

Montclair Write Group Flash Fiction Anthology 2019

### Edited by Hank Quense and members of the Montclair Write Group

Published by Strange Worlds Publishing

Copyright 2019 Hank Quense

All Rights Reserved.

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Published by Strange Worlds Publishing at Smashwords 2019

First Publication 2019

Acknowledgements

This project wouldn't have gotten off the ground without a group of volunteers who offered to read the submissions and rate them. Nine of them worked on this ebook and their names in alphabetical order are:

Keeth Biesiada

Rose Blessing

Elyse Giaimo

Fannie Gray

Phillip Perry

Margi Saraco

Toby Stein

Nancy Taiani

Mirela Trofin

Table of Contents

Foreword

Packed Suitcase

Historical Photo

Call for Moderation

Seeking Approval

What's that Noise?

Book Club Night

Passing the Torch

Whistleblower

Code Word

About

Foreword

Back to the Table of Contents

Montclair Write Group members love writing prompts. Besides the prompts shown on the website:  http://montclairwritegroup.org/resources/writing-prompts/ there are five writing prompt meetings in the average month. Every Saturday morning, a variable number of members assemble at the library conference room and write to several prompts. The meetings operate like this: a prompt leader announces the prompt and the writers spend fifteen minutes banging away on their laptops or tablets or scribbling in a notebook. At the end of the session, several writers read aloud what they wrote. After that, another prompt is announced.

Once a month, another writing prompt meeting is held in a local coffee shop. The only difference with this meeting is the coffee, hot chocolate and gooey snacks available.

This anthology started with the publication (in the submission guidelines) of ten new writing prompts. Each submission had to be linked to one of those prompts. Submissions were not limited to stories. A submission could also be a fictional article or essay or even a poem. After the smoke cleared, nine of the writing prompts triggered submissions.

The anthology is organized by the writing prompts. Instead of chapter headings, there are the prompts. The response to the individual writing prompts varied. Some prompts had only two responses, others had several. The Flash Fiction Anthology has a total of 28 works from 23 different writers. A surprising number of the entries are poems.

Enjoy the creativity of the Montclair Writing Group members.

Packed Suitcase

Back to the Table of Contents

### KEY

Ren Martin

Lina forgot what she was doing. She had been upstairs and then she come down for a reason, something she remembered until she reached the front hall. Next to the front door was something which pushed every other thought from her mind.

There were trunks in the attic, and big suitcases, but Marc had said no. Thierry needed something which could be carried; in cities, on ocean liners, riding a camel. And he would be uncomfortable with something new.

So she scoured the attic, with Marc moving everything too heavy for her to lift. Which was nearly everything. Three years ago, he had purchased the house furnished. She hadn't been surprised by the Victorian furniture and old photos which she was in the process of updating or replacing.

She had never seen the attic. For three years miscellaneous objects passed into Thierry's room-- baseball gloves, broken music boxes, Edison wax cylinders -- and were fixed, kept, or given away. She never realized what a small percentage of the clutter she saw.

A week passed before they found the bag, still filled with old medical instruments, which Marc put into a box in the attic. Lina had turned her attention to the bag. Reading part of a book on maintaining leather bags, cleaning it, mending it. Not quite in that order. Marc had suggested she moderate her efforts, pick one aspect and stick to it, maybe even finishing reading the book first.

Lina heard a noise — again! A noise had brought her downstairs. In the front hall, she could hear two voices coming from the porch. And a loud clicking sound. Marc was off running a security detail for some whistleblowers, and both voices sounded too young to be his anyway.

With her eyes aimed at the screen door, she walked past the packed suitcase, past some photos she had yet to remove. Women in too many layers for summertime and slightly less overdressed young men stood in front of a smaller version of the dogwood in the front yard, and behind that stood a newer version of the house. Theirry taught her to recognize the season by the dogwood's foliage.

On the porch, he and Aaron were sitting on chairs pulled up to the coffee table, where a small metal tool-box stood open. It was now easy to hear the two of them talk, and she watched as Thierry pushed the top closed with a finger. It made that clicking sound.

"This used to make an awful clang." Thierry's voice was full of understatement, Aaron, about a decade younger, laughed.

"You are the only person I know who would fix a noisy tool box by slowing the fall down instead of muffling it."

"When I'm under a car I like to know if my toolbox fell closed." Thierry faced Aaron, and noticed Lina. She stopped with one foot outside, her hand still holding the screen door open. Thierry arched an eyebrow and grinned. "Want more practice chasing squirrels out of the house?"

She stepped past the door, and closed it behind her, not wanting to do that ever again. "I heard that clicking noise and wondered what it was."

"Thierry's favorite toolbox, formerly of the garage, so you've probably never heard it." Aaron lifted the toolbox with a speed that indicated it was empty.

"Now it's Aaron's. That wooden thing you use is deteriorating, the town's best mechanic deserves better." Thierry was looking around for something, and didn't see the look of surprise on Aaron's face.

"The best? So the student has surpassed the master!"

"No." Thierry picked up a small and a beaten-up looking cabinet from the porch past the coffee table, and Lina recognized it. All she could do was stare. Thierry continued "The teacher is leaving town. I am passing the torch."

"Not that I'm not thrilled to see you, but I thought you were leaving today." Aaron pointed out.

"Tonight. Miss Runninghorse asked me to chat with tonight's book club as an 'authority on the part of the world being discussed'. Then me and Harm'll be off to the train station." As he spoke, Thierry opened the cabinet, revealing a ten year old research microscope kit, including it's manual.

"That's your microscope." She heard herself say. Thierry shook his head.

"No, it's your microscope. If I need one I'll borrow one." He finished arranging the contents on the table, and sat back. "Take a look, make sure everything is there."

Lina felt herself blush, Thierry was efficient, of course everything was there. She pulled up a chair, carefully inspected the kit, nodded, and began to put everything back. Aaron watched in silence. Usually the mention of the microscope made him complain about how Thierry and Lina sounded like they were using code-words when talking about whatever they had recently used it on. He might have been almost as upset as she was.

As she closed the cabinet door, Thierry held a key on a thin chain out to her. The key locked the door, but the chain was new. She felt a tightness in her throat, something which threatened but never actually happened whenever she saw the suitcase after he had packed it.

Something about his giving her the key solidified his leaving.

She jumped out of her chair, and hugged him, not caring that she was too old or too big for such behavior. Then she began to cry. Instead of hugging her back, he slid something around her neck, and she knew it was the chain. "We're proud of you."

She wanted to tell him that she had no idea what he was talking about, that she wasn't seeking anyone's approval, that she would be fine when he was gone. Instead, she returned to her chair, turned away from him, and wiped her face with her handkerchief. Feeling composed, she locked the door with the key. It took longer than usual, her hand wouldn't stop shaking.

Unclaimed Baggage

Elissa Goldman

The woman behind the counter wore a sleeveless sheath dress. Her gray hair was neatly tucked into a French twist at the base of her neck. Her lips were painted a crimson shade of red. The color brightened her pale skin, even under the inconsistent, fluorescent lighting. A straw bag emblazoned with the word "Mexico," sat on the floor next to where she stood at the cash register. It was a present from her husband, bought nearly twenty years before on vacation; she had used the tote nearly every day since. Now she worked in the Unclaimed Baggage store. The store sold abandoned, or genuinely lost, items from suitcases left at airports around the country at a discount. The bell on the door rang, and a young man walked into the store, followed by a steamy breeze.

He strode into the store and stopped after a few feet, enjoying the blast of cold air. He picked up his tank top and wiped the sweat from his face before he went any further. He loved this place. It hadn't changed since his mother brought him there as a kid. At first, he couldn't believe people were so careless with their belongings, but as he got older, he appreciated their loss as his gain. He'd seen a Rolex there once, but couldn't afford it, and wondered if they had one under the glass counter today. He looked around the store for winter clothing, instead he saw an Alabama Coastguard t-shirt hanging on the wall; a physical reminder of what a screw up he was.

"Can I help you find something?" the woman asked him. He turned around, startled; she sounded like his mother. The store's clerk left her perch at the counter when she saw the boy wiping his face with his T-shirt. If she were younger, she might have mistaken that for flirtation. It was a good thing she was on duty this morning, and not Ginny. Ginny would be a giggly mess if she saw this tall, tan, young man, and his bright blue eyes. He was like the rest of the kids she saw around town, wearing tank tops, spending their days in the Gulf, and riding around in old Jeeps; leaving her in a whirlwind of dust when she drove behind them.

"What are you looking for?" the lady repeated. He looked at her and blinked.

"Oh, yeah, hi ma'am. Do y'all got any sweaters? Really warm ones?" He raised an eyebrow.

"You want to buy a sweater?" She asked, reflexively pointing at the door. It was August. In Alabama.

"Yes ma'am." He looked down and wiggled his foot. He was heading North to learn how to snow ski. How much different could it be from water skiing?

"Well, ok, follow me." She led him to a small, untouched, oasis of cold weather garments.

"Thanks, ma'am," he mumbled. Then he began searching through the clothes. The woman returned to her post, cringing at the screech of hangers grinding against the metal racks.

He quickly found a blue, cabled sweater, then checked the size. He found more than he was expecting, and began piling sweaters, pants and coats over his left arm until it began to sag. He walked over to a full-length mirror and put a pile of clothing on the floor. He picked up the pieces he liked the most, holding them up in front of him to see how they would look, how he would look in a few months; who he would be. He looked at his watch. He really needed to get going, people would be looking for him soon.

The woman watched the young man drop clothing on the floor. He was a rude young man, making a mess, and sweating all over everything. She would let Ginny clean that up. She took out a bottle of glass cleaner, paper towels, and vigorously wiped the checkout counter. The citric smell of the cleaning fluid made her happy. It tickled her brain, although she wouldn't necessarily describe it that way. When she finished with the counter, she turned around and put the cleaning items into a drawer. She noticed a light flashing through "Mexico" on her handbag. She worried there might be an emergency at home.

"Excuse, me, ma'am?" The boy stood at the counter; his bounty plopped down on the nice, clean surface.

"All done?" she asked.

"Yes, ma'am. Thank you for helping me find the warm clothes. There's so much in here, it can get kind of confusing, you know?" He asked her, their eyes met.

"It certainly is." She answered, and really looked at him. He looked kind.

"Have you worked here long?" the young man asked. She reminded him so much of his mother, but prettier.

"A while, a good while," she said. Her phone buzzed, distracting her while she added up his bill.

"That'll be...thirty-seven dollars and twelves cents," she said and watched the boy struggle to get his wallet out of his back pocket. When he finally produced it, she noticed it was stuffed with cash; it's probably all of his life's savings, she thought.

"Thank you." She said and counted the money he'd handed her.

"Thanks ma'am." He helped her pack up his things, surprising her with his manners. Maybe he wasn't so bad, not like the rest of them. She watched him stride out of the store. The woman relaxed, took out her phone and gasped.

"Did you get it?" the girl asked as he opened the door to the back seat of his Jeep. He threw the bags inside.

"No, Ginny," he said, annoyed. He untucked the gun from his waistband and handed it to her, she pouted.

"Go back in!" she yelled.

"No," he said firmly, and got into the driver's seat, turning on the ignition. He drove slowly out of the parking lot. He didn't want to attract the police.

### Cracked

Zachary J. Ferrara

I remember the day that I lost you. It was a Friday afternoon sometime in late July. We were in the midst of another sweltering summer in New Jersey. The local pools were overcrowded with children and their parents were counting the days until schools would open again. The streets were busier than usual and the hum of air conditioners could be heard late into the nights. The weathermen kept calling for rain, but it never came. It seemed that any respite from the heat would have to wait. You didn't want to wait though. When I came home from work that Friday afternoon, you started packing your suitcase. It was a frantic site. The only thing that I could think was that the heat had finally made you crack.

You told me not to worry though. You told me that everything was going to be okay. I didn't believe it for a second. I turned the air conditioner on higher. The hum grew. I poured some water for you and put extra ice cubes in the glass. You drank it all in one gulp and then continued packing. I checked the forecast to see if there would be a drop in temperatures, but all I saw were numbers reaching toward triple digits. I began to wonder where you were going to go. The entire east coast was experiencing the same heat wave. You were afraid to fly so that was out of the question, as well. Canada, maybe? Your passport was expired. It seemed that you didn't have a plan at all and I began to hope that you would change your mind once you realized this. You kept packing though. Your suitcase was running out of room and I was running out of time.

As the afternoon hours passed, I wondered if I was ever going to see you again. The more time that passed, the more I didn't recognize you. I walked out of the kitchen to find your suitcase by the front door. I looked for you all around the house, but couldn't find you. It was almost like you disappeared into thin air. As I made my way through the dining room, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror that hung on the wall. My face was wrought with tension and my skin glistened with moisture. I looked down at my hands to catch them shaking. I walked back to the kitchen and poured myself another glass of water. I filled the glass to the brim with ice cubes. There was an eerie silence in the house and I realized that the air conditioner was no longer humming. The temperature continued to rise and the sweat continued to bead down the back of my neck. You were gone. Through the front windows of the house, I could see the sky darkening and night descending. I walked toward the front door and grabbed the suitcase by its handle. It was heavier than I expected and I realized that I might have overpacked.

