Short-Short Story Contest Finalist

The Tree

By Margaret Graw

         Skye, it’s what the mother called the child who ran toward the ruby blossom that swayed in the breeze; the plump leaves folded back perfectly to reveal the ginger flower.  The woman’s white blonde hair matched the girls; their smiles mirror reflections.  A giggle, a finger pointing, a skip and a hop, and the little girl reached out, touched a petal.  

         I’d stood on that land, in that field, for many seasons, since I was small like the blue field flowers that now tickle my feet.  I was alone at first, and grew openly, spread my branches up and out after each rainfall.  It was a free place.  The low flowers and grasses spread away from my roots, reaching toward the far edges.   As I grew taller I could see they reached out past the curve of land.  My leaves grew larger, too.  Deep green, flat and shiny, as big as a man’s hand.  Yes I see the men who come to plant and pick in the far field.  No trees grow there.  Only plants that grow in straight rows, plucked out if they stray.

         I noticed a new plant one day, growing at my feet.  She had my attention from the first shoot.  Her leaves were narrow, plump, and reached high.  Twice a year she produced the most amazing blossom, bright red and dangerous.  She draws in yellow finches, hummingbirds, birds whose names I don’t know.   I don’t blame the birds for leaving my branches to visit her.  I sweep my branches low to protect her when the monsoon comes.  I will my leaves to scatter around her and protect her fragile roots.  My roots on the sunset side, those closest to her, draw more water - feed her and encourage her.  We alone in that field stand high.  I am hers.  She is mine.

The days are easy and warm, but the nights are dark and lonely.  When the wind blows, my branches hum her to sleep.  On quiet nights I point out the stars to her and the face of the moon.  In the distance the ocean shushes against the shore bringing news of other lands, other trees, other flowers.  I think she hears this too.

         The woman had worked in the field that morning; the girl had played under a sunshade.  Until that morning I’d only seen men in the field.  The woman walked slowly, her hands on her hips.  She let the straw sunhat slip back and hang against her back.  The girl ran toward us, so small, so quick, like a cat.   

         The sun was straight overhead and the flower in a gentle tilt from the heat.  The child touched a single petal with one small finger and turned back to her mother.  Then so quickly two small hands wound around the neck of the blossom, snapped it, and pulled.  Skye swung the blossom in the air and ran a circle around me.  I stood still, but I saw the blood.

Short-Short Story Contest Finalists

*Apologies for the delay in posting the final stories. Internet has been spotty and lives have been upended in the wake of recent events. Our hearts go out to all those affected by the southern Alberta floods. Please enjoy a moment of distraction with the following short-short story.

Ramblings of an Under-appreciated PC

By Madelaine Wong

Chuck and I have been together five years; love at first sight. His eyes glistened when he saw me at Best Buy and he brought me home that day.

“She’s fast and look at her amazing resolution,” Chuck said.

He took me on a fabulous holiday to Vancouver and even let me sit on his lap on the plane. I store the photos files, so Chuck can pull up the pics from time to time and we relive lovely memories.

Mostly, we work. Chuck isn’t the easiest person to get along with, pounding on me all day, demanding answers to queries – “What’s the capital of Gambia? How to cook banana slugs? What do geckos eat?” I assist him with research and editing his stories, while he clutters my memory with hundreds of documents. I help him keep in touch with loved ones, but he won’t even take the time to defrag or upgrade me. Hell, he won’t even dust my keys. At the end of the day, just when I’m ready to hibernate, he wants me to search for pictures of naked women. I don’t judge. I do what I’m told.

Now, he asks me to pull up multiple documents, while at the same time, he’s surfing the net. Hang on, Chuck. This could take a while…

“Piece of shit computer!” He bangs my keys and gives me a shove.

Not my fault I’m slower than I used to be. I picked up a virus last week, after he pirated “Satisfaction” to my music files.

“Writers don’t get paid enough for their work,” he whines. Serves him right I got sick, the cheapskate hypocrite. Now he’ll have to pay someone to fix me. He should have used protection. He’s careless though, hasn’t even backed up my files.

