empty 50-gallon drum and two six-foot pieces of rebar in the tractor shed. I’ll go get the welder.”

I drag a piece of rebar in each hand while Clark rolls the drum to the shed. Wayne returns a few minutes later, tool in hand.

“You ain’t got no business using that welder, Wayne,” says Clark. “You ain’t but 12 years old.”

“I turned 13 in June, Clark! And you ain’t but 14.” Wayne lowers the front of the helmet he picked up off the floor, taps a spot on the tank, and says, “Put that rebar right here, and hold it steady.”

I watch as Wayne adjusts the flame on the welder. “Don’t look right at it, Meredith,” hollers Clark. “It’ll blind you!”

     Satisfied with our craft, we drag it to the pond for her maiden voyage. It’s rained every afternoon for a week, so the rail-less dock we’ve fished from all summer is covered with a foot of water. The submerged platform makes a perfect launch pad.

 “You can go first,” says Wayne. Clark nods in agreement.

I’m pretty sure I’m picked because I’m the lightest, and, let’s face it, the most gullible. But I’m also a girl, and even though I’m a relative, I’m ‘company.’ In the South, girls, company, and the most gullible always go first, so I have triple dibs.

I ease myself into the hole Clark cut, careful to avoid the spiky steel teeth surrounding it like shark jaws. Wayne pushes me off and hollers, “We’ll rescue you if you sink.”

“It floats! It floats!” I scream. Clark turns and sprints up to the house to get his older brother, Jimmy.

Wayne curls his monkey toes over the edge of the dock and pushes down on the 50-gallon drum. “Look out! Rough water!” he jokes. I lose my balance and tumble backward into the murky water.

I pop to the surface and holler, “Dang it, Wayne! Why’d you do that? I lost my glasses! And I think a wasp stung me.” I dog paddle to the shore and haul my torso onto the bank.

“You okay?” says Wayne. His eyes get as big as go-cart wheels. Then he runs away.

I look at my leg, but what I see is no bug bite. A fifty-cent-piece-sized circle of flesh is missing from the back of my leg. It’s perfectly round, like someone used a melon baller. I figure Wayne’s left me for dead to avoid a whipping, but then I see him running back to the pond with my parents and grandmother.

When I get back from the emergency room, Wayne is sitting on Grandmama’s steps waiting for me.

“I’m sorry you got hurt,” says Wayne.

“That’s okay. I got 12 stitches!”

“Lemme see.”

I twist my leg. The setting sun illuminates my wound. Wayne squints, and says, “That looks like a bunch of black widow spider legs stickin’ out of a hunk of Silly Putty.” He hands me my glasses, which he retrieved from the pond while I was at the hospital, and strolls across the gravel driveway to his house.

Before he’s out of earshot, I yell “I’m never going first again. Not ever!”

Bio:
Former English Language Arts teacher (middle grades), Meredith Baker is now retired and pursuing writing projects she has put off for years. Meredith was born and raised in Orangeburg, South Carolina, where she currently resides.

by M P Allez

Last week (page 5) we reported that local police had foiled an attempted armed robbery when a van which contained armaments was stopped in the city centre early on Monday (18^th). The Chronicle is happy to offer the following corrections to its original report.

            The vehicle was a small red estate car and not the large blue panel van that was originally described. The driver was a lady in her fifties, and not a twenty-five-year-old man as reported. The car was stopped in Castle Street near the railway bridge and not High Street as we previously advised.

Three cases of detergent, several mops, various brushes and brooms, and ten plastic buckets were found in the vehicle.

The incident took place at three pm on Tuesday 19^th and not in the early hours of Monday morning. The driver was advised of the need to replace a non-functional brake light.

            The dog mentioned in the report was a Cairn terrier and not an XL Bully-type. The dog was being exercised by a passer-by. Neither was involved in the incident.

The Chronicle remains committed to the highest standards of journalism and production values and stands by all other aspects of its original story.

Author Note: This story was performed at the ‘In the News’ event at Salisbury Library on November 10^th 2023. The ‘Errors and Corrections’ column of the South Wiltshire Chronicle grows longer each week. Something akin to this fictional column cannot be far away.

Bio:
Martyn Allez, who writes as M P Allez, is a retired programme and technology director. He lives in Wiltshire, England.

by Kevin Owen

I thought I’d give Ulysses another shot. At least it would look good if they found it on my dead body. I’d have to break the spine and thumb a few pages, of course. I’d never got beyond page two and even then I kept having to track back. But I can’t even find it on my bookshelf. I hear the post arrive and there beneath the letterbox is the unmistakable shape of the Shed Monthly Catalogue and the promise of outbuilding bliss its glossy pages would bring. Orlando Bloom can do one. 

Everyone has a birthday but what we don’t realise is that we also have a death day. For me, it’s March 25th 2024. Today, actually. How do I know this you might ask? Well, I’ll tell you. I was at a party in Merthyr Tydfil. I don’t like going there‌. It’s a bit rough, isn’t it? And Merthyr, strange name, Welsh for Methadone, I think.

It was a Millennium New Year House Party. I’d gone with Trefor the Milk, but he was half asleep because he hadn’t been up so late since we had that Star Wars Video Night. It wasn’t a great party, to be honest, the beer was warm and there was no one to snog. The most exciting thing was seeing if the toaster would still work after midnight because all the talk was of the Millennium Bug. And then, after success with Warburtons Farmhouse, people started leaving.