I turned the handle on the front door and stepped out onto the front porch—my hands still shaking. The sky looked ominous and all I could hear was the neighbor's dog barking. The next sound that I heard was the crack of a lightning bolt overhead. As I walked down the front steps and onto the walkway that led to the driveway, the rain began to pour down on me. It came down so fast that the handle on the suitcase became too slick for me to hold onto and the weight of the it slipped from my hand and onto the walkway. The hatches busted open and the lid flew open. The rain continued to fall—soaking through everything that I had packed. I gathered what I could and ran back up the front steps and back into the house. The door slammed behind me and as I threw the suitcase down onto the ground, I noticed that my hands had stopped shaking. There was still an eerie silence in the house and the only thing that I could hear was a whisper telling me that everything was going to be okay and all I could do was believe it.

~ ~ ~

Zachary J. Ferrara was born in New Jersey in the 1980's and is a graduate of Montclair State University. He published his first book, Hollywood, in 2015. He has also published two poetry books, Echoes: Volume I and Echoes: Volume II. All three of these works are available on Amazon. Find out more about Zachary J. Ferrara at www.zjferrara.com.

### The Suitcase

Raphael Badagliacca

© Copyright 2007, by Raphael Badagliacca from my book, "Father's Day:

Encounters with Everyday Life"When you become a parent, everything changes, even what you carry.

One day, my wife announced that she was taking our new baby boy to see my parents. I had two very important presentations that day, so important that I bought a new suit for the occasion – a dark tropical wool with a subtle pinstripe. I'm not in the least bit superstitious, but twice before I'd done very well while wearing a red tie, so I purchased three ties with red in them to go along with the suit. I was selecting the one that looked the luckiest as my wife outlined the day's arrangements. She would take the car and I would join them later by train.

My day went very well. By early afternoon, I was back in the office, feeling sure I had the beginnings of two new, large accounts. With that kind of success, I was ready to call it a day when the phone rang. It was my wife. She had forgotten my son's Winnie-the Pooh suitcase, full of baby things that she needed. Would I mind stopping by the apartment to get it on my way to the train?

"No problem," I said, even though the apartment and the train were in two entirely different directions. I straightened the papers on my desk and left for the day. At the apartment, I exchanged my polished leather briefcase for the baby's suitcase. It was mostly white, with yellow and red trim. The characters from the story cavorted across the case – Tigger and Piglet and Winnie himself. I remembered the part in the book about how Tigger and Winnie were such good friends that when they wanted to see each other they both got the thought at the same time and met at a place in the forest they know so well.

It was a spring day. I left the house without an overcoat.

I descended into the subway. I stood on the platform, a rising executive wearing an elegant, new suit and holding his Winnie-the-Pooh suitcase.

When the train arrived the doors shot open, and I shot into a seat, with the suitcase between my feet. The subway cars were always so full of peculiarities – from beggars with paper cups to religious fanatics delivering fiery sermons – that my little oddity didn't even register.

After the subway ride, I swung through the turnstiles at Penn Station and took my spot next to hundreds of commuters, waiting for the board to light up with the arrival of my train.

Once on the train, I took the double seat at the front facing another double seat. There is only one pair of seats like this in each car. I put the suitcase next to me. A young woman took the seat across from me. She immediately took a report of some kind from her briefcase and began to study it.

As the train moved through the tunnel, I studied her reflection in the blackened glass. She had those big screen looks buttoned up in a very corporate style. In one of those Fifties movies, she would have inherited the business from her father, been dismissed as a mere woman by the Board of Directors and proved herself by the end of the film to be more fiercely competitive than any of them. Along the way, she would meet and fall in love with the leading man who wore a suit remarkably like the one I had on today.

She was quite beautiful. And that her business suit revealed nothing made her even more enticing. But wait a minute. My wife was just as beautiful, and just as capable. And besides, this was the happiest time of my life, now that we had our little boy. Maybe they'd even meet me at the train station. I resolved to conquer this thing that always made you feel you were losing a little part of your life if beauty moved in and out of it and you did nothing about it. I would continue to enjoy the movie in the glass, but I determined I did not have to say anything.

Then she spoke to me.

She cleared her throat slightly, so I turned to look at her.

She looked at me and then at my Winnie-the-Pooh suitcase, which I was now clutching for some reason.

Then very carefully and very slowly, she said with her perfect lips:

"Are you running away from home?"

### Men Miscommunicate Even in Their Sleep

JM Richardson

It's 11:55pm, and I am bone-tired. I walk into the bedroom, and there on my side of the bed sits a red suitcase. I stare at it with a mix of anger and guilt. The suitcase stairs back, the space between the neatly organized layers of men's clothing and the top of the case an open indictment. My husband, having already picked out his things for the trip, ironed them, folded them neatly, and placed them in the suitcase, has left it open on the bed to remind me to pack mine. It is now midnight, and I do not feel like picking out. I do not feel like ironing. I do not feel like folding. I feel like going to bed.

"Oh Hell," I say to myself accidentally out loud. My husband stirs and shifts position under the sheets. I would leave it until morning if our flight were not leaving at 8am – a time that will require us to be up and dressed and on our way to the airport no later than 6am. I will get little enough sleep as it is, I think to myself, as visions of the last time I was awakened by the jarringly unpleasant sound of my husband's alarm clock at 4am.

So, I stand there, weighing the need to get items from drawers and closets without waking my sleeping husband against my urgent need for a few decent hours of sleep, and struggling to quell the growing desire to shout obscenities and kick the furniture. Why? Because it has been an incredibly long day and I am tired, beyond tired, soul crushingly tired, to the point of being more than mildly irrational. Yet, despite my exhaustion, the rational part of my brain still tells me that I must do this thing that I have no wish to do, and try to be quiet in the process.

Ever try to be quiet? It doesn't work. Trying to be quiet is an open invitation to the Klutz Monster, who comes out whenever the need for silence arises to make sure that you drop, knock over, bump into, and stub your toe on everything in sight. Packing in the middle of the night is also a sure-fire formula for assuring that you arrive at your destination having left some necessary item, be it face wash or lingerie, behind.

I shuffle over to the red suitcase wondering whether to curse or cry. Suddenly, inspiration strikes. A list, that's what I need, a list! I cross the wood floor that has suddenly and inexplicably decided to squeak loudly with every step, and grab a pen. Now something to write on. Magazine cover – no. Margin of the paper my husband was reading – not enough room to write. Back of a Macys receipt – hmmm, no, I might need to return an item, and the store clerk really doesn't need a record of my delicates. I spot an empty envelope - oh thank goodness! (I suppose you have random notepads just lying around your bedroom in case you need to write something down in the middle of the night?)

I start with the basics: nightgown, undergarments, shorts, t-shirts, etc. etc. Ok, this is good. After clothing comes accessories, then sundries and other personal care items. The list complete, I tiptoe to the closet and begin pulling out items in the semi-darkened room, checking off each item as I fold it as neatly as possible, given the hour and my total lack of energy, and place it on the bedroom chair. I will place the clothing in the suitcase once I'm done folding. The sundry cases and personal care items will go in the carry-on. The trick will be to move the clothing to the bed and suitcase to the chair before packing to avoid dropping a fully packed suitcase on my foot. Where is Harry Houdini or Samantha Stevens when you need them?

Twenty minutes and several stubbed toes later, the clothes are neatly folded and sundries packed. I deftly manage to move clothing to bed, and suitcase to chair Mission-Impossible style without waking my husband, then placed the clothing neatly (I think) in the suitcase. However, as I gently close the top of the suitcase, I realize that I've forgotten to pack shoes. Back to the closet as I try to recall the exact placement of every pair of shoes I own in as I attempt to remove the correct ones – again without waking my husband. Two pair of sandals, one pair of dress shoes, cute sneakers for sightseeing, and my favorite workout sneaker. Dress shoes? Yes, no, maybe? I'll put them out and decide in the morning (a decision I could live to regret, but it's 1am and I don't care anymore). I make a mental note to check in the morning to make sure that all the shoes I selected actually match, and hope that particular Postit is still stuck to my brain in the morning. The task finally completed, I breathe a sigh of relief, wash up, change, and slide under the covers with a self-satisfied smile.

I awaken around 5am, and turn over to find my husband still sleeping. Odd, given that he is usually up before me, especially when we're traveling. Though horrified at the lateness of the hour, I nudge him gently. "We have a flight at eight," I say with as much calm as I can muster. He turns over with a strange look, and says "that's tomorrow." "But you left the suitcase out," I reply. "I just wanted to make sure you had plenty of time to pack so you wouldn't end up doing it in the middle of the night and forget something," he says, while turning over to go back to sleep. I turn onto my back and stare at the ceiling, as the sleep fairy smiles and waives goodbye. Now I know why some women commit homicide.

Historical Photo

Back to the Table of Contents

Sweat

Keith Biesiada

The man in the photo stared at whoever dared to stare back at him.

"That's Uncle Julius," Mary Anne said. She had paused while rummaging through the old trunk in the attic to look at the photo. "He was in the Civil War."

Metcalf tried to whistle. He wasn't very good at it. "So, this picture is about a hundred and fifty years old."

"That's about right," Mary Anne agreed. "Hey, are you going to gawk at that picture all day or are you going to help me?"

Metcalf looked for a safe place to lay Uncle Julius, but finding none, he slipped him into his shirt pocket.

"Take these." Mary Anne handed him a pile of sweaters.

"Where should I put them?"

Mary Anne scanned his eyes. "Over there in that box that says, sweaters."

"Oh, right. Got it." He piled the clothes into the designated box and returned for more.

They finished at around six. Mary Anne had perspired through her shirt. Metcalf tried to not get caught noticing.

"Don't you ever sweat?" she asked.

"Sure, I sweat." He raised his arms to display the two dots of dampness that had stained the undersleeves of his shirt.

She shook her head. "You call that sweating? You Yankees. I tell you. You want some lemonade?"

"Sure." Metcalf smiled a shy smile. "I'd love some."

"It's in the kitchen" she said. "I'm having me a gin and tonic." She brushed his shoulder, with a soft, white hand. "Would rather have one of those instead?" She was teasing him.

Metcalf rubbed his hands together. "That sounds good," he said. A tiny muscle twitched under his left eyelid.

"Hendrick's Orbium or Bols Genever?"

He hesitated. "Either sounds good."

She laughed. "All we got is Gordon's, sweetie. There's the bar." She pointed at a mahogany table. "Make one for me too while you're at it, sugar, but not too much tonic." She turned toward the laundry room. "And give me a twist," she added.

Metcalf watched her. His eyelid twitched again. She stopped and looked at him over her shoulder.

"Go on!" she said with a backward wave of her hand. "There's a bucket of ice under the bar."

"Oh, right." He loped to the bar in four steps.

He found the gin, the tonic and the ice. He was about to ask how much ice she wanted when she pulled her sweaty shirt over her head, ruffling her smoky brown curls as if they were blown by the wind.

Then the bra came off.

Metcalf tried not to look at her bare back, but he couldn't help making sidewise glances as he poured the liquor, and he spilled some of the gin. Maybe it was guilt.

"Oh man!" he exclaimed.

"What's going on?" she asked, then laughed. "What did you do?" She was wearing a clean shirt, fresh from the dryer.

"Have you got a rag?"

She gazed up at him. "Are all you Yankees this clumsy? Come on. Let's clean up this mess before the cat gets into it."

Soon they were facing each other on the love seat, each with a drink in hand.

"Let me wash that shirt for you," she said. "You can wear one of my brother's while yours is drying."

"It isn't that dirty."

"So, take it off anyway. You already seen me naked."

The ice rattled in his drink. His eyelid twitched. "I didn't mean to."

"Careful you don't spill that drink on yourself." She steadied his hand with hers, then asked, "What's that there?" She jabbed a finger at his breast.

"That?" He pinched the photo of Uncle Julius out of his shirt pocket. "I'm sorry. I forgot. I meant to give it back to you."

"Keep it," she said.

Uncle Julius, in his Confederate uniform, stared back at him from across the decades. "But it's a daguerreotype."

She downed her drink. "Finish up, honey. It's time to reload." She took both their glasses back to the bar.

"But it could be valuable."

"So, keep it," Mary Anne said. She mixed the drinks and sat alongside him. "Drink up!"

"But this is a family heirloom," he protested. "It could be a Matthew Brady."

"Give me that," she said, and tore the photo in two, four and eight before scattering the pieces on the carpet.