I can almost feel the virus creeping its way through my system, corrupting my drives. I’m running hot. Maybe my fan is malfunctioning. I hope Chuck will take me in to see the geeks at Best Buy. They might have to operate, though. What if it’s terminal? My friend went in for a check-up, just a little tune-up, she was told. They opened her up and found her motherboard fried. Repairs were too costly so they euthanized her, right there on the spot. My Chuck would never be so heartless. I’m under-appreciated, but I know he loves me.

Chuck’s typing “Future Shop” into my search engine. No! The cheating bastard is using me to check out other laptops, all shiny, young and slim.

“This one’s a beauty. Next payday, she’s mine,” says Chuck.

I gave Chuck the best years of my life and this is how he treats me.

“One more week, then it’s time to recycle.” He pats me gently.

He thinks he can treat me like a piece of garbage! He won’t get away with it. I’ll kill myself first. Tomorrow at start up, I’ll do irreparable damage to his documents and then black out. Recycle my ass.

Shot-Short Story Contest Finalist

On the Other Side

By Travis Oltmann

The doctors called it impossible, the Christians called it a miracle and a reminder of god’s glory. I didn’t believe either of them. The doctors because, well, it happened, and the Christians because I didn’t think god would have used his powers on an insignificant loner doing temp work in the Odgen Yards.

Men and women in lab coats came to my hospital room and attached a bunch of wires to my neck, my spine, and the severed nerves that hung like cooked spaghetti from the bottom of my head. They told me that my motor neurons were somehow reacting to my brainwaves without being physically connected. Kind of like Wi-Fi. Trouble was, they couldn’t figure out what was acting as the router. Before they left, they advised against any attempt to reattach my head to my body, saying: “we believe the patient is delicately balanced at the moment, and any operation could potentially end his life.”

On the way home from the hospital I had to hold my head in front of my pelvis with both hands. I attempted to flag a cab down but the drivers thought it was some elaborate prank and kept going. Reaction was mixed as I passed people on the sidewalk, some were convinced it was a magic trick and others recoiled in horror. A young girl, face plastered with hardened chocolate ice cream, shrieked and ran into her father’s arms at the sight of me. I tried to smile, to maybe ease her fear a little. Her father called me an asshole.

The first couple of nights were difficult. It’s hard to watch yourself go to sleep from the nightstand. Eventually I placed my head beside my fish tank in the living room and let my frame find its way through the hallways. At times it would take so long to locate the door I would fall asleep to the abrupt sounds of a full grown body walking into drywall.

In the beginning, the few friends I had visited frequently, bringing foods like pies and casseroles. I’d put them in a blender and try to force them down my neckhole, another obstacle. Word spread amongst them that soup was a better idea, preferably some type of consommé that could be funneled through a straw. So they brought chicken and beef water. The visits became shorter, then they stopped all together. The only contact I had with them was through facebook and text messages.

I mostly sat around after that and watched television. If I was tired or lazy I would force my body go for a run. One time it came back with spit and bruises on it.

I became depressed, clinically depressed. The accident had left me a spectator in my own life.

So I locked myself in a storage cabinet. The darkness was better.

At night I can still hear my body clunking around.

Things would have been so different if I didn’t lay my head on that track.

Short-Short Story Contest Finalist

July

By Rhonda Parkinson 

She went to the baker’s. To buy him some bread…the classic Mother Goose rhyme runs through Linda’s head as she walks to the C-Train station. It’s too beautiful a morning to waste pondering serious matters. Actually, it’s exactly the sort of July morning that promises a sweaty ride home in a cramped C-Train car, the air thickened with heat. But for now the day is perfect.

She turns onto a sidewalk that cuts between two strip malls. Linda walks faster, enjoying the sound of her stilettos clicking the concrete. Strange, how it gives her a sense of being in control.

As she passes a white wooden garbage bin enclosure, there’s a flash in her peripheral vision.  Linda jerks her head left. Her breath stops in her throat. He’s thin and sickly, with red scabs pocking his face and pallid lips. His Blues Brothers T-shirt is ridden with holes.

“Can you spare any money?” Yellowed fingers tug nervously at the waistband of grimy sweatpants. “Just enough for a coffee…maybe a pack of smokes?”

Linda feels her stomach tighten as she sees the purplish-blue lines snaking down both forearms. She knows what her husband would say: “Don’t. You’re just paying for the next fix.”

She looks over his shoulder at the buildings behind them, considers offering to buy him breakfast at Tim Hortons.