But then these two girls arrived, Lynfa and Megan. I really fancied Lynfa but Megan would let you snog her once she finished her toast. I had to wait for blinkin’ ages. But, oh, it was worth it, those soft white Warburton lips. She tasted of love, romance and I can’t Believe it’s not Butter! I told her she was the most beautiful woman I had seen this century. That was a good line, wasn’t it? But she said that the new century would only start on January 1st 2001, and she knew this because it had come up on Who Wants to be a Millionaire. I said I knew that, though I didn’t, and I stood by my statement. She gave me a massive hug. I looked over her shoulder to see if Lynfa was impressed. She wasn’t.

It turned out that Lynfa had this gift. She could read minds and was a fortune teller. She was looking for volunteers to read and chose me. We sat across a table with the partygoers gathered around us. She held my hand and ran a finger across my palm. Oh, it was lovely, it was. She asked me to make my mind blank. That wasn’t difficult.

Then she started telling me all these things about myself that were true. My love of James Bond films, how Timothy Dalton was my favourite. How I cried buckets when Wales beat England at Twickers. How I’d lost my virginity in a Little Chef car park outside Abercynon with Karen the Clap. I must admit when someone as beautiful as Lynfa looks into your soul like that, I’ll be honest, I felt a connection. Then she said I would marry someone I’d not known long. My heart sang with joy.

That also turned out to be true, but let’s just say we got a lot of bread makers and toasters as wedding presents. Then Lynfa told me to look into her eyes and focus on my birthday. She got it! Spot on! The party makers gasped. It was a blinkin’ miracle. Then Trefor shouted, “What about his death day?” She shook her head. Her hair seemed to move in slow motion. It looked so soft and manageable, like a shampoo advert. She looked back into my eyes with this terrible sadness and said March 25th 2024. I laughed it off, everybody did, but you know, that kind of information is unforgettable really, isn’t it?.

So here I am, settled down now on my last day with a nice cup of tea and a bit of a problem. The thing is, I’ve already got two sheds and a very strict budget. But I love the glossy man-cave photos and a man can dream of socket sets.

Megan walks in.

“Oh! You’ve not got your nose buried in that shed nonsense again, have you?” she says, exasperated. “Why can’t you look at porn like normal husbands? Look, Lynfa and Trefor will be here soon for your Death Party.”

Then she sniffs the air violently with that upside-down smile that lets me know I am rumbled. “Have you even showered? I’ve told you before, using Tusk Body Spray is not a substitute for washing. It stinks. Now get up those blinkin’ stairs.”

When they do arrive Trefor hands me my copy of Ulysses. I’d forgotten I lent it to him years ago. The spine is broken and the pages are well-thumbed.

“Did you manage to finish it?” I ask, trying not to look impressed.

“Don’t be daft! It’s unreadable! But knowing you as I do, I thought you’d want it to look good over your dead body, for your Facebook Memorial Page. I’ll try not to get your Harry Potter collection in the background!”

They all chuckle.

“Have some respect for the dead,” I plead, and I laugh too. The thing is, I worked it out years ago when I saw Trefor had got off with Lynfa. He was, after all, a good-looking boy and what woman could resist his handsome face and discounts on semi-skimmed? Tref had fed Lynfa all those facts about me and plucked the death date out of thin air. But that Millenium night in Merthyr, four lives changed forever. My beautiful wife Megan, uncorks the Prosecco. I inhale deeply, proud, happy and content. She really is the love of my life.

“To death,” she says and we all raise our glasses. She is, after all, always in charge of the toast. 

Bio:
Kev is a hobbyist writer from Norfolk, UK.

by Carl Peters

Irene, I had to text you right away. Randell just told me you two broke up. He’s my lifetime best friend but I don’t want your break up to end OUR relationship. Truthfully, I hope it can bring us even closer. Like that James Taylor song You’ve Got a Friend. All you have to do is call my name and I’LL COME RUNNING!

Your best friend is a creep. Why can’t he remember I hate pickles.

Do you remember that night he got drunk and passed out? And we spent hours sitting on the couch talking about music, like 70s music and real old songs? That was such a beautiful night for me. For days I thought about that song Exactly Like You. Do you know it? About a guy telling a girl she’s the perfect woman?

How many times can he try to talk me into trying fried pickles? Gross.

One of my favorite songs is You Don’t Know Me. Ray Charles. About a guy too shy to tell a girl he’s in love with her. She thinks they’re just friends but he’s secretly LONGING for her.

Randell isn’t shy. You should have seen him flirting with that pickle-waitress. She looked cheap and needed to button up her blouse. Like I’m right here! Hello!!!

And I’ve always been real interested in that George Harrison-Eric Clapton thing. Where Clapton was in love with George’s wife and that’s how he wrote Layla …

Really? You sure? I just thought it was about sex. You know. Lay la. Sounds sexy.

And on the album there’s another song about being in love with his best friend’s lover. How you ever loved a woman SO MUCH you tremble in pain is how it starts. I’ve only felt that kind of passion in my life once. One time

I can’t believe how much time I wasted on Randell. Conceited jerk.

Recently. That’s when I felt that passion. That night talking about music. With YOU

He’s always trying to impress people by playing his stupid guitar and singing his own whiney songs. Nothing more pathetic than a guy who thinks he’s
Joni Mitchell.

This is hard but I have to say it. I have to. I THINK I LOVE YOU

OMG! I’m so glad you said that!

Really? Really? I can’t believe it!!!!!

I feel the same way but that night we were talking about music I was afraid to say it!