Metcalf couldn't disguise his shock and amazement. "Why did you do that?"

She answered him with a hard kiss on the mouth. "Finish your drink," she ordered, then kissed him again.

He tried to resist. "You just destroyed a piece of history!"

She chugged the rest of her drink. "Uncle Julius was a traitor, a Union spy. If Robert E. Lee had laid hands on him, he would have hung him. Now drink your damn drink and take off that damn shirt."

No sooner had Metcalf complied, she was pushing him toward the staircase that led upstairs.

"Uncle Julius can go to Hell, but if it's the last thing I ever do, I'm going to make you sweat."

Metcalf allowed himself to be led. He was already sweating.

### Acid Wash

Brinda Banerjee

The scarf covering her head, the 'chunni', is what grabs my attention first. I finger the yellowing black and white photograph, wondering, does she have long or short hair beneath that scarf? Her gaze is clear, her smile, like a tropical sun. I turn and look at myself in the mirror, was my smile that broad as well? My muscles ache as I force a smile. Yes, that woman in the picture could well be me.

Except: I have short hair styled to perfection, I have a skin care routine that costs thousands of dollars a year, I have a team of journalists working for me and I have my own syndicated news show. I have never worn an article of clothing as restrictive as that voluminous scarf on that woman's head – it seemed to drape itself over her like a barrier.

I find myself thinking of Ammi – naturally. Now dead for six years, having succumbed to her cancer mercifully early, I can hear her saying, Persis this is your aunt Nimmi's work. She must have sent this picture. You have to call them, find out who still lives there? Do they need help? They must have tracked you down – you are in the public eye my dear.

She would have nagged me until I did discover the state of my immigrant parent's relatives in Pakistan. But she is not here now. I push the old picture deep into a drawer and shut it with a definitive bang.

I should have thrown it away.

Instead I stride on through my day, interviewing tornado victims from Milwaukee and preparing my report on women entrepreneurs in Afghanistan. Through the day the image of my doppelganger's face draped in the traditional 'chunni' kept popping into my mind, like a scene from a horror movie that you cannot un-watch.

#

A few days later when my team brought the story to me I almost did not recognize the ghost of a connection. This was happening in the country of my ancestors, that faraway place, that I've never chanced upon in all my international travel for my work.

I almost retched, at the picture in front of me, a young person's face hideous with burnt skin stretched like a grotesque mask, an eye patch covering her left eye, raw pink lips set in a grim line. Her husband had attacked her with acid. I read the reports with growing anger- men in Pakistan, husbands had taken to disfiguring the unwanted women in their lives. We worked tirelessly to get the story ready. I was shaking for the first time in my career as we broadcast that night. When I was sixteen, one drop of hydrogen sulphide fell on my little finger in chemistry lab. The agony of that itching burn returned to me as the memory surfaced; my finger twitched and I bid my mind to remember the alkaline solution that I'd bathed the finger in, for relief. To have that sensation magnified many times over, on one's face, would be unspeakable.

After filming the segment, the mystery photo I got in my post, a few days ago, came to mind. I rummaged in the drawer and found it. I sat there, thinking, my drink forgotten. The envelope carried a postmark from London, England – the letter had not come from Pakistan, not from an ailing relation or something. I get a lot of mail obviously, and the team had thought this would be interesting to me. "It is authentic, Persis, not photo shopped or anything. A real picture taken with a non-digital camera," they said.

Perhaps a fan knew someone, something from my past, from my family. Or, was there a deeper message in all this? Persis Khair – prominent media figure, educated in Harvard, living in New York; wake up and find your purpose?

#

Graham is a beautiful man and in our mid-forties we enjoy the perfect relationship, born of a mutual desire for companionship and understanding, plus the freedom to pursue our careers. In spite of the tandem with which our souls worked I just knew, even as my mind acknowledged the decision my heart had made; that Graham would never understand. He would be shocked and distant. Disappointed even, that I had succumbed to my misguided emotions and chosen to relinquish everything I've achieved in my life.

Yet, when I alight from the plane and feel the heat envelope me like an actual physical entity, I do not feel the loss of Graham's presence. Instead I feel warmth permeate me and I tell myself, I will change lives, including my own, here in my mother's homeland. I am here to stand by those acid washed women; whether I find my relations or not. When I drape the 'chunni' over my head and lodge the Gucci sunglasses on my nose, miraculously I do not feel hidden or constricted: just shaded from the sun.

### The Tintype

Virginia Ashton

The Tintype of her grandparents always fascinated her. Its sepia tones matched the dark brown leather of the album cover where the picture frame was mounted. Her grandfather sat stiffly in the wooden chair with a leather seat and a leather inset at its back. It still sat in the corner of the parlor although no one ever sat in it, because it was so uncomfortable. But, Grandfather Benjamin supposedly loved this chair. There he sat in the photo wearing his best suit and stiff collar with his derby on his knee. Standing beside him with her hand on his shoulder is Grandmother Louisa. She has the classic Gibson Girl hairdo and is wearing a high- necked white blouse trimmed with lace and a long dark skirt which has a bustle in the back. The bustle doesn't show in the photo, but she knew the skirt had a bustle in the back because she had secretly attempted to try the outfit on a few years ago. She found Grandmother Louisa had had a very small waist and tiny hips so that the skirt would not pass her knees when she attempted to step into it. The blouse had turned brown with age and was so fragile she had no success with it either. The garments remained in the back of her mother's closet swathed in a large sheet which she had very carefully replaced.

The album was always kept on the pie crust table next to grandfather's chair. She often imagined him with the huge leather volume open on his lap looking at all the family photos, although he may never have done anything so frivolous. In her experience it was women who looked at albums "oohing" and "aahing" over wedding and baby pictures.

In the tintype there was a look on grandfather's face that suggested he was a strict taskmaster. Of course, that was his reputation in the family as well so she may have been reading more into his face than was really there. There was a "deer in the headlights" look in most of the photos taken at the time due to the phosphorous in the huge flash lamps they used. But, even without the staring eyes, his mouth was a thin slash which lent credence to the sense that he was strict.

Being the youngest in her large family, she did not remember meeting her grandparents. They had been at her christening as described to her by her mother. They had both been very elderly then. So, the photo of their young selves had always held a fascination for her. She wondered if her grandmother would have unbent enough to give her candies like her aunt did. She sighed. Perhaps it was as well she had never met them. If her grandfather was anything like Uncle Mike who terrorized her with his criticisms and his loud haranguing voice, she would have hated being in his company. One Uncle Mike was enough in the family.