He reads her gaze correctly. The sticky sweet smell of men’s cologne envelops her as he leans closer. AXE Body Spray – she remembers its strong lime scent. The sour, rotting cabbage smell underneath is new though.

 “I could really use the smokes,” he says in a tight voice.

Surrendering, she reaches into her purse and removes two twenties. Her throat clutches as she sees the way he can’t stop himself from grasping at the bills.

“Thanks so much.” He already sounds calmer. Counting the minutes until he can escape from her, Linda thinks. Shoot up.

She stares at him. “You know you can come home.”

“Nah, that ain’t gonna happen.” He throws a quick glance at another man huddled against the enclosure’s wooden wall, his face half-hidden underneath a hoodie. He turns back to her. A feral flash comes into his eyes. “I could use some money for clothes, though.”

“Dad would be happy to go shopping with you.”

But he’s already turning away: “Maybe. Sometime.”

Linda watches the two men leave, her son muscling ahead, rubber sandals crushing the pavement. He has somewhere to go, now. Reaching the road, he looks back as if a thought just occurred to him.

 “See ya.”

Linda forces a tight smile. He’d been waiting for her, she realizes. He knew she would choose to walk to the train station on such a perfect day, knew that caught off guard and without his father’s tough love reinforcement, she’d never be able to say no.

Further ahead, the harsh clang of the train station’s crossing guard bells is like taunting laughter.

Short-Short Story Contest Finalist

Incident at Crooked House
By Hermine Robinson

 Hickory, dickory dock, the mouse ran up the clock. Mortimer nestled amongst the gears, safe inside the glass fronted case, and tucked his tail in close, careful to keep it away from sprockets and springs. One pinch was enough for this grey mouse. He absently rubbed the nasty kink, keeping time with the clock's tick, tock. It still hurt in damp weather but he could hardly complain, at least Mortimer still had his tail, unlike the poor blind buggers. The clock struck one.

“Lordy, lordy,” chimed three voices from below. “That farmer's wife was so ugly she struck us blind and then maimed us out of spite.”

“Up here,” Mortimer hissed. “Climb the chain. And mind the gears so you don't pinch –. Never mind, just be careful.”

Three white mice with clouded eyes sat across from Mortimer. Two of them faced him, ears forward. The middle one, sat backwards, waving in the general direction of his stump as he addressed the rear of the clock.

“So let's see if we've got this right,” said Eenie, “you can send us back in time, before this unfortunate incident.”

“Yes, this grandfather clock is a time machine,” said Mortimer. “And by the way, I'm behind you.”

Hup! Eenie spun around. Hup, hup, Meenie and Miney spun around too. Mortimer sighed.

“Technically, all clocks are time machines,” said Eenie.

“This one does more than count forward in one second intervals,” said Mortimer. “My clock can send you back in time, to your original state. From there you can choose a new path.”

“A new path?” asked Meenie. Or was it Miney?

“Yes. One with a different outcome. Or not. It's up to you.”

“Who would follow the same rotten path?” asked Eenie.

“You'd be surprised. Jack is forever breaking his crown. Jill isn't much better.”

“Well that ain't us,” said Meenie. “We'll move far away from that knife wielding crazy.”

Mortimer ran a paw over his whiskers and addressed the delicate subject of payment.

“Usury!” declared all three.

“Triple for three of you,” answered Mortimer. “And cheaper than living with the consequences. Ask Humpty. The money he could have saved on King's horses and men.”

“Are you threatening us?”

“Not at all. My friend and I are merely laying out your options.”

“Friend?”

A soft voice purred, “do you need some help boss?”

“Cat! Cat! Cat!”

The blind mice crashed into each other. One squeaked in fright as a thin, bent tabby with crooked claws flicked him towards the mouse hole. Mortimer watched all three disappear in a flurry of whiskers and haste.

“They'll be back,” he said to Puss.

“With plenty of cheese,” Puss agreed. “And speaking of coming back. Jack is waiting.”

“Another water fetching incident?”

“No, Jill demanded indoor plumbing,” said Puss. “This is something with a candlestick. He'd like to keep it hush hush.”

“That boy is a menace. Charge him double.”

“Funny,” said Puss. “Everyone thinks the Old Man is the crooked one.”