I’m so happy! You’ve made me so so so happy!!!!! I was afraid you’d laugh at me

I can’t believe I found someone else who likes the Partridge Family! Everyone laughs if you say you like the Partridge Family and I get it, but I Think I Love You is still such a great song

Still there???? Hello?

Yea, good song. WITH A LOT OF MEANING

I dunno about meaning. I just like it because its bouncy.

Yea its bouncy. I got an idea. Let’s get together and listen to it together. I just downloaded it.

Can’t. Going out with my friends to cruise the bars

What about me????

That Kenny Rogers song??? Ew.

No I mean … well not Kenny Rogers, not the song, except thematically maybe but not literally the song.

Huh?

How about this — lets spend the night together

Used to be my favorite Rolling Stones song but Randell LOVES the Stones so now I HATE them. You can tell Randell I’m going to hook up with the first guy who buys me a drink tonight.

WAIT wait give me a minute to think of a different way to say something …

You know I once thought about having a fling with you but
since you guys are friends and then you never expressed
any interest in me …  But I think you need a GF. Like you know
that song We Gotta Get You a Woman? So I was thinking about
getting you together with my friend Erma. She’s a lot like me
EXCEPT she could lose a few pounds. Also she’s a little clueless.
Thick as a brick, to tell the truth. But I think you two would
be a good match

I‘m not interested in Erma. Meet me tomorrow. Please, Irene. This is important. I NEED TO EXPLAIN SOMETHING TO YOU

Tomorrows out. I’m either going to be hung over, in someone else’s bed or probably both. Oh Uber here. Byeee! Gotta turn the phone off.  Battery almost dead.

WHAT BAR ARE YOU GOING TO I’LL MEET YOU

WHAT BAR????

CALL ME. When will I see you again?? I want you!! I’m confessing that I LOVE YOU

Now I’m a little drunk and just re-read my last text. THAT’S NOT JUST A BUNCH OF SONG TITLES. Well, ok, it is, but I didn’t mean to do that and it’s not just that. It’s how I feel …

I can’t stay awake any longer. Good night, Irene. I’ll see you in my dreams.

Bio:
Carl Peters lives in New Jersey.

by DJ Facey

It was not until the repetitive and familiar chinking of cereal clashing against my ceramic bowl that I remembered I had forgotten to pick up milk last night on my way home. No stress the local IGA is just down the road I think to myself as I am already in motion.

My car comes to an urgent halt in the carpark and I quickly exit. As I slide between mine and the car parked next to me, a grandmother with child in tow gives me an unusually wide berth. Obviously so, I am a fair sized sort of bloke and the shaved head can give some a false impression, I reconcile to myself.

Quickly into the store and snap, that attractive lady is on shift at the checkouts again. The one who I would never dare ask out, but who I take pleasure in at least being exceptionally kind to. Detecting my movement she turns and smiles at me, the stare perhaps lingering a bit longer than usual. Bonus, maybe I will ask her out one day I try to convince myself. A concept which distracts me a bit, for I have been to this store a thousand times before yet I begin to head in the opposite direction to where I know the milk section to be.

Jeez, my sense of urgency must be overwhelmingly apparent, people are parting ways as I pass like Moses commanding the Red Sea. At the same time I am comforted by the smiles on the unrecognisable faces as I saunter past. Not such a bad place to live around here I digress, something I often doubt. At least there are still a few friendly people about the place.

I soon arrive at the refrigerated section and engage in some milk maid like work, trying to find that elusive expiry date. After a bit of fumbling around I make my choice and head off to the exits. Not really sure what that bloke stocking the shelves was smirking about though, maybe he thought rummaging for expiry dates was effeminate or something. I catch the thought train and remember what that self help app has taught me. It was most likely absolutely nothing to do with me right? People have their own worlds and thoughts going on.

Early morning shift so only one register is open. That woman. All good, I’ll just wait my turn and engage in small banter, no need to press anything today. I do so, but there is definitely something a bit off. The look in her eyes is more, well, concern I guess. Maybe even pity or something like it. It makes me nervous, maybe she can read my soul, maybe she knows my cowardly secret. I cut the thoughts off before I completely melt, pay and head for the door.

It’s actually a nice day outside I notice, I neglected that recognition in the rush of it all. But I could swear people are still looking at me strangely. Nope, the app, the app remember. Fighting the feeling of paranoia, I nervously retrieve my car keys from my pocket and open the driver’s door. It’s only now as I sit down into my car seat that I notice the dirty underwear hanging out the top of the waist of my board shorts. Complete with ever so lightly soiled crutch area. At that moment, I wish the world would just swallow me up with an out-of-date carton of Pura.

Bio:
DJ creates work in various written forms to escape the reality that he is persecuted by the system for his truth and honesty

by Gill McKinlay

“Your mum has bought a knitting machine, Karen,” Florrie said. She’s Mum’s next-door neighbour and keeps an eye on her for me.

            “It’s hardly a crime,” I replied.

            “She reckons aliens have contacted her…”

            Ever since a television documentary named our village as the number one spot for star gazing, Mum had been obsessed with sightings of aliens. She’d spent hours trawling the stars with a telescope looking for signs.  

So far, she hadn’t seen a thing.

            I’d dismissed her actions as harmless. But thinking aliens had made themselves known to her via a knitting machine was worrying…

            In the living room, I stepped over a huge cardboard box, several sheets of bubble wrap waiting to be popped, and numerous chunks of shattered polystyrene.

            Mum was seated behind a vast silver contraption.

            It emitted a low-level hum as she shunted a gadget over a row of needles. An antenna that looked like an aerial for receiving every invisible wave imaginable, held the wool aloft.