She finished dusting the album and the pie crust table. As she moved on to her grandfather's chair, she realized she was glad now she had never known her grandparents. She would rather pretend whatever she wanted about the couple in the tintype.

~~~

Virginia Ashton has been a professional actress, a free lance researcher, a Special Ed Teacher's Aide and a craft person as well as a writer. She is currently working on publishing her Regency Romance, Past Pardon.

### Still Romancing Charlotte

Catherine Hottendorf

Larry, invisible as residents and visitors came and went worked unnoticed at The Rosalie, an exclusive apartment building across from the mouth of Lincoln Park. A marble stairwell swirled around the Art Deco style two-passenger lift. A papyrus brass and iron motif complemented the magnificent black-and-white marble steps. Restored and modernized in recent years the lift was reserved for residents and guests. Hopes to restore the dumbwaiter located near the porter's office seemed dismal, and deliverymen now climbed the stairs much to their chagrin.

The same year Larry began as a porter's assistant, Ernest Bender, and his bride, Charlotte, moved into a penthouse apartment. Larry over the years worked his way to head porter working the night shift. Charlotte always greeting Larry with a smile, and gave each of Larry's children St. Christopher medals when they were born. Ernest was rather indifferent to Larry and walked past the porter's room at the far side of the lobby near the wall of brass mailboxes every evening occasionally acknowledging Larry with a mere nod. Larry noticed Ernest Bender wasn't the same since Charlotte's passing about ten years earlier.

Stomping mud from his shoes when entering the lobby, "I need my shoes polished tonight." Ernest Bender initially barked at Larry. "I'll leave my shoes in the milk-box. Charlotte has strict rules about my shoes being perfectly buffed." his tone changed as he thought about his wife's wishes.

"Yes sir. I'll send my assistant to get them." Larry answered as if he were a soldier taking orders from his drill sergeant.

The elevator sparkled and twinkled as it moved upward carrying Ernest, now approaching ninety years. Apartments at The Rosalie originally had a tiny galvanized compartment used for milk deliveries at the foot of each apartment entrance. As Larry watched the lift return to the lobby, he heard faint footsteps walking slowly and a long pause before hearing an apartment door slam shut. Larry hoped Ernest Bender remembered to put his shoes in the milk box. When the huge lobby chandelier lit up each evening, the elevator's brass, and iron design were a majestic sight. Larry loved polishing the motif design that extended up almost to the purple and amber stained glass skylight.

Since the building opened a grandfather clock stood against the wainscoted wall in The Rosalie's magnificent lobby. The chime echoed against the marble stairwell as Larry's feet touched the once shiny marble steps. The steps now showed an indentation from years of wear. Larry once heard a realtor describe to a prospective tenant the lobby and stairwell he loved as the "stairwell with a romantic patina." When he had been the porter's assistant, he was able to climb to the penthouse before the clock finished its midnight chime. Larry now started his climb a few minutes before midnight and paced himself to reach the top as the grandfather clock finished.

Pride stopped Larry from admitting that he needed an assistant. There hasn't been a porter's assistant since he took over as head porter forty years earlier. After climbing six stories, Larry returned to the porter's room with several pairs of shoes. One by one he buffed the resident's shoes so shiny anyone would think the tips were patent leather. Buffing to the rhythm of the clock's pendulum, he placed each pair on a shelf admiring the shine and decided to take a well-deserved break before returning the shoes to their owners. Sitting down as the grandfather clock ticked he closed his eyes mesmerized by the rhythmic sound. Larry never heard the clock chime at two o'clock nor three o'clock.

A few residents let themselves in during the night with their key and didn't think much about Larry not buzzing them into the lobby. The day concierge arrived at dawn and tapped the desk bell a few times to alert Larry he was taking over. The concierge found Larry in the porter's room. Larry appeared to be sleeping. The concierge rested his hand on Larry's shoulder trying not to frighten him. Larry did not move.

Later that day Ernest looking for the shoes he expected to find in the galvanized milk-box rode the lift in socked feet to the lobby. He opened the door to the porter's room grabbed his pair of shoes, sat in Larry's chair. After slipping on his shoes, he went for his walk and stopped for dinner at a pup on the other side of the park. He planned to spend a quiet evening reading a book Charlotte told him he might enjoy but never had time to read.

After his walk and dinner, he noticed the smudges on the brass mailboxes and thought that a bit unusual. He took the lift to his floor, placed his shoes inside the galvanized milk-box before entering his apartment. Ernest sat at his desk picked up the silver letter opener with Charlotte's name engraved and began to open his mail. He noticed an envelope with The Rosalie's Logo and slit the envelope open carefully. Ernest noticed that his hand trembled slightly as he unfolded the linen paper.

"The funeral mass of Larry Fisher, our porter of over sixty years, will be Friday morning at St. Christopher's Church, a short walk through Lincoln Park.

The complimentary shoe service Larry offered to residents is discontinued. Check with the concierge to pick up any shoes left at the porter's room."

Ernest stood up, walked over to the galvanized compartment and removed the shoes he took off before entering his apartment, closed the milk-box door and thought, "I will have to be more careful of where I walk. Charlotte would be upset if I dirtied her Persian." He slowly walked back to his easy chair, sat down, and picked up the book Charlotte gave him years earlier and started to read. "In the beginning God created heaven and earth."...

~ ~ ~

Catherine Hottendorf is a Hoboken, New Jersey native, the youngest of three children attending the city's public schools eventually becoming her school's first technology teacher. She earned a Master's degree in Urban Education, plays the piano, swims, enjoys sushi and cold sake, and manages the web activities for a retired teacher's scholarship group. Involved with telecommunications since 1983 she worked as Database Librarian for Participate on The Source and then Participate on CompuServe and is a member of New Jersey Macintosh User Group's Steering Committee. This is her first experience at submitting any of her stories in an anthology.

Call for Moderation

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### You All Done When Shot From A Gun

John Piccoli

I decided wake up and be part of the march

instead of standing around, doing nothing, like I'm on watch

Open my mind up from the chains that bind.

going through life as if I'm blind

Innocent lives, gone down the drain,

by evil men with killin' in their brains.

Shooting at people with deadly aim,

pointing at others, not taking the blame.

Innocent babies born into an evil world

and nobody knows when it will be their turn.

There's a mom covering her wet eyes filled with tears,

crying out into nothing, but deaf ears

Most don't want to see us, but we're standing right there

right in front of you, please show us you care

Marches and speeches don't bring him back,

too many people try to turn their backs.

They want to plug their ears and cover their eyes,

from so many voices that only fly high in the sky

Invisible people, living invisible lives

not to be seen, here only to die

How in the world did we get so down?

was it when we would no longer be bound?

Maybe it was when negativity revealed its ugly face

and they looked at us with such disgrace

When the darkness came,

were we really to blame?

Struggling to stand, not down on our knees

in a world full of people so goddamn mean

Look at us, look at us please,

don't turn your heads, we ain't got no disease.

We're standing here, right in front of you,

why you want us all to be so blue

Another mommy and daddy cry a million tears,

bye bye my baby, they've taken away all your years.

Trying to break us, we're not made of stone

All we ever wanted, was to live in peace in a happy home.

Love can heal, everyone knows that,

Why can't we get any of that?

### The Fumes of Love

Brinda Banerjee

The most handsome boy I'd ever seen in my life was staring at me with plain disgust – his beautiful, aquiline nose wrinkling. I swallowed, wishing it would stop. I stuttered, "I..it's not me.." My mind swirled, how did I get here, again?

It was only yesterday that I stood outside Zeenath's building on a busy street junction. The apartment building was sad looking, complete with peeling plaster, chipped gargoyles and stone garlands. We were told she lived on the top most floor. Sarita and I clutched each other's hands tightly as we went up - the lurching lift and flickering light in the dim foyer were enough to spook us out. The smell was the worst – it was dank, reminiscent of the garbage landfill nearby – the apartment was located off the turnpike.

"Zeenath can fix your problems. Trust me, she will look into your eyes, all deep and soulful and bam! just like that she'll give you a solution," Morgan had sounded serious, her plump cheeks quivering. We inspected her – not a trace of her terrible acne. One morning Morgan had bounced in looking like a new person, the complete opposite of her usual spotty self. It took a lot of coercing before she spilt her secret – she'd taken a magic potion.

Sarita and I were here to ask Zeenath for help with making Zander fall in love with me. I wanted him to take me to junior prom. Zander's crinkly eyed smile always makes my heart skip a beat. Ignoring my older sister's calls for moderation I'd pined for Zander every day of junior year, in vain. He looks on me as his good friend, but junior prom was mere days away, and I just had to take action.

The bell chimed, endlessly, it seemed to us as we stood in front of Zeenath's door.

She opened the door dressed in a glittery costume complete with harem pants. (I imagined her scrambling to change from sweats into this more atmospheric outfit, while we waited at her door). A veil was pinned across her face so all we could see were a pair of heavily made up, dark eyes.

"Kom in, girls". Her eastern European accent was very pronounced. We followed her into a sparsely furnished room, she was the one splash of color in her circus costume. A couple of straight backed chairs sat next to a massive table loaded with all kinds of boxes and bottles. She listened as I begged for help with Zander.

Then, in complete silence, while my heart hammered, she rose and went to the table. We craned our necks to see – she was mixing things in a beaker and then she poured liquids into a tiny blue bottle. Was it a love potion? OMG – now here was an experiment we'd all go for in Chem lab.

"Here" – she held out the bottle.

"What do I do – slip it into his drink at lunch?"

"Drink?" Her kohl rimmed eyes widened. "No, no, silly child. This is a perfume. Wear it and go to school – the first boy you speak to on the day you first wear the perfume, will fall in love with you - drawn in by the power of your perfume."

"OK got it. Wear perfume, talk only to Zander. Easy."

"Are you sure about this Zander?" She asked next, bangles clinking gently.

"Yes I am, why?"

"Because if you change your mind, Zander and others, will smell a very different perfume. Not nice." I hardly heard her in my thrill, as my fingers closed around that cool, deep blue bottle.

When I woke up in the morning I had a great feeling about the magic in my bottle. I dabbed the perfume on my wrists and behind my ears. I breathed deeply – wait – I could smell nothing – nada. A tiny sliver of doubt crept in – what if it was all bull? Nah. I had faith. Getting rid of Morgan's frightening acne was nothing short of miraculous.

I made it to school without speaking with any boys. I soon spotted Zander slouching by the lockers.

I walked over to him, laid my hand on his arm and smiled. "Hey Zander! How are you?"

Zander smiled his slow wide smile and nodded. "S'up," he said, and turned away to slap another friend's raised hand.

I could not help the feeling of disappointment that began to turn my stomach – was it all lies then?

And then, it happened. Zander turned back to me and his eyes were moony and fixed on my face. "Zoe," he said, looking confused. "You look great today." I grinned, hardly able to believe what I was hearing.

How could I help what happened next?

He walked in, that's what happened. The most handsome boy I'd never imagined existed. He was new, I'd never seen him at our school before, yet he walked with easy confidence, smiling at kids along the way. He opened the locker right next to mine. My heart began to pound and I swear, I had no control over my limbs, they propelled me over to him. "Hi! I'm Zoe, you must be new." I said, summoning my most charming smile ever.

"Yes, New at your service, Zoe." He smiled, tossing his great hair back. We laughed. "Its Matt," he said.

In that moment, it began. The putrid smells that I'd smelt beside Zeenath's apartment yesterday were everywhere around me, but worst of all there was no doubt that the smells came from me! Distinctly malodorous fumes rose from me – were those actual grey wisps in the air? Kids were staring at me with frank displeasure, and hurrying on to escape the smell.

This was what Zeenath must have been trying to warn me about – but who can explain my fickle heart – Matt was so much better for me, than Zander.

Unfortunately, both boys were edging away from me, with Zander looking devastated at my sudden transformation.

Seeking Approval

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### That's How It Goes, If You're Me

Murphy Birdsall

Stewart strode through the supermarket aisle, something you can't do in New York City, chalking up good time on his grocery-acquiring sprint. He already had in his arms the cereal, the chicken stock and a box of crackers. What else was there? He memorized lists by letter, and he knew he needed three c's, one b, and an n. What was the n? Butter was at the end of this aisle, and then to keep his pace, he had to turn toward the n. What was it? What could it be? What begins with n? Nuts, nectarines. "I have the cereal, the crackers, the chicken stock; I am picking up the butter." Mentally running through the list sometimes worked. It wasn't happening this time. "I will walk quickly up and down the aisles until I spot what it is."

He did zigzag rapidly through the store, and then - he gave up - and went to the checkout lines. He hated giving up, but time was going by. As he waited in the express line, it popped into his head. Noodles! Noodles! Whipping back around, pulling to a quick stop, "I'm sorry! I just remembered something I forgot!!" The woman with the basket shrugged her shoulders, and smiled slightly. Stewart stepped nimbly around her. Whoever bought egg noodles? That was why he had forgotten! When did he ever buy noodles? His internal conversation continued as he hurried along the pasta aisle. Egg noodles - three different kinds. He paused to inspect the choices, had no idea what mattered, and picked one.

Jogging to the self-checkout, he congratulated himself on a quick recovery, and the ultimate success of his task. Jerilyn would be pleased – well, not pleased, but not unpleased – when he got back in time to cook, and with everything they needed.

Of course, what if he hadn't bought the noodles? Would she have been irritated; or just shrugged her shoulders; or gotten exasperated, and then grabbed her keys and run to the store? He got a little angry, thinking how she might have made him feel stupid. Though in reality, he had accomplished it all, in record time.

When he got home, and walked into the kitchen, there was Jerilyn working at the counter. She glanced up, knife suspended, and flashed a wide smile at him. "Perfect timing! I just started chopping." She took the bag from him and began to unpack, with a heartfelt, "Thanks for going." He smiled.

Stewart went on through the house, slipping off his jacket. Done. Well done! Not bad. Now to reply appropriately to that irritating email that he had been avoiding all afternoon. He ran a few sentences through his head.

He had reached the top of the stairs, and gone down the hall, so he could just barely hear her voice.

"I asked you to get the wide noodles!"

### Asking

Broeck Wahl Blumberg

He: I should have married that Catholic girl

I proposed to in New Orleans

At the '84 World's Fair.

She: I wed a Nashville lawyer in '86.

He proposed over dusky bourbon in a jazz club,

but he wanted a place setting, a Designer wife.

He: I almost settled for the girl from Baltimore

with the row house, whose family embraced me.

But I kept on rolling--to Spain again in '87.

She: He was too perfect to be good, Mr. Nashville.

In '89 I came back to New Orleans, Home,

for Mardi Gras — in the Court — and for the Gulf.

He: By '90, I was in Austin, with a truck,

a business, but no home, of my own:

Late nights, bourbon, the Austin music scene.

She: My parents had the marriage annulled in '91.

I took a trip down Interstate 10 with a big

sun hat and a guy, all the truckers honking.

He: My roommate drives me nuts.

Now in '96 the bourbon mixes with honey for my sinus.

I should have eloped with that girl from New Orleans.

She: Interstate 10 was a fling, not an option.

Strange, sad, about that boy who proposed

in '84, under the whirling lights at the World's Fair.

She: He just disappeared. After he said that

marriage would free us. We would transcend.

I believed him. I waited. I waited.

He: I left New Orleans because her parents rejected

a Tennessee Scot with poor kin. She never knew

I asked them for her hand, for their blessing.

~ ~ ~

Broeck Wahl Blumberg is a retired Correspondent for a Tokyo-based publication for which she did US interviews of academics and policymakers, such as Milton Friedman and Peter Drucker. Resident of Montclair, New Jersey since 1973, she taught writing at the World Trade Institute, and for Cornell University's Off-Campus College Program. She likes music, travel, good food.

Her poetry has appeared :

Snow Monkey, The Meadowland Review, Ithaca Lit,

The Stillwater Review, and The Crafty Poet.

Flash Fiction:

'ELVIS,1956,' was included in the Very, Very, Very Short Fiction section

of the Pacific Northwest Inlander.

What's That Noise?

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A Morning with Maggie

Peggy La Vake

Maggie leaves little mementos everywhere. They are cryptic, poetic or non- sensical notes. I suspect they are messages left to me, her confused mother. To leave her alone; to pay attention; to let her grow. And now, at 8AM, her door is barricaded and locked tight with a steel wall of loud music pushing me away.

What surprises me is the choice of music. It is not metallic and raucous. Instead it is the luscious strands of Beethoven in his darkest hours; of the Russians whose music is so tragic your heart is sucked under with them. It vibrates through my body and my brain. I think I hear the door knob turning, but realize it is the shudder of the framed photographs against the wall. Pictures of sweet times. Babyhood, father and mother and daughter, gummy smiles and sunshine. A huge irony that these gentle photos should be shaking off the wall. I must turn away.

I push my hair away as I leave a trail of litter behind me. An empty coffee cup, a muffin wrapper. As I walk down the stairs and thru the kitchen, my stomach spits a bolus of red hot acid into my throat. Late for work, I'm sick with worry about leaving Maggie in this state, home alone. But I'm rejected by my 15 year old daughter. The powerful music and message she sends is ringing in my ears and causing my heart to ache. With one last try, I call out but my voice has been silenced by deaf, angry ears. Should I go or stay. If I stay, I'll sit outside her room until despair sets in. And I'll wish I had shaken her free from my soul and gone on with my day.

Shutting the back door, I straighten myself, stretch and breath. I feel the comfort of sudden silence. The cool air positions edges around me. I am whole, and broken. I am reconstructed from the rubble witnessed only moments ago; stunned by the profound affect my teenage daughter has on me. She is powerful. My soft, crusty, loving, hating lunatic daughter who can melt me into liquid when she lets me love her.

The Moth—A Prose Poem

William Batkey

So much of who I am comes from the time I lived with my grandparents upstate. Working forward from my birth and backward from my family's move to New Jersey, that was some time in the early 1950s. I was between six and eight years old. Anyway, I lived with my mother's parents in a rented farmhouse with a small yard outside a small country village, quite isolated, actually. Two unmarried aunts lived with us. I had my own tiny room at the top of steep enclosed stairs. It was right next to my Aunt Jean's and across from my grandparents'.

Aunt Marge's room was down the hall. At a back corner of the house just across the gravel driveway stood an old, weathered, abandoned wooden barn. Behind the barn and flowing parallel to the side of the house was a small brook: you know, the babbling kind from story books. Back of the barn and on the other side of the brook was the forest. Those woods terrified me, but at least on sparkling sunny summer afternoons I was able to keep the forest at bay as I was absorbed in my play outside. But at night, after I went to bed and the house was dark, the fear came back, a palpable evil presence. And it brought a scary friend with it. In the middle of the night I used to hear noises from the bottom drawer of the dresser in a corner of my room. I was sure it was a giant moth hungering to get out and come to my bed to eat me alive. And even though the thing never did get out and never did come to my bed and eat me, it could have, if I hadn't slid way down under the covers, lay very still and tried not to breathe. After a while I would fall asleep and the next day I'd be able to go about being a kid with only a vague sense of anxiety from the night before. But when it came time to go to bed again, I knew what was waiting for me. I'm glad to say that after 60 years I no longer hear giant moths beating their leathery wings in the bottom drawer of my dresser in the middle of the night. But I'm still scared of the dark.

### The Haunted House

Bonnie Smiler

Unlike the Victorian or Gothic mansions of horror novels, the haunted house was a small abandoned two-story farmhouse with weather-beaten white clapboards and shutters with carved half-moons by each window. It was close to the road and fronted Grandpa's property in the country in upstate New York, literally cutting out a chunk of land next to his driveway. Grandpa's cottage was behind it with his front porch facing the house's wild and unkempt greenery, a small outhouse in the same weather-beaten condition, and a few crab-apple trees. If one looked carefully from the driveway, one could see the well water pump through all the weeds and shrubbery. No one lived there.

No one had ever been allowed on the property nor did anyone go there. When Deirdre was a child, she and her younger brother Sam were strictly warned not to go near the house as it was too dangerous. They might walk on rotted wood and fall in a well. There were wild creatures lurking in the greenery. There were poisonous vines.

"What about ghosts?" Sam asked.

"No such creatures," Grandpa answered. In later years Deirdre admitted to herself that with all the times she passed the house, day or night, rain or snow, moonlit or not, she never saw any spooky activity with the rare exception of a bat or bird flying near.

Finally, the house came up for a tax auction, Grandpa offered $80 for the property, and it was his. Deirdre was in her early twenties by then, working in the city but visiting the country during long weekends and vacations. Deirdre, Sam, and her parents were invited to enter the haunted house, view its contents, and claim whatever they wanted.

Deirdre, full of curiosity, followed her parents and Sam into the house.

Mom said, "Two elderly sisters used to live here. They died here, and the house has been empty since. If they had other relatives, no one knew of any, and none ever came."

"Do you remember them?" asked Deirdre.

Mom nodded. "Just barely. I was a child at the time, and the sisters mostly kept to themselves."

The halls and stairway were very narrow; only thin people could have lived here. The ceilings were low, probably for warmth and to conserve heat, but definitely not accommodating to any tall person. The interior, dark and old, met Deirdre's expectations. Some of the furniture was in surprisingly useful condition and retro in today's fashion. Deirdre's parents took two of the six rocking chairs and a large upholstered wooden chair with a potty hole (potty not included). There was a set of Sango china dishes made in Occupied Japan with a delicate floral pattern. There were various pieces of crystal and cut glass. Grandpa had moved the outhouse (seat included) to the back of his cottage to use as a storage shed. Deirdre, Sam, and their parents retrieved what they wanted in a few trips, temporarily storing the furniture and items in Grandpa's garage.

When they next returned to the country, the house was gone and the lot was clean. Grandpa proposed that Deirdre's parents buy a prefab home and install it on the property. Since Grandpa was handy and looking for ways to keep busy, he would maintain the exterior and keep an eye on the place when it was vacant. Deirdre's parents liked the idea, and the next spring the house was installed. The haunted house treasures were transferred from the garage to the house, and Deirdre's family had a country escape while no longer imposing upon Grandpa in his cottage. Sam especially liked it; Deirdre suspected that he planned to bring his girlfriend there for private times away from their bustling city social life, especially as Sam and his latest lady love both still lived with their parents.

It was now fall, with the wind blowing, the leaves falling, and the days shortening. On the spur of the moment Deirdre's parents had driven to the house Saturday afternoon to go out with their country neighbors that night. They had invited Deirdre to come with them although she would be left home alone in the evening, and she readily accepted. Besides, she wanted to read Dracula for an adult ed. literature course, and this seemed a good opportunity as there would be no television or other distractions. After a simple supper and a long walk on the road, returning after dark, Deirdre picked up her book and was soon involved . . . until the house creaked. Loudly. She told herself it was a new house adjusting to changing weather conditions. The wind had arisen. The temperature outside was dropping. She continued reading. The house continued creaking. Loudly. The room grew cold. Could it be the essence of the haunted house? Then Deirdre heard voices whispering incomprehensibly. The two sisters? She listened more closely, but the wind in the trees and the loud creaking overrode everything. Was it too late to get Grandpa? No, his lights were on.

Deirdre grabbed a flashlight, ran over to Grandpa's, and knocked on his door. When he saw her fear, he grabbed his gun.

"Is Sam in the house?" he asked. "His car is parked on the other side of the garage. I heard it pull in at dusk."

"Sam?" sputtered Deirdre. "He said he was spending the weekend in the city with his girlfriend. Oh, but he didn't know that we would be here."

They entered the house and sat in the kitchen. The intense creaking had diminished, but in its place was a new, more rhythmic sound coming from the back bedroom.

"What's that noise?" asked Grandpa.

Deirdre sighed. "You can put the gun away, Grandpa. How about a cup of tea and a game of Scrabble?"

~~~

Bonnie Smiler is happy to be writing short stories again after a 50-year hiatus. A Jersey girl, she currently enjoys taking group exercise classes and volunteering. She hates beets and thinks that tea drinkers are often disrespected.

### Diurnalia

Elaine Durbach

The light striking the bowl in her hands dulled against a smudge of grease. Allora scraped her fingernail in a looping design across it, bringing forth the darkness of the glass, and admired her handwork. It looked like storm clouds.

Something was odd though, not about the design but about its visibility. Normally by this hour, scrubbing crusted accumulation from breakfast dishes that should have been washed earlier, long before beginning dinner prep, she would reach reflexively for the light switch. There was no need to now. Though the day had been heavily overcast – and still was – the room was strangely bright.

Afternoon light doesn't flood an east-facing window. The realtor had made that point, stressing how cool her studio would be, sharing the same exposure as the kitchen. "You'll have morning sunshine to start your day," she chirped. "I envy you, working from home. You must be so relaxed."

Allora hastily finished stacking the dishes on the draining board. She turned up the heat under a pot of water, and began chopping rutabagas and celeriac, cutting them finer than the recipe recommended, so they would soften quicker. Relaxed? She never felt that way, not when Bob was due home and yet again she was using experimental ingredients. They sounded odd.

The kids used to chide her for getting uptight, and she would try harder to breathe deep, unwind, to please them. But now there was no-one around to counteract her anxiety. She had stayed too long at her easel and left too little time for cooking. The family had never starved and her food was, as her husband put it, "interesting," but the pre-dinner atmosphere was always fraught. Even these days, when it was just the two of them at home and should have been easier, she would grind her teeth with effort.

"If you just paced yourself more efficiently – and stuck to tried and tested dishes – there wouldn't be this panic," her husband had intoned a thousand times. "Cooking is a science."

Tension was nothing new for her, but something was extra disorienting this evening. There was none of the deepening gloom that naturalists call the melancholy hour, when animals in the wild still their activity and come together before curling up to sleep, or heading out to prowl for prey in the moonlight.

She welcomed a sudden burst of music from the radio, not the usual interlude heralding a placid summation of the day's events, but an upbeat ta-da more suited to breaking news.

Allora checked her watch. It said 5:57, almost evening, as she'd thought. With winter approaching, six o'clock meant streetlights would be coming on soon, but why when there was no hint of twilight? "Maybe my watch is broken," she thought.

She turned up the volume hoping to hear a decisive announcement, and heard instead a strangely hesitant, almost stammering voice. The words didn't register as quickly as the nonplused tone from the anchor. Allora stopped chopping, goosebumps slowly spreading up her arms. Her breathing went shallow.

"We are interrupting our normal broadcast schedule—" The newsreader coughed on an almost-giggle. That sounded like a line from a Twilight Zone episode. Perhaps it was a joke. "\--to bring you the latest update on a story that quite frankly we here at WMBC News don't fully understand yet. We are awaiting a statement from the National Meteorological Service--oh, I apologize, my producer tells me that will be coming later. But we are getting word from the National Observatory...."

A weird whining and crackling erupted, blocking the voice. Allora twiddled the dial to regain clear reception but the sound grew so loud she turned the radio off and stood looking out her east-facing kitchen window at the brassy disk now glimmering through a thinning in the clouds. It was above the washing line, almost midday height.

"I wonder if we can blame this on Washington," she thought, striving for humor. The next election could right the political boat. The economy would recover. But this...? No. Not possible.

The ramifications hollowed her core, shaking the deep crevices from which her art germinated. No imagery arose. This was of the fundament, beyond conceptualizing. Heat radiated from the stove but she was shivering.

The phone jangled. Not the landline - her cellphone, which as usual she couldn't locate. Other than her kids, Bob was almost the only person who knew that number. What could he possibly need right now? But maybe he could offer a glimmer of clarity. In his stolid way he would make sense of this insanity.

She shoved her sweater off the chair, but the phone wasn't there. It wasn't on the counter though the sound seemed to be shrieking from there. Yes, it was – under a slithering heap of purple shallots she'd bought for their color. She grabbed it and willed her quivering finger to hit the "accept" button before the ringing ceased. It was her husband, barely audible over that same whiny crackling.

"Bob?" she gasped, "Where are you? What is the time? Please tell me, what is the time?"

"Allora..." He sounded just as breathless, lost. She had wanted a typical response, even if it came with condescension, but all he said was, "Allora, I don't know." Her ears began pounding. Phone in hand, she kicked off her shoes and pressed first one foot against the cold floor tiles and then the other, trying to affirm her balance.

Bubbling from the stove snagged her attention. She spun around, feeling a surge of ecstasy, as grateful as when years ago her blue baby, still covered in goo and attached to her by the twisted cord between her thighs, began to wail, submitting to the imperative of breath. Life. Normality. Steam was puffing out from beneath the saucepan lid.