            “What’s going on?”

            Mum rolled her eyes heavenwards.

            “Aliens – they contacted me.”

            “How did they do that?”

            “Through a knitting pattern. They monitor the stitches I knit, and decode them…”

            “Why would they do that when we have masses of technology?”

            “They’re not very intelligent. They can’t read computer code. They find knitting patterns easier…”

            “Do they understand the abbreviations?” I asked. “K2tog TBL would be double Dutch to your average ET.”

            She shrugged.

            “I don’t know.”

            Rows of stocking stitch spilled out of the machine, albeit with a lot of dropped stitches.

            She looked happy sitting there though, the happiest I’d seen her since Dad died last year.

            Mum had struggled to cope after his death. We both had. But she’d become a recluse,

            She wouldn’t go to Zumba with Florrie or join the U3A. All she wanted to do was sit at home reading sci-fi books.  

            “How does the machine, or knitting pattern, contact aliens?”

            “Well, I’m not exactly sure, but I read a book that mentioned the fabric of time. A piece of knitting counts as fabric, and it takes a long time to make,” she said, as if that explained everything. “And I found a knitting pattern inside the book.”

            “What, you mean it was part of the story?”

            “No, it was folded up, shoved between the pages.”

            “Where did you get the book?”

            “I borrowed it from the library.”

            “So, the pattern could have been left there by somebody who’d used it as a bookmark.”

            “I suppose that’s one theory,” Mum snapped.

            “Are you knitting from the pattern now?”

            “Yes.” She handed it over.

             “It’s for a scarf,” I said. “Like the one Dr Who used to wear.”

            “Exactly, and he’s the ultimate Time Lord. When he was pretending to be Tom Baker, he wore a knitted scarf which meant he always had the fabric of time about his person. He was trying to tell us something, I know it…”

            Most of the sci-fi I’d read was set in a dystopian landscape with a political war raging in the background. Mum’s version seemed domestic by comparison. But then maybe cosy sci-fi was a new genre, one I’d missed.

             Mum read about far-flung galaxies peopled by androids, robots and daleks. Keeping her grounded was going to be difficult…

            Next day, I tripped over the scarf as I entered the living room. It had travelled halfway across the cardboard box and was spilling over the packaging.

            She’d been knitting at the expense of everything else…

            “I managed to get a couple of hours’ sleep,” Mum said, when I asked if she’d been to bed. “I must keep knitting; I must get this finished. Time won’t wait for aliens any more than it will for humans. They’re being thrown off their planet, and have nowhere to go…”

            “I’ll make us a cup of tea.”

            “Thanks. I could do with a break.”

            She switched off the machine and followed me into the kitchen.  

            But glancing over my shoulder, I noticed the machine was still glowing, and I could hear a noise like a million knitting needles all clicking together.

            “I thought you’d switched it off…”

            “I did.”

            “It doesn’t look very off to me.”

            “That’s how it looks when it’s off.”

            I went to unplug it but couldn’t find a plug.

            “Does it run on batteries?” I asked.

            “Of course not. Imagine shoving AAs in that – the actual knitting provides the power, and it takes a while to wind down.”

            I left the house feeling troubled.

            Was Mum in danger? Could the wool be poisoned? Was she suffering needle abuse… It all sounded ridiculous.

            Florrie turned up later that evening.

            “There was a huge bang Karen, and all the lights went off, yet your Mum’s place is lit up like the mother ship in Close Encounters of the Third Kind. And there’s a weird noise, like several million knitting needles all clacking together…”

            I found Mum surrounded by miniature multi-coloured aliens. They were pouring out of the machine, swarming about everywhere.

             “They’re moving into the cardboard box.” she told me as we watched them squabbling over sheets of bubble wrap still waiting to be popped.

            “But how did they get here?”

            “The stitches I dropped made holes in the fabric of time, which allowed them to sneak into our world.”

            It sounded like a load of rubbish to me, but there was no arguing that the aliens were real, and that Florrie was screaming the place down.

            “Odd looking creatures,” Mum remarked. “Their skin looks just like stocking stitch…”

Bio:
Gill McKinlay writes short stories, with many published in UK magazines. Loves reading, writing, gardening, and her grandchildren.

by Anastasia Jill

I don’t know anything about the tuba but I bought one for seventy-six dollars. It was used with one owner— the man who runs The Band Room.

            “Take care of it,” he warns. “This thing will pack a punch.”

            The brass is raw in my hands, scorching with the summer heat as I carry it all the way home. My breath is clunky and I’m making monkey noises as I trip and stumble back up the sidewalk. Christ, this was stupid. I don’t know what I was thinking aside from not being able to stand one more minute of mom looking at me like I’m not a star like her.

            Why the tuba? Beats the hell out of me. In fifteen years of life, I’ve not found myself to be proficient in song or dance or acting in any form, and especially not instruments, not even the goddamn kazoo. I’d gone to The Band Room with the intention of trying guitar again at mom’s request, but I went with the tuba. It just made sense at the time, like I could finally impress her.

            This ideate dies as I walk in the door, her lips chiding in a rhythmic precision, “Mario, for God’s sake, I may be getting old, but I know that is not a guitar.”

“You’re right. It’s a tuba.”

She shrugs, disapproving. “Why in the hell would you get a tuba?”

My mouth pantomine’s the store owner’s words, “It packs a punch.”

“I have no doubt about that.” Her tone is glum and facetious, the same kind that would get me chewed out, but I’m not about to point this out to her.

She ushers me into the living room and finds some music for tuba – truly, the woman has everything – and places it on the table. Don’t Stop Believing, by Journey. Her hand waves, a limp prompt to begin.

The reality comes together like a supernova heartattack: I cannot read music; I have asthma; I most definitely cannot play the tuba. Still, I try, until my cheeks go colorful with deoxygenation and my lips catch hearty melodies in all the wrong tempos. My chest is heavy and exhausted, my tongue, like roadkill in my mouth, hanging and bloated, shocking and disgraceful. That’s what mom’s thinking. I can see it in her face as I come to a finish.

            “The good news,” she says. “That is an instrument. The bad news. That is not how you play it.”

            My face drops. I can see it in a puddle on the floor.

            “I did not send you to the store with a hundred bucks to waste on an instrument you cannot play.” She stands with her arms crossed, pacing the living room until she’s blocking the framed pictures. I catch flashes of the headshots of her most successful students and wonder, bitterly, where my school pictures are stashed.

            She snaps her fingers to get my attention once she sees my wandering attention. “It’s unprofessional,” she says.

            “Mom, it’s just a tuba.”

            “And last month, it was just a piano.”

            Her eyes find me in the black hole of shame I’ve collapsed into. I press the tuba’s round end into the muscle on my leg, trying to keep my mouth shut. In the end, the pain isn’t enough.

“It wouldn’t have mattered if I played well or not. You wouldn’t give me the benefit of the doubt.” My throat quivers, betraying my bravery. “I just wanted to try and be different.”

“And it was the worst thing I’ve ever heard. Truly, the worst.”

“As you will no doubt remind me, I wasn’t any good at that either.”

She wants to hit me in the face, give me a solid smack, I can tell. She never does, stomping around, this time, stopping by the china cabinet. It’s not full of plates; it’s full of trophies and more framed photographs, all of her. The pride cabinet, she calls it. That damn thing taunts me in my sleep, I swear to God.

I hang the tuba on the arm of the couch, but it doesn’t stay, clanking loudly as it falls to the ground. I don’t pick it up. “Fuck the tuba and this family.”

I know I’ve crossed a line because this time, mom does hit me and I fall backwards, onto my ass, right onto the tuba. My backbone feels bruised but mom has no sympathy. She breathes in and out, patience dying like a comet tail as she tells me, “Watch your language, young man.”

I take a good while getting up, trying to look her dead on. It doesn’t work. She stands over me, a lone creature in my cesspool of foundering. After a moment, she cracks a smile, the first I’ve seen in awhile. “All this over a stupid tuba.”

“I only did this stupid thing for you.”

She looks at me and knows I never wanted any of this, but it would be an embarrassment having me, the dwarf planet sun when she is sequin silver, molten gold, a true superstar in her own right.

Her gaze follows as I walk to her pride cabinet and spy a picture of her from the tenth grade. Before she found her musical theatre calling, she was in the marching band. Not the tuba. She wasn’t as stupid as me.

She goes to the tuba and picks it up off the floor, cradling it close to her bosom. There’s a twinkle in the brass face, a hopeful note that’s already dying. “I’ll take care of it,” she says, disappearing down the hall. She puts the tuba away before coming back downstairs. “Now, I believe you owe me some change.”

Bio:
Anastasia Jill (they/them) is a queer writer living in Central Florida. They have been nominated for Best American Short Stories, The Pushcart Prize, and several other honors. Their work has been featured or is upcoming with Poets.org, Sundog Lit, Flash Fiction Online, Contemporary Verse 2, Broken Pencil, and more.

by Pippa Storey

Shaking his head in dismay, Ivan closed the online Russian-language edition of the Moscow Daily News and navigated to the website of the International Journal of Number Theory. Over the past few months, his wife had been dragging him to open homes and mortgage negotiations so often that he’d fallen behind with the latest mathematics literature.

He clicked on the April issue and idly scrolled to its table of contents. The title of the first paper leapt off the screen: Nontrivial zeros of the Riemann zeta function with irrational real component. Ivan felt the earth collapse beneath him. “Pizdets!” he swore softly and feverishly opened the PDF.

“Daddy,” Zoe interrupted, laying a Harry Potter book on his desk. “What does witchcraft mean?”

Ivan tore his attention away from the article. “Come again, umnichka?” Zoe repeated her question and he tried to focus on it. Witchcraft, he puzzled. He could easily discuss asymptotic analysis and quadratic reciprocity in English, but the vocabulary of children’s literature was largely foreign to him. In this case, however, the meaning was obvious. “It’s that thing you use to sweep the floor.” 

“A Swiffer?”

“No…” He tried to remember the word. “The old-fashioned kind with a brush on the end.”

“A broom?”

“Yeah, that’s it.” He turned back impatiently to the article. The author was a well-regarded number theorist from Princeton.

“How do you know?”

“Huh?”

“How do you know it’s a broom?” Zoe was eyeing him suspiciously.

“Well, craft is something you ride on, like aircraft or hovercraft,” Ivan explained patiently. “A broom is what witches ride on, so it’s called a witchcraft.”

Zoe stared at him warily. “You sure?”

“Course,” Ivan replied, suddenly doubting himself. “What’s the context?”

Zoe opened the book and searched for the sentence. “Something about practicing witchcraft…”

“See? It must take practice to ride a broom.”

Zoe looked skeptical. “If it’s a broom, why don’t they just say broom?”

Ivan pondered the question for a few moments before the answer dawned on him. “It’s a special broom,” he said. “A magic broom. You can’t ride around on just any broom.”

“I guess…”

“It’s the same with carpets,” Ivan continued, warming to the theme.