"Bob," she shouted, determined to be heard, "everything's going to be all right. The water came to a boil in five minutes, like always, as it should. Just get home. Please hurry."

~~~

Elaine Durbach has been writing non-fiction since graduating from college (Rhodes University in South Africa). She discovered the joys of writing fiction just five years ago. Since then she has written three novels. The first is due out (via Kindle Direct) in summer 2019.

Elaine, who was born in Zimbabwe, came to the US on a World Press Institute fellowship in 1978. She lives with her husband and son in Maplewood, where she edits other people's writing and photographs other people's flowers.

Book Club Night

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### Something Different for Book Night

Erin Roll

I ran into the library that Monday morning, right as the doors opened, trying to stave off my growing desperation.

"I need something for the book club," I told the librarian.

It was my turn to suggest a book, and host the club meeting. And I needed eight copies of something to hand around to the book club by tomorrow. Something we hadn't already read.

"Sure, take a look at our selection over there." She pointed to the shelf by the desk. I sighed. It was all the same books we'd been reading week after week.

"Have you got anything different?"

The librarian gave me a thoughtful look. "How different are we talking?"

"Really different," I said.

The librarian took a quick look around. "Follow me into the back," she said. She led me into the back room, which was dusty and cramped and poorly lit. "This is where we keep all of the really weird and interesting stuff. Take a look around and see what you like."

One book caught my eye almost instantly. The Art of the Summoning, it said in blood-red letters on a black vellum cover. I picked it up and gave it a quick look. I saw lots of creepy pictures and diagrams and lots of words in old Gothic script. It looked like some kind of instruction manual. But, hey, we'd read cookbooks for the club, so this had to be allowed, right?

"How many copies of this do you have?" I asked.

"We've got eight. Enough for your club."

"I'll take them," I said.

So I took the books home, got them sent around to the other club members' houses, and thought about what kind of cookies I was going to make for the club.

The meeting night arrived, and I was taking brownies out of the oven when the first knock sounded at the door.

Karen was there, a foul look on her face. She held the book in the very tips of her fingers, as if it were a bag of dog droppings. "Gina. What. Were. You. Thinking?" she demanded.

I shrugged. She'd taken a whole week to complain about the book. Maybe she liked it and didn't want to admit it. "Hi, Karen, nice to see you too. Come on in."

"We're supposed to be reading real books! Decent books! This is disgusting!" Karen shrieked at me as she came in and threw her bag down on the chair.

The rest of the club arrived. One or two of them were also of the same mind as Karen. But the others seemed to like it. "Kind of sexy scary in an Anne Rice kind of way," Lisa said.

Everyone sat down. Lisa read off the meeting minutes. There was some quick gossip – mainly about whose neighbor was fooling with someone else's husband.

Then we turned to the book.

"I say we try one of these spells in here," Terri said. "I really think this one on page thirty-six, the Cursed Circle, sounds really cool."

There was a murmur of agreement.

"Okay, I've got some penny nails and a dried up can of paint in the garage," I said. "And in the kitchen I've got..."

"Absolutely not! No!" Karen stomped her foot. "Heaven knows what those spells would do! I'd be kicked out of the Bible study group at church for good!"

"C'mon, Karen, give it a rest," Lisa said.

So, a few minutes later, there was a chalk circle drawn in the middle of the floor, with the penny nails, the paint, a moldy avocado, and an old copy of People magazine. I'd wondered how we were going to do all those weird runes shown in the drawing in the book, but Terri had taken calligraphy classes.

"Now what?" Lisa asked.

"Okay," I looked down at the book. "We join hands around the circle. And then we read aloud this whole paragraph on thirty-seven."

We joined hands – well, except Karen.

"Out of the circle, we call thee. Out of the depths, out of the shadows, out of the..."

"Hang on," Janet interrupted. "I lost my place. Can we start again?"

"Out of the circle, we call thee. Out of the depths, out of the shadows, out of the fires, out of the pit..."

"Did anyone just see the lights flicker?" Lisa asked.

The lights flickered, and went out. Smoke and fire arose from the book.

Karen screamed and ran for the door.

A horned wraith emerged from the book, rose up to the ceiling...

And looked embarrassed.

"Oh, I'm sorry, am I interrupting something?" It asked.

"Um..." I began. "Hi, Mr. or Ms. Demon, welcome to our book club."

"Don't be formal, just call me Lucy." She – I think – craned down. "Art of the Summoning? Yuck. I can think of better stuff than that to read. Those brownies smell really good though," she said, looking at the pan on the table.

"Well," Lisa said, "since we're now down one member, want to join us?"

"Oh, sure. Can I invite some friends? We've been trying to get a book thing together too."

So it came to pass, at our next meeting, that our book club was minus Karen but plus four demons: Lucy, Kevin, Magda and Earl.

And let me tell you, the club's never been more fun. Lucy and Kevin bring us all sorts of weird and creepy books from down in the Ninth Circle, so we're never out of reading material. Magda swears she knows almost every single famous author and their publicist. And Earl makes the best lemon bars you ever tasted. Half the club wanted the recipe, and he didn't even ask for their souls in return.

Sure, Karen calls every now and then to yell at us that we're all sinners. But it's a minor inconvenience.

Tonight's meeting is going to be good. Magda got us a meeting room at the Library of Congress.

Are we the best book club, or what?

~ ~ ~

Erin Roll always wanted to be a writer when she grew up. (The writing part has been accomplished, the growing up part – not so much.) She shows up at the Write Group write-ins when her schedule will permit, and can do dangerous things with a blue Pilot G-2 pen. Erin lives at the top floor of a haunted house in Montclair, reads a lot of science fiction and fantasy, spends a little too much time playing Legend of Zelda, and will one day finish and publish that steampunk series she's been talking about for the last three years.

### A Magical Tale

Jacqueline Stearns

Suzanne Showoff stands in her dining room muttering: "I'm Suzanne Showoff, the world's greatest actress. And I'm hosting book club night!"

Suzanne moves closer to the oak table, which holds platters of chips, salsa, and cheese and crackers. Suzanne knows how the evening will go. Ryan Eco Friendly, and his wife Penny Pretentious Eco Friendly, will arrive early. Ryan will ask Suzanne why she doesn't use her maiden name. Well Duh! Suzanne is married to noted research scientist Dr. Daniel Nerdgas! Then Penny will make snide comments about the food.

Suzanne recalls how difficult it had been convincing Daniel to join the book club. Daniel is a social misfit, who only relates to colleagues.

"A book club will be good for us." Suzanne makes her way across the moss green carpet and sits next to Daniel on a leaf patterned sofa. Daniel's hazel eyes dart around the living room. He looks everywhere but at Susanne.

"We need to connect with another couple. You need to meet people outside of the lab."

Daniel knows his wife will chip away until she gets what she wants. "Tell me more about this."

"An old college friend moved across town. You remember Penny Pretentious Eco Friendly and her husband Ryan Eco Friendly?"

Daniel's tone holds rare animation. "Is that the couple we had dinner with a few years ago?"

"Yes. You agreed to go because Ryan's an ecologist. You were excited to have another scientist to talk to."

One hour later Suzanne, Daniel, Ryan, and Penny are sipping wine and nibbling on cheese. "This Swiss cheese is wonderful," says Penny. "The brie's runny."

Suzanne glances at her watch. "Fifteen minutes."

Ryan is puzzled. "Fifteen minutes?"

"That's how long it took Penny to start complaining about the food."

"I only meant-"

"We're starting a new program in the schools. Ryan gives Penny his I-don't-want-to-witness-a-catfight glare.

Daniel takes a huge gulp of wine. "Tell us about it."

"We're beginning with the preschools. It's not just paper, plastic, and glass. Rubber bands, textiles, and tree stumps need to be recycled too."

Penny yawns. "Suzanne, tell us about your next picture."

"It's called A Women's Place. I play a supreme court justice. Meryl plays the President."

"I got a promotion," said Penny. "From account executive, to head of research and development."

Daniel sighs. "Can we start the discussion? This is book club night."

The men sit across from each other. The women settle on the sofa.

"I love Irish folklore, said Suzanne. "I was captivated by the leprechauns. Good pick Penny."

"I thought all leprechauns were the same," said Ryan. "But they've got different names and personalities."

"Saints preserve us what rubbish!"

The foursome are startled by the Irish brogue. Before they can react, Suzanne's book opens, ejecting a quartet of diminutive men, dressed in green who run into the dining room, returning with food heaped plates.

"We refuse to allow our history to be used for this farce!"

"I don't know what you mean," said Suzanne.

"Sure you do," snaps a leprechaun. "It's a phony you are. You know Penny's company is handling publicity for your next film. You want to swing things in your favor."

Another wee man glares at Ryan. "It's not nature you love lad, it's yourself. Ryan the sainted ecologist. The praise feeds your ego."

Ryan and Suzanne speak as one. "You don't know us!"

Ah, but we do " A leprechaun moves toward Penny. "It's sad you make me, trusting wealth rather than love."

Penny glances at her companions. "Not what I'd call trustworthy."

"You're insufferable. You reek of old money. You want everyone to know it."

The fourth leprechaun addresses Daniel. "You're the most decent of this lot. But you're not much of a husband. Suzanne would be different if you paid her some attention."

"I'm independent!" said Suzanne. "But it would be nice..."

"If I were romantic, If I supported your career."

"Now you're getting it," said the leprechaun. "It's a narrow life your leading Daniel. You need to embrace new experiences."

"I don't know how. I'm the brainy kid no one wants to hang out with. The only time I'm not lonely is when I'm around scientists."

"I flaunt my wealth because I feel inadequate. Do people love me or my money? Do you love me, Ryan? Or is it about getting research funded?"

"I was a poor kid," said Ryan. My parents had to slave to put food on the table. I never saw them. I went to the forest near our house. I watched squirrels clamber for food. I heard birds sing. I'm an ecologist so I can protect my best friend." He turns to Penny. I married you for love."

"I was a plain Jane," said Suzanne. "A tall skinny beanpole. Theater made me feel special. Audiences love me! I'm no longer the ignored gawky kid."

The leprechauns vanish.

The humans wonder, "Did this really happen?

~ ~ ~

Jacqueline Stearns holds a BA degree from William Paterson College (Now university) in Mass Media Communications with a concentration in journalism. She has been an active member of the Montclair Write Group since spring of 2011. Jacqueline has part of the first chapter of her memoir The Wall Flower Diaries published in the 2014 Montclair Write Group Sampler Anthology and a poem the Tastes and Smells of Childhood appears in the 2018 Montclair Write Group Sampler Anthology.

Her artwork and poetry have been part of two of the Write Group Ephrasis Exhibits at the Montclair Library.

### You Choose

Ann Hirsch

The one thing I miss from my college days is discussing ideas, books, beliefs. As a recent newcomer to the neighborhood, and stay-at-home mom to our two babies, the deepest level of conversation I have been able to attain concerns home improvement and who knows a good babysitter.

"Why don't you join this women's book club?" my husband suggested last month when he saw a notice on the local Facebook page.

"I'm a slow reader," I reminded him.

I wasn't always slow. It's just that crying, hungry babies are a speed bump to reading, and, well, to anything, really. When they are fed and happy, and too adorable to keep my eyes off, they are often equally distracting.

"You can do it," my husband persisted. "You'll make friends. You complain you have no one to talk to. Just read the book and you'll have plenty to discuss."

I was disheartened to find the chosen book, East of Eden written in 1952, was 608 pages. In school, I had read Of Mice and Men and thought John Steinbeck to be a concise writer.

I told my husband I was giving up. But he was determined. "You choose what's important to you. You can make time to read it."

He convinced me. I would delay going to bed to read a chapter. I would (try to) wake up before the twins to get in a few pages. I desperately wanted to finish before the meeting as I wanted John Steinbeck to present the ending to me, rather than another overtired mom.

Six of us accepted the offer to join the club and read the book. I looked forward to meeting them in person and finding out what each thought of the Hamiltons and the Trasks. I wanted to discuss whether or not they thought evil was inherent or can we choose to be good. There would certainly be other moms in the group. I would ask if they thought a parent can love one child more than another. My twins are still babies but I don't see that possibility. If any of the women were well-versed in the Bible, I would ask their opinion of Steinbeck's take on the story of Cain and Abel. I could not wait for what promised to be a lively, intellectual, conversation.

What would I wear? The twins had left bodily markings on many of my outfits. That narrowed my options to buying something new or wearing the khaki slacks and navy blouse that I was just beginning to fit back into after the added pregnancy weight.

The night before the meeting, I stayed up until two in the morning to finish the book. That a new parent is willing to give up sleep, shows how important it was to me.

Our meeting was in a small, Italian restaurant. Four well-dressed women smiled at me as I entered. Most were my age, thirties, and one looked younger.

Good, I was dressed appropriately. I should have worn more jewelry though. The others wore necklaces, and earrings. I had stopped wearing those as the twins pulled on such shiny things.

"Are you here for the book club?" asked the apparent leader.

"Yes!" Was I too eager?

"Have a seat. We're waiting for just one more." She introduced me to the others. "Would you like some wine? We're all having."

"No thanks. I'm driving." I realized it was the wrong thing to say. They were all driving and each had a glass of wine in front of them.

"Maybe later," I amended, though I realized that made no sense. If I were worried about being light-headed while driving, the choice should be to drink early, if at all

Finally, the leader, named Pam, said, "I guess we'll start without Flora. She should be here soon. Let's order our food first."  She called over the waiter. The other women ordered salad or fish so I switched my intended ravioli to a Caesar salad with chicken. The waiter asked if we would like more wine. I wondered why they all said yes as a couple of them already seemed tipsy. How were they to have a meaningful discussion?

"I have a confession to make," said the pleasant woman next to me.