“What have carpets got to do with it?”

“You can’t ride around on any old carpet,” Ivan pointed out. “It has to be a flying carpet.”

He returned to the article. The introduction began, not surprisingly, with a restatement of the Riemann hypothesis and its connection to the distribution of prime numbers.

“So?”

“So what?”

“So why do they say witchcraft, not broom?”

Ivan sighed. “The publisher’s worried about liability.” Liability was a word he knew well. In fact, it was one of the first words he’d learned after arriving in the United States.

“What’s liability?”

“They’re worried someone might sue them.”

“What’s that?”

“It’s an American custom. Kind of like tipping, but the opposite.”

“You mean you ask for your money back?”

“Sort of. You go to court and claim that the company injured you. Then you demand millions of dollars in compensation.” He searched for a familiar example. “That’s why, when you buy coffee, it comes with a warning that it might be hot.”

“Isn’t coffee supposed to be hot?”

“Sure, but the company’s worried customers might burn themselves.”

“So why don’t they make it cooler?”

“’Cos then people would complain it wasn’t hot enough.”

Zoe frowned. “But how does the label stop people getting burned?”

“It’s not supposed to,” Ivan snorted. “It’s to stop the company getting burned.”

Zoe opened her mouth, blinked several times in bewilderment, and then closed it again. “Anyway,” she said finally, “what’s that got to do with witchcraft?”

“Think about it,” Ivan said. “If children thought they could fly around on an ordinary broom, there’d be kids all over the country raiding their family’s cleaning closet and jumping out the window.”

Zoe rolled her eyes. “Kids aren’t that stupid.”

“You’d be surprised.” Ivan nodded sagely. “Even adults are that stupid. You tell them bleach kills viruses, and they start drinking Clorox.”

Zoe regarded her father dubiously and resolved to ask her mom about witchcraft when she came home. Her dad was really smart; he knew everything about math and almost everything about science. But her mom was more savvy about practical matters. Like when you were really sick versus when you were just faking it. And how to finagle the deeply discounted sign-up deal on internet service several years running. Witchcraft was probably more her domain.

Ivan swiveled back toward his laptop and Zoe peeked over his shoulder. The screen was filled with gibberish. “Looks exciting,” she deadpanned. She’d learned about sarcasm from one of the older girls at day camp the previous week.

“It’s actually quite groundbreaking,” Ivan confided. A counterexample to the Riemann hypothesis was revolutionary; the implications for number theory – and mathematics more generally – were mind-blowing. Why had he not heard about this before? Admittedly, he’d had to skip the occasional seminar recently. But how could he have missed a breakthrough as momentous as this? It should have been the talk of the department. Hell, it should have been reported in the New York Times!

Zoe squinted at the hieroglyphics covering the screen. If this was number theory, why were there so few numbers? Apart from the issue number, the page number, and the year, displayed prominently in the header, there were no other numbers on the entire page. Except, she saw now, a single line, way down the bottom in small font beneath the author’s contact information, which stated the date of online publication: April 1. “But look!” she exclaimed.

Ivan glanced at her with resignation.

“It’s…” Zoe began, before seizing on a better idea, “…wrong,” she finished, smiling at him sweetly.

Ivan gaped at her.

“There’s a mistake,” Zoe declared confidently, nodding toward the article.

“A mistake?” Ivan stammered. “Where?” He scanned the dense lines of calculations.

“You’ll find it,” Zoe assured him smugly and sauntered back to her bedroom.

Bio:
Pippa Storey grew up in New Zealand, where she acquired a love of wild spaces and a passion for mathematics and physics. She is now a Research Associate Professor of Radiology at New York University School of Medicine, where she develops techniques for magnetic resonance imaging (MRI).

by Stuart Cleland

Bumbling towards me in the tinny corridor, I feel my guts tighten!

I’ve heard about Mr. Pink-Shirt Man before.

On the surface, my fellow teachers warn, he’s just like a nice guy. “But he’ll do anything to climb up the greasy pole. And that includes ‘dropping you in it!’”

 True to form, Pinko grins at me like a jolly dog.

His words pounce, penetrate.

 “I’ve gone over your department results,” he whispers sinuously. “There are a few ‘inconsistencies.’”

Something inside me shudders, recoils.

I can tell what sort of man Mr. Pink-shirt is by the tops that he dons on ‘Christmas jumper day.’

The oilier the senior management, the more garish, more brightly coloured their outfits! When this portly assistant deputy head wears his jumper, he resembles a hippo that has swallowed a box of colouring pencils!

#

Monday morning.

The disease breathes across the world.

‘The shirt’ doesn’t display his pink number today, but he is scheming to plan his annual observation of me!

“When can we get that done?” he frets out loud.

I think of schools and streets closing down in neighbouring Italy.

“Shouldn’t we wait till after the world pandemic?” I suggest.

He shrugs reluctantly.

#

Nine months later, the atmosphere is Christmassy.

A powdery snow has settled on the street.

Students and staff unwrap brightly-wrapped chocolates.

I detect him creeping towards me in the staffroom, pretending to engage with other business.

In no time, his and my nose are only a few inches apart!

“How are you? I’ve heard you’ve been ill?”

“Yes, the family and I didn’t quite have Covid,” I explain. “But we were very sick.”

“Sorry to hear that. Would it be possible if we got your observation done before the end of term?”

The end of term is in five days’ time.

I’m not really that ill, but I fervently wish to test this man.

“Well, I’ve been really poorly. It would be quite stressful to do something like this over the next few days. Could we perhaps wait till after Christmas?”

“I see your point…Erm, mind you, if would be good for you if we got it out the way.”

“Well, I don’t want to-”

“Yes, why don’t we get it out the way for you.”

#

Three days later, all schools are closed for Corona.

Unfortunately, my observation has to be cancelled.

I don’t hear of Mr Shirt-Man for weeks.

Then, it feels like I’m hit with a bullet!

He wants me to join his online ‘welfare meeting!’

Eyeing his jarring, dimpling form appear on my lap top in our home-office is beyond disturbing!

Following his short list of tick-box questions regarding my health, we soon get onto the matter of observations!

“I just don’t know how we’re going to do it,” he gripes.

I listen to my wife coughing and wheezing upstairs.

“You could record one of my virtual Team lessons!” I joke. “Although, it’s difficult to tell if students are really present. Also, many of them are unwell, as are their families.”

Pinky considers it for a moment.

“Sounds like a great idea. Let’s do it!!!”

#

Winter again and the virus is still about. Sporadically

I’m back in face-to-face lessons

Some wear masks, some don’t

The numbers start going up again.

I worry about lack of protection from my school management.

“Why don’t we have ‘bubbles’ in this school?” I interrogate him today.

“We do.”

“How?” I query. “We don’t separate the school into year groups, or anything like that?”

“We have ‘fifteen-minute bubbles.” No eyelid is batted.

“What?”

“As long as we all keep two metres away, not talking to someone for more than fifteen minutes, we’ll be protected against the disease.”

I’m stunned.

“We’re all in it together!” Pink-Man adds enthusiastically.

I want to wreck this ridiculous exchange, now, yet I can’t!

“But,” I counter “the scientists also stress that, if you’re one metre away from a person, you’re in danger of catching Covid in two minutes!”

My line-manager pauses for a short time, sustaining the gormless smile.

“We’re all in it together!”

#

Strangely, I never see Pinko again.

I end up in hospital.

Then, he ends up in hospital.

 However, Mr. Pink-Shirt never leaves.

#

Perhaps he got closer than two metres.

For more than fifteen minutes.

Bio:
Stuart Cleland was born in Motherwell, Scotland. Working as a teacher, he has enjoyed combining his daytime experiences with comic and fantastical themes. As well as creating humorous plays performed in the community including “Whatever happened to Roger Moore?” several of Stuart’s short stories have been published in magazines.

by Juliet Norton

I had to get a grip.

Emily’s wedding was fast approaching and it was only when a friend asked what I would be wearing that the terrifying reality dawned. As mother-of-the-bride I would be under a piercing spotlight and my habitual preference for shapeless beige would not pass muster.

I dithered, panicked, then sampled the high street. Lofty assistants wafted past regimented lines of possibilities, indicating something diaphanous here, horrifically expensive there, using expressions like crush pleat, twist front and crepe drape hem. I was overwhelmed and unconvinced and left with credit card intact.

An inner voice warned that the wedding was moving ever nearer and I was destined to be a star player. Then Emily began to use mysterious words like favours, corsages and embroidered scallops. I was being dragged into an alien world.

 Next stop was best friend Geraldine. She had been mother-of-the-bride twice, always dressed impeccably, approached fashion departments without flinching and was the same size as me.

“Come on in. Borrow anything you like,” she beckoned, and pulled out an eclectic mix, supplemented by tea and cake and a full-length mirror. I eyed the heap of suits and dresses with wavering uncertainty: a pastel chiffony offering smothered in pink flowers jostled with a silky ice blue number sporting padded shoulders. I bypassed these and tried on a cream two piece lacy affair with a low front.

Geraldine said: “Lovely!”

I said: “I’m not so sure…”

Geraldine cajoled: “A cami would do the trick…”

She then suggested strange sounding extras like boleros and satin trim shrugs.

I needed more time…

Then Emily took control.

She dragged me on a whirlwind tour of M&S, John Lewis, H&M and River Island. Dresses fluttered, rails shook and cubicle curtains quivered. The result was three potentials in M&S. Assuming a threatening pose between me and the down escalator, Emily commanded obedience, pretended to bow to my opinion then decided on a maroon two piece, plus obligatory matching jacket.

That battle was won, but the conflict was far from over.

“Footwear,” said Emily assertively.

 High heels were out, not with my size eights and awkward instep; I didn’t want to risk tripping the light fantastic.

A two hour Google search brought success: shoes in matching maroon, with low but elegant heels and a steadying strap. I grimaced at the polyester flowers camouflaging the velcro fasteners, but time and Emily wait for no Mum. I blindly clicked through to checkout. Panic was subsiding, confidence growing, funds diminishing.

“Accessories,” commanded Emily.

Seeing my expression and being wise before the event, she took control and handed me a sparkly gold handbag and long glittery scarf.

“Treat them as an early birthday present,” she said in a kindly tone.

The next undertaking was trickier. Hats. On me they flap, slip or crumple.

Emily suggested scary sounding options like feather saucers and net pillboxes.

Geraldine chimed in.

“Fascinators,” she said.

“I don’t want to be fascinating,” I said.

After more tea and cake Geraldine explained and I saw the sense. Not hat, more hair ornament, easily forgotten during the turmoil of meeting and greeting.

Further Googling revealed eclectic concoctions of feathers, ribbons and artificial flowers. I clicked hurriedly past a ruffle flower headpiece. Once more unto the breach, said the inner voice. Then Emily’s maid of honour did the honorable thing; she proffered a mix of feathers and gold ribbons surplus to requirements, which clipped neatly in place.