"What is it, Dawn?" asked Pam.

"I haven't read the book," Dawn looked down in embarrassment. "I bought it but I didn't get around to reading it yet."

"That's all right," offered Pam. "Honestly, I only read the first couple of chapters. Our lives are so busy."

"I also didn't read it," slurred the woman across from me. She offered no apology, didn't even say if she had looked into getting the book.

"I didn't know we had to read it," said the twenty-something-year-old.

"Am I really the only one who read it?" I was astonished.

Disappointment soon set in, overtaking the astonishment. But that turned to hope when Pam answered, "I know for sure Flora read it. She told me so when she rsvp'd yes."

"And here she is," said Dawn.

I looked toward the entrance. A stooped, elderly woman was walking in. My grandmother was eighty-one but this woman seemed older. Could Flora be coming in behind her? The woman lifted her gaze from the floor and, when her eyes landed on our table, she smiled and waved.

"Over here, Flora," called Pam.

Flora made her way to our table. I waited patiently for Flora to take her seat and be greeted by each woman. I introduced myself and said I was particularly glad she came.

"I hear you and I are the only ones who read the book so I am looking forward to discussing it with you."

"Sure," said Flora, "but I can't say I'll remember much."

"I know. There are so many characters," I commiserated.

"No," Flora explained. "It's just that I read it in high school when it first came out."

~ ~ ~

Ann Hirsch is an actor, writer, and all-around good gal. Her work has been published in Brooklyn Bandshell, Capper's, Folkview Magazine, Laugh Loaf, Soap Opera Magazine, and The Scroll. Readings of her plays have been performed at Luna Stage and Villagers Theatre. Ann became aware of the Write Group through her late mother, Rita Hirsch, who found the group life-changing and affirming. Much gratitude, therefore, goes out to the Montclair Write Group, as well as her husband and kids.

Passing the Torch

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### Pass the Torched Toast

Nancy Taiani

At 9:00 PM on a Thursday night a distinctive smell filled my nose. I looked at my husband, sitting on the nearby easy chair. "Do you smell burnt toast? You weren't cooking anything were you?"

"Of course not," he said. "I smell something too. Could be toast."

I went to the kitchen. The smell was stronger there but it certainly was not coming from our toaster. Then the building fire alarm set up a wail and we heard the fire door slam shut over the elevator.

"It's the burnt toast," said my husband.

Our building is considered fireproof. We're supposed to stay put during an alarm until contacted to evacuate by the stairs. After ten minutes the wailing stopped. Curious, I opened the door to the hallway. My neighbor from across the hall was standing in her doorway.

"It's burnt toast," she said. "The super just came by. He says a lady downstairs opened the hall door and that set off the alarm. Said she's done it before."

"My entire apartment smells like burnt toast," I told her.

"She must be right under you."

We opened a window and thought nothing of it until Saturday morning when I stopped to leave an event flyer with my friend, Jan, on the sixth floor. The entire hallway reeked of burnt toast.

"Your floor still smells from Thursday night?" I said.

"No. It was Beverly, down the hall," said Jan. "She burned toast this morning. She opened a window right away so the alarm didn't go off, but our hall still smells like a breakfast gone bad."

Coincidence, I thought. Until Sunday morning. When I stepped out of the elevator, headed for church, the lobby smelled of burnt toast. "This is too much," I said to Chris, our doorman. "Is everyone burning toast lately?"

"It does seem that way," he said. "Have a good day!"

On Monday morning, I put two slices of bread into our toaster, plunged the handle down and worked on frying eggs. Before long the smell of burnt toast filled the air.

My husband came into the kitchen. "What happened? There's that smell of burnt toast again."

"This time it's us. The toaster didn't pop up. That never happened before!"

"What? You think the toasters downstairs passed the torch to our toaster? You must have done something wrong," said my husband.

"Thanks a lot. I think I know how to make toast. It just didn't pop up."

We experimented with bread a bit, finally deciding our toaster was kaput. "It's about ten years old," my husband said. "Old for a toaster, I guess."

"You think this is just coincidence? One toaster after another in this building dying?"

"What are you thinking? A witches curse? Some hocus pocus? Harry Potter doesn't live here."

A broken appliance is not the kind of thing you can throw down the garbage chute. I brought the toaster to the basement to be discarded. Halfway down the hall I stopped in shock. There was a pile of at least a dozen toasters waiting to be thrown out. I thought, Maybe a Hogwarts graduate does live in our building.

We purchased a new toaster. A week went by with no odor of burnt toast. But the following Thursday night the fire alarm wailed. This time the hallway smelled of burned popcorn. I shut the apartment door, sat down and sighed, "There goes the microwave," I said.

Daddy's Little Girl

Fanny Gray

I don't know why I didn't see it sooner. I'm sure old lovers and therapists and many far more intelligent than I saw it all along. It wasn't like I could look in the mirror and recognize any visible traits. I didn't just wake up one day and behave in a manner totally contrary to how I had always been. No, certainly just beneath the thinnest layer of my skin, that vein of cruelty always pulsed.

When he left for good, that final time after the countless he had walked out, all I felt was relief. I thought maybe there would be more oxygen in the room without him in it. In truth, my dad never really interacted with me all that much anyway. Perhaps it was what he didn't say that wounded me most. When I was very young, I brought home artwork and book reports, gold stars and A pluses, each carefully affixed to the behemoth avocado green fridge. Look. Look at me. Then fist fights and after school detention. Here I am; how about this? Do you see me now? Boys and sex. Drugs. A ride home in the back of squad car. How about now, Motherfucker? You see me now?

Eventually I realized that being angry with him was like swallowing poison to kill someone else. I walked into the guidance office of the high school on a Tuesday afternoon in October my sophomore year. I had a black eye, two incomplete Geometry assignments and a personal essay with a 98 and a hand scrawled Very impressive work, Ms. Jackson on the top of it. I handed that paper to Mrs. McPherson and begged her to help me.

I worked in the guidance office after school. I filed papers and helped other students write their college application essays. I took AP classes. I kept my head down and worked hard and graduated 10th in a class of 1289. I went to the best state university and graduated with honors a year early. My dad didn't come to either graduation.

To look at me, you would be hard pressed to find a scar. I guess my scars are the walking wounded who had the miserable misfortune of loving me. My mother. My high school boyfriend. The adjunct English professor I slept with first year. My roommate who's fiancé I seduced. I told myself they would be stronger for the hurt I caused. I told myself I wasn't worth loving anyway. I distanced myself from the devastation.

I thought about law school but I was quick-witted and pithy, better suited to marketing. I found a boutique company and joined the rank and file. I kept my head down and worked hard. I volunteered for grunt work, extra hours, unwanted projects. Then, I landed the Flamma account. I was the youngest member of the team and the only woman. Flamma was the hottest startup in the Valley and every marketing agency in the country was salivating over that account. While the team investigated the company, I dutifully studied the man behind the machine. I drank Matcha tea every day for three weeks in a tiny shop in Japan town carefully scouting what Roger Edmonds wore, how he sat, what he read, how he treated the barista. When I made a glorious comparison of Flamma's mission to the rise of the Macedonian phalanx, Edmond's eyes lifted right up from the conference table to meet mine.

Two days later, I'm back in New York, enjoying a well-deserved Boss Hog at Vintry. I am looking down at the pencil sketch of me in the Journal, skimming the story of my Flamma achievement when I feel an unwelcomed set of eyes taking me in. I turn to a man hovering over my left shoulder. He is paunchy and moth-eaten, another tavern connoisseur like so many I have seen. He was once nattily dressed but the hem of his right pant leg is frayed and his broadcloth is missing several buttons. I fumble for my bag and fish out a dollar or two and proffer him the cash.

He sneers at me.

"I see you now, "he says to me. "Like looking in a mirror. No family to go home to? No man? Not wearing a ring, are you? Suppose you think you're better than me, right? Miss Fancy Pants University girl. Got your picture in the paper? I see you. You sleep with that guy too? How's your whore of a mother? She still sleeping around too?"

I swallow hard. I think of all the times I wanted this man to see me, whether it was for the good things I had done or the bad. My right hand rests on the WSJ article and I briefly entertain the notion of pushing the paper in his face. I am looking down at his beaten scuffed loafers and images of people I stepped on or used in my journey to now come to me. I look up at his ruddy face, the uneven stubble of his day old beard, the spittle collected in the right corner of his mouth. His blue eyes are bloodshot and watery. I think about the burn he gave me when I unwittingly accepted the torch he passed. I think about the last time I gripped a written accolade in my right hand, when I asked McPherson for help, when I realized my anger was hurting me more than anyone. Enough. I stand up and in my heels, I am two inches taller than my father. I look down at him and square my shoulders. I visualize snuffing out the torch he holds over me, as I stand taller and taller. I take a last sip of my drink, grab my bag, pat the paper on the bar and lean forward to bestow a kiss on my father's forehead.

"Good to see you too, Dad".

### Parentless

Leonie E. Marson-Lewis

Buried in soil, dirt, warm comfort

On long cold days and freezing nights.

Much longer is the stay beneath

Compared to the stay above.

Will darkness continue to be

Under cover of forest floor?

For now, body and mind must grow

To give an edge, an advantage,

To alternative self-raising.

Buried, yet safe and untouched while

Deep enough so the cold can't reach.

Growing while stars set in the sky,

The stars that I might never see.

Growing till the cold hard soil softens,

Growing while the rain waters earth.

Growing from an egg laid in Fall

Opened in Spring light fully-formed.

Anticipating wait for chirp

The call to mate, passing the torch.

With five eyes I catch every sight

The bright yellow up in the sky

The hands lifting my would-be mate

The song he sang loudly for me.

Love ballad rocked the kid awake

As loud as the synthesizer

Played by a rock band in concert.

Too little hands dropping my mate

Midst school of African Oscars.

Through the glass of the tank sadly,

Unknown to him, I said goodbye.

Dense underbrush, laying on ground

Belly dragging low in the dirt

Crawling on many tentacles.

Specially gifted, two hind legs

Jumping gets me there much faster.

Splashing, puddles of rain made mud

Rinsing and drying to climate.

Sailing on a small green cupped leaf

In the river made by drain off

Between the roots of trees and shrubs.

Living it up, while listening out

For the call of another mate.

Not blessed with time in abundance

During my hot Summer's day sleep

Dream that tonight will be the night

Purpose fulfilled mission complete

And I will have safely secured

Species continued existence.

Too close to the end, Fall is near

The fresh evening breeze ushers in,

In hope that a mate will greet me

Chirping hitting only my ears.

Autumn's end will come and find that

Deposit made, eggs in the soil,

Rest will be mine, the torch is passed.

Whistleblower

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### Whistleblower

Joe Del Priori

Our writing group rented the place cheap. There was a rumor among the towns people that Rod Serling used this as a work space and his ghost still haunted the place. Six of us scoffed at the legend. Nonsense.

Mason, our leader, had published three novels, but none in the last five years. He seemed to be struggling. We used a conference room separate from the bedrooms. After our sessions, we retreated to the living room for informal chit chat, leaving our laptops on the table in the other room.

I'm a light sleeper. I lay there listening for sounds in the night. Soon I heard a soft rustling in the hall. I tensed. Maybe someone was hitting the john. But I heard no flushing. I forced myself out of bed and followed the sounds to the conference rom. I waited down the hall.

Then I made my way right to the door and snuck a peek. Mason was hunched over Sher's laptop, taking notes. How he got her password, I hadn't a clue. No question. He was stealing her book. Plagiarism. Bile rose in my throat. Yet I froze.

Finally, I crept back to my bunk, my mind racing. If I blew the whistle, it might very well destroy our group. But if I kept silent, how could I face Sheri?

#

Next day, we imbibed on Manny's homemade wine. I don't drink and the others mocked me until I gave in and had one glass. My vision blurred. People sounded strange, like they'd inhaled helium. Jodi seemed to rise to the ceiling. Hank changed shape several times. The room tilted. People chewed on themselves. I bit my own biceps. Spilled wine stained my shirt.

Language was garbled. Manny cackled and twisted his neck to impossible angles. He disrobed. I tried to, but my fingers wouldn't work. Perhaps I slid into a dream state. I thought I saw a vision of a man in the corner shaking his head in disgust. Time was gelatin, shaky and unstable.

I had one lousy glass. I couldn't imagine what those who imbibed much more were feeling. I lost consciousness and woke up sucking on my gel pen. I felt humiliated, but strangely aroused.

It took most of the following day for us to recover. We didn't speak much, perhaps out of embarrassment. Manny, coming off a divorce, was least invested in writing. I doubt he was anything but relieved we'd survived the night.

I nodded at Mason once, but kept my distance. I left the house and took a walk to the main drag, trying to think things through. I had a moral obligation to tell Sheri about what Mason was doing. He would deny it. His word against mine, with the future of the group at stake.

Lorraine made beef stew for dinner. We watched some TV. A few of us tried to write, but the evening went by quietly. Our week's rental was coming to an end.

I couldn't sleep. At some point I heard the same rustling footsteps from slippers. I knew it was Mason. I lay there full of self- disgust. Coward. You useless coward. No, I had to do something.

I hopped out of bed, fists clenched. I moved toward the room. But before I could get there, I heard a loud grunt. Loud enough to wake the others. Moving as one, we reached the door and I flung it open. We saw Mason, seated before Sheri's laptop, head snapped back, facing the ceiling. Shoved down his throat was a full pack of cigarettes.

Across the room stood a dark eyed, thick browed man with jet black hair and a stern expression. He wore a black suit with a thin tie out of the sixties. His lips curled in contempt. In his hand, a lit cigarette. I followed the thin stream of smoke up to the ceiling. When I let my vision drop, the man had vanished.