No-one mentioned hair – and I secretly vowed to maintain my safe and familiar bob.

***

The night before the wedding, restless in the hotel bed, I dreamed that a smirking guest was wearing the same outfit as me, my shoes had assumed gigantic proportions and people were mocking me behind their champagne toasts.

But morning came, banishing any lingering doubts. I shrugged on the two piece, draped the scarf, pulled on the shoes, grabbed the bag and fascinator and went to help Emily in a nearby bedroom. She handed me a pair of impossibly high silver shoes and asked me to locate her feet through stubborn and voluminous folds of satin; I dropped to my knees, blindly fitted the footwear and was rewarded with a confidence boosting bucks fizz. Collecting my thoughts and clutching my glass, I was thankful for a calm interlude before the storm. I gazed in a daze as a stressed hairdresser with a mouthful of pins curled and swirled Emily’s hair into coils and waves. 

Then Emily caught my eye through the mirror. There was a palpable pause.

“Mum! Your hair!”

There was no escape; the girl who curled brandished her tongs and I was pulled to the mirror. I watched in a trance while a row of ringlets appeared around the fascinator and a strange pretty woman began to emerge, glaring at me from the mirror; I had finally morphed into mother-of-the-bride. Emily brandished a crimson lipstick and sealed the deal.

***

 Throughout Emily’s special day I strove to play my part, gliding through the guests, practising a sociable stance and a jaunty step, seemingly fooling everyone that this was the real me.

It wasn’t until the morning after, surfacing from an exhausted sleep, that I realised something terrible had happened. I had forgotten to pack any smart clothes for my last effort, joining left-over guests for breakfast in the hotel dining room. All I had were the faded jeans, rumpled shirt and scuffed sandals I had flung over an armchair on arrival. I reluctantly put them on and slinked downstairs behind the bride’s father.

No-one noticed me.

Of course, they would remember only the animated, elegant and poised woman from the day before with the smart maroon outfit, gold scarf and fascinator.

 The inner voice told me to count myself lucky that the happy couple had already left to catch their flight to Florida. I dread to think what Emily would have said.

Bio:
Juliet Norton is a retired journalist and editor. She’s self-published four books and writes short stories and non-fiction in her spare time.

Following the success of our first competition, this feature will now be regular monthly event. For the January competition, all submissions accepted for publication between December 16, 2023 and January 31, 2024 will be eligible to be selected for the awarding of 1st, 2nd or 3rd Cash Prize. Submit here: https://duotrope.com/duosuma/submit/witcraft-monthly-humour-competition-0iut1

3rd Prize Winner, Witcraft Monthly Humour Competition

The Optimal Solution – witcraft.org

2nd Prize winner, Witcraft Monthly Humour Competition

Severance – witcraft.org

1st Prize winner in our Monthly Humour Competition

Dear Mr. Hemingway – witcraft.org

by Michael Mclaughlin

Dear Mr. Hemingway,

I am sorry, but we are going to pass on your book, “The Old Man and the Sea.” Basically the story does not meet our standard for modern creative fiction on many levels.

Mr. Hemingway, may I make some careful observations.

The book is too short and nobody has published novellas since 1979. Quantity may not be married to quality, but they are kissing cousins. We can’t charge 37 dollars for a glorified short story. It’s Amazon’s fault. They have ruined the book business. People today think they are writers once they publish anything on Amazon.

You have the old man hook a “marlin.” Marlins are an endangered species and your choice of fish would not work with the environmental crowd who are also big book readers. Could the old man catch a giant carp or catfish?

You have him catch a 1500 pound (today we use kilos not pounds, I might add) fish with his bare hands and fight the fish for three days. Really? That is not physically possible; no one would believe an “old” (your word, Mr.Hemingway) man could fight for three days with a 1500 pound wild animal. That aspect of your book is the closest side of impossible. It is beyond macho, don’t you think Mr. Hemingway? You would need the old man to wear a cape to accomplish that feat. And God NO to anymore superhero stories.

Also, the word “old” in the title is pejorative in this day in age. Most readers are millennials. Perhaps you could update the story so the not-so-old-man. And where is the old man’s phone? Everyone carries a phone nowadays. With a GPS I might add.

At the beginning of the book you have an interaction between the old man and a young boy. Sorry, but that is taboo for the modern reader—an old man and a young boy. Thank God you didn’t have the old man with a young girl, that would have gotten your book banned by every library and the entire Christian world…who I might add are people who fish too.

Maybe you could have a fish out of water (no pun intended) story like a young fishing boy, who is also a computer hacker existentialist — the boy finds redemption in the catching of a really big fish? During the fish battle a stigmata appears on his hands and… Well, the rest is up to you.

There is no love interest in the story. Most of the readers in the world are women. Women in this modern era run the book business, in case you have not noticed. I am not saying you change your story where the old man finds and old woman and they have pornographic sex in a small skiff on the ocean in the moonlight. Although that does have cinematic possibilities.

Finally, the ending to the book is not satisfying. This “old man” is a loser. Having fought the good fight is not good enough today, Mr. Hemingway, unless you had the old man die at the end. Sort of like the movie Moby Dick where Gregory Peck as Captain Ahab, his body lashed to the white whale—the obsessed becomes part of the obsession. Our “old man” is hanging on to the giant Marlin in much the same way. Man and nature in a symbiotic relationship — a love/death embrace?

Good Luck,

The Editor

Bio:
Michael McLaughlin escaped to Mexico from the USA in 2005 to write and live. Looking at the USA today, Michael is sure he was right.