We buried Mason under an oak tree on the property. Sheri, saw her open laptop and became confused. I put my arm on her shoulder and said nothing.

### Assassination Laws

Hank Quense

Bopkes slithered into the police station, looked around and saw a sergeant squatting behind a desk eating a doughnut.

Bopkes was a typical zaftan: 7 foot 1 inch, 325 pounds, green slime-covered skin, a nasty-looking beak with eyeballs bouncing around on two-inch eyestalks. His eight tentacles moved Bopkes closer to the desk. The sergeant raised an eyestalk to appraise his visitor and took another bite. A name plate read "Sergeant Shmendril". Some of his slime had turned gray, a sign of middle age.

Bopkes stopped at the desk and announced, "I like to report an assassination plot."

The sergeant swallowed and replied, "And who got assassinated?"

"Me."

"But you ain't dead," Shmendril observed. "So, did the plot fail or hasn't it been tried yet? And who is doin' this?"

"A female who works for me is after my job and plans to kill me to make room for her promotion."

"Happens all the time. I saw a survey the other day that said 67% of promotions come by way of an assassination. What's the name of the assassin?"

"Gumisht."

"Gumisht," the sergeant repeated. He opened a small book and ran a tentacle tip down a page. "Well, there's no licensed assassin listed by that name, so she's an amateur. How does she plan to do it? Poison? Blowing up your car? Or the old-fashioned way, by ritually hackin' you to pieces? That always makes for a messy crime scene."

Zaftans were very hard to kill. Each zaftan had eight brains. Beside the primary one in the head, there were seven auxiliary ones located in major muscle groups. Each brain had the ability to initiate a process to regrow missing body parts so the hacking had to destroy each brain to be effective.

"I don't care if she's licensed or not. I want Gumisht arrested," Bopkes said.

"Can't," Shmendril replied. "Ain't against the law to plot an assassination. The good news is that amateurs usually botch the job so you'll probably survive."

"Then you can arrest her?" In frustration and anxiety Bopkes twisted three tentacles into a knot.

"Nope. An assassination attempt ain't illegal either. But you can sue to recover your medical expenses."

"But . . . but what if she's successful?"

"Ahh, then we can make a case against her. Provided someone in your family files a complaint."

"Wait." Bopkes shook his eyestalks. "I get murdered and you don't do anything until someone complains?"

"That's right. You see, assassination cases are hard to investigate 'cause the principle witness — you in this case — ain't available and professional assassins make sure there ain't no other witnesses. So we tend to ignore 'em unless a family member files a complaint."

Bopkes slammed a tentacle on the floor, splattering slime around. "These laws are stupid."

"These laws have been on the books for hundreds of years." Shmendril tapped a tentacle tip on the desk. "It's how zaftan society has evolved. You don't have to like them, just live with them. No pun intended."

"But what am I supposed to do? I can't avoid Gurnisht. We work together. Sooner to later she'll murder me."

"I advise you to get her before she gets you."

"Huh? And how do I that?" The sergeant's reply surprised Bopkes.

Shmendril opened a desk draw and took out a sheet of paper and handed it over. "This here is a list of all the licensed assassins authorized to work in this precinct. Some of them are quite reasonable with their fees."

Bopkes looked at the list and its ten names. Who knew assassination was so popular? And so easy?

"That's all I can do for you," Shmendril said. "If you hire one from the sheet, mention my name so I can get a referral fee, would you?"

Bopkes left the station house. He hunkered down as his eyestalks whipped around in all directions searching for Gurnisht. He knew he couldn't continue to live like this. His nerves would snap before long.

It was time to start contacting the names on the list. Maybe he could get rid of the dead-beat brother-in-law at the same time. Possibly a package deal would be cheaper than two separate deals.

Bopkes straightened his torso and slithered away from the station, determined to survive the threat and to look for his own opportunities for promotion.

~ ~ ~

Hank Quense writes humorous and satiric sci-fi and fantasy stories. He also writes and lectures about fiction writing and self-publishing. He has published 19 books and 50 short stories along with dozens of articles. He often lectures on fiction writing and publishing and has a series of guides covering the basics on each subject. He and his wife, Pat, usually vacation in another galaxy or parallel universe. They also time travel occasionally when Hank is searching for new story ideas

### Whistle-blower

Debby Huvaere

I got your request, and I'm willing to talk

On the one condition, that you'll let me walk

When I'm finished.

It's safe to state I'll require this deposit

To reveal these dead bodies stored in my closet

And the names on my list.

You are summoning me, and it's not a big deal

Just making sure we're keeping things real

I'm not gonna leave much room for discussion,

Take it or leave it – but no repercussion.

Nothing's for granted, I want immunity

The insights I got, are worth it, you'll see

Listen, I'm not selling myself short these days

Just making sure I'm getting my ways.

Game changer, trailblazer, whistleblower

Give me a moment, I'll come right over

With my thread.

Are you sure you are ready? The truth is a bitch.

In a minute or so, you might just wish

You had locked me up instead.

~ ~ ~

Debby Huvaere is a writer and award-wining screenwriter with a background in interior design. Her work is upcoming in the Running Wild Press 2019 Anthology, and with Rain on Rooftops Review.

Originally from Belgium, she lives in New York City. She loves long walks, Central Park in summer, French fries and longs for 77-degree weather always.

Code Words

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### Code Words

Hank Quense

Code finally reached the desk where an elderly elf bureaucrat sat behind a sign that read "Unemployment Registration." The elf had a sour look about him as if he found the desk distasteful.

"My name is Gino Manelli." the elf said. "Your name?"

"Cody MacWords, but most people call me Code Words." Code's long black hair was tied back in a ponytail and his beard braids had red, green and yellow ribbons. The ribbons matched the colors in his kilt. He also wore a leather vest and had the handle of a battle ax stuck under his belt. On his right bicep a large red tattoo read 'I heart lint picking."

Manelli wrote the name on a form using a quill. "Race?"

"It must be obvious to you that I'm a dwarf."

"I never make assumptions," Manelli said. "You could be a very short human or a very stout halfling disguised as a dwarf."

Code raised an eyebrow but didn't reply.

"Born?"

"Of course I was born," Code growled.

"Where is what I meant. I can see why you're unemployed."

"New Skensfirth."

"Occupation?"

"Lint picker."

"Hmm. How long have you picked lint?" the elf asked.

"I picked my first lint when I was three. I found it in my belly button and I've loved lint-pickin' ever since. I turned professional when I was seventeen."

"Where did you pick lint?" Manelli asked.

"I did it for seven years in a factory in my home town. My job was to pick up the lint that fell outta the machines. It gets dirty on the floor and can't be sold. But the factory was destroyed when the aliens stopped by. Then I went to Dun Hythe and worked in a factory for three years until the manger bought a machine that sucks up lint. He called it Hovering. Me and two other pickers were laid off after that."

"And why weren't you trained to run the machine?" Manelli pointed a single long finger at Code. "Perhaps, you are too incompetent to be trained up?"

"No, the manager hired his nephew to run the machine. And he ain't too good at it."

"I've always wondered what lint is used for."

"Much of it gets sold to places that raise animals, especially chickens. They mix it in with the regular feed." Code shook his head in disgust.

"I didn't know lint was eatable." Manelli raised an eyebrow.

"It ain't, but it absorbs water. So after the chickens eat some and then drink water, they gain a lotta weigh and get sold for more money."

"Oh my." Manelli briefly paused to think. "Now then, what happens to the lint you pick up?"

"They hire a trash truck to haul it away. Except for the coupla bags I take home sometimes."

"You steal from your employer?"

"Naw. The boss don't mind. It saves him from paying to get rid of some more lint."

"And what do you do with the lint once you take it home?"

"I make animal figures. Teddy bears, bunnies, stuff like that. I give 'em to neighborhood kids."

"Hmm. Can you make a full-sized figure of a female?

"That's disgusting!"

"You, sir, have a dirty mind. I was referring to a dress dummy to put in a store window."

"So, do you have job for me? Maybe inna lint factory?" Code held his breath awaiting the answer.

"We have no jobs on our lists. So, you are definitely unemployed."

"How much money do you give me every week?"

"Nothing. Our budget has been exhausted. You should have been laid off a few months ago before the money ran out. Poor planning on your part."

"Oh, no!" Code felt a pain in the pit of his stomach.

"I suggest you go into business for yourself," Manelli said. "Stop trying to get a handout."

"Huh? All I know is lint-pickin'."

"You have an axe. Go into the woods and become a lumberjack. Cut down trees."

"What do I do with a dead tree?"

You sell it to a carpenter or a home builder."

"How do I do that? Do I have to haul it to a tree market or something?"

"Builders will buy it on the spot and take it away."

"I don't know about this. I'm a city dwarf. I've heard that woods have snakes and I don't like 'em."

"I have it on excellent authority that snakes are afraid of axes. Show the snake your axe and it will slither away."

Code made a face while he digested the snake information.

"We're done here." Manelli made shooing motions with one hand. "Move along."

"Wait a min—"

"Next!"

Code left the building in a depressed mood. He had been hoping for another lint picking job or at least a weekly stipend until he could find more work. Now he had to fend for himself and compete against other lumberjacks.

A new thought perked Code up. Trees had moss he had heard. Maybe moss could be picked like lint. He could sell it to earn money. And he'd be his won boss. Maybe it was good he was laid off.

Spoiled Milk

Keith Biesiada

Jorge Alvarado studied the open box of cereal at the kitchen table. He turned the box until he had scanned all six sides, and then, to gain a fresh perspective, he inverted it so that the open end was facing down. All of the cereal spilled onto the table.

"Dad!" wailed eight-year-old Pepito. "You're spilling it!"

Mrs. Alvarado was ready with the brush and dustpan. She swept the corn flakes onto the pan, and then into Pepito's breakfast bowl.

"Mom!" Pepito cried. "It's got dust all over it!"

"So, don't eat the dust," Mrs. Alvarado advised.

"It's good for you," said Jorge, still absorbed in his scrutiny of the box.

Pepito turned the cereal over with his spoon. "There's dust on every single flake!"

His mother poured milk over the cereal. "Stir it together. The dust will rise to the top and you can skim it off."

"I hate dusty cereal!" the boy griped. "All I ever get is dusty cereal, and sometimes there's bugs in it."

"It's good for you," Jorge repeated.

Mrs. Alvarado made the Sign of the Cross on her forehead, heart and shoulders. "It's a sin to waste food," she said. "Those children in the poor countries would love to eat dusty cereal."

"With bugs?"

"It's good for them," said Jorge. He tilted the box in his hands and grunted. The code words had to be there somewhere.

"Good food makes strong bodies," said Mrs. Alvarado. "Now eat, or you'll lose so much weight that you'll blow away in the wind."

Pepito ate a spoonful but then pushed his bowl away. "Ugh! The milk is spoiled!"

Mrs. Alvarado inspected the milk carton. "It's only two weeks past the expiration date. It doesn't go bad that fast. Eat!"

Pepito screamed. "There's a roach swimming in the corn flakes! Ugh!" He attacked the insect with his spoon, but only managed to splash milk on the table.

"Stop it!" Mrs. Alvarado snatched the spoon from her son's hands. "Now look what you've done. There's milk all over the table and there's milk all over you. Get upstairs and change. You can't go to school like that."

"I'm hungry, Mom," Pepito whined. "Can I have a Pop Tart?"

"No! There's no time for breakfast. Go and change your clothes."

Pepito ran upstairs. Jorge crushed the cereal box in his strong hands and pushed it into the trash can.

Mrs. Alvarado was cleaning off the table. "No code words?"

Jorge shook his head. "No." He rubbed his beard and laughed without humor. "Some spy I am."

"You are a wonderful spy," said Mrs. Alvarado. "I am so proud of you. When I tell the other girls at the hairdressers that I am married to a spy they are jealous."

Jorge pointed his finger at his wife. "Maria! You cannot tell anyone that I am a spy. If our government finds out, they will deport us."

"Forgive me, husband. It's just that I love to gossip. And I am so very proud of you."

Jorge smiled. He kissed her forehead. "I know. But from now on, don't tell anyone that I am a spy. Say that I am a submarine captain instead."

"Then you are a submarine captain," she agreed. "Can I say that you are the captain of a nuclear submarine?"

"Why not?" said Jorge. "I can see no harm in it."

Maria sniffed the cleaning sponge on which she had absorbed the spilled milk. "Ugh! Pepito was right. The milk has spoiled. I shall give him a Pop Tart."

Jorge squinted his eyes. "Did you say Pop Tart?" he asked. "Where is the box?"

He sat down with the Pop Tart box, turning it around until he had scanned every side, and then he turned it upside down. All the Pop Tarts fell onto the table.

Pepito ran downstairs, dressed in clean clothes. Seeing the Pop Tarts on the table, he grabbed one and fled out the front door to catch the school bus. His mother called after him.

"Pepito! Take a dollar from Daddy's wallet. Bring home milk!"

Jorge Alvarado underlined two words on the Pop Tart box with a pencil. He grinned with satisfaction.

About

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The Write Group meets in the main library in Montclair NJ. It is a writers' support group and it holds 30 events (or more) every month. To learn more about the Write Group, visit their website: http://montclairwritegroup.org or contact Carl Selinger at carlselinger1@gmail.com

Writers and Authors Resource Center (WritersARC) was recently started by Hank Quense to be a place for writers and authors to find information and guides. It is also the name of his school at teachable.com. Visit it at https://bit.ly/2x8lBgL WritersARC has a Facebook page: https://www.facebook.com/Writersarc/ and an Instagram account: https://www.instagram.com/hankquense/. WritersARC also has a Padlet page with more information:https://padlet.com/hanque/8senudcz7e45

### Published Writers

Here is a list (in alphabetical order) of the Montclair Write Group members who contributed to this anthology.

Virginia Angelovich

Raphael Badagliacca

Brinda Banerjee

William Batkey

Keith Biesiada

Murphy Birdsal

Catherine Hottendorf

Joe DelPriori

Elaine Durbach

Zachery Ferrara

Fanny Gray

Elissa Goldman

Debby Huvaere

Peggy LaVake

Leonie Marson-Lewis

Ren Marrin

Joey Picocoli

Hank Quense

J.M. Richardson

Erin roll

Bonnie Smiler

Jackie Sterns

Nancy Taiani

90
