Short Fiction Break - Break From Reality. Daily.

The Two Mrs. Minskys

There have been two defining days in my life: the day I married Teddy Minsky, and the day Teddy died. On both days a dark, ominous cloud loomed overhead—that cloud came in the form of his mother, Ida.

Ida Minsky was a bulldozer, in attitude and appearance. A short stout woman with square shoulders like a linebacker, but she was much nastier. On our wedding day, the storm cloud bullied the caterers into changing the menu, the band into playing the songs she liked, and Teddy into realizing that no matter who he married, she was still in charge.

She was so skillful in fact that she relegated her husband, Pauley, to near invisibility in her presence, and he finally just vanished altogether, choosing death over life with Ida.

But Pauley’s liberation meant my captivity because after he died, Teddy brought Ida Minsky to live with us.

Nineteen

“Fifteen-two, fifteen-four, two’s six and six is a dozen.”

Andrew pointed at the cards as he counted. Sarah glared at him across the glass-topped coffee table that separated her armchair from the sofa.

“That’s the third dozen you’ve had!”

“I know.” Andrew leaned back on the sofa and beamed. “I do believe that’s £1.50 you owe me.”

“For now.”

Tango-19

The sky went black, as black as the stealthy double hull of her ship, Tango-19, on this, her last mission.

Commander Meredith Conrad eased her ship over the lip of the small planet, one of a cluster now called The Outer Rim. She had seen much in her sixteen years in space, but had never gotten over the sheer terror of Deep Space darkness. The human spirit, she now knew for certain, needs to see something in the night sky.

She was, at least technically, still mostly human, so she let the thought linger. It may have been no more than the ghost of some ancient memory of the brilliant night sky her ancestors had once known—a wondrous display that held for them nothing but promise, until the day the skies forever turned angry, and the rains began.

Blind Faith

The tattoo on his left arm reads, in glaring large letters, RACIST AND PROUD.

The henna on his right is a lotus. It will not stay forever, though today that does not matter. He has had it renewed countless times in the past decade. The delicate design serves as a reminder of the lessons he has learned.

“Inner peace is not everlasting,” says his mentor. “Nor is it to be taken for granted. Many strive to achieve it, but so few hold on to it when they do. It’s easy to let chaos invade you, steer you off your path, drive you away from the door to heaven.”

He nods. These are all words he hears daily, but he savors them nonetheless. The stone floor is cold beneath their thin cushions, made colder by the drafts of wind singing through the canyons just outside the temple. He is bare from the waist up but despite the frost forming over the drops of morning dew, he does not feel the chill. This, too, is the result of found peace.

Return of the Ancient Ghosts

The morning news was not good.

It’s not every day—or every lifetime—that a mysterious ghost vessel appears in the heavens above our world. But it just happened here, and I want to record how things are now, because I fear they will soon change forever.

When the news came, my mate and I were relaxing on the deck of our hilltop aerie, looking out across the purple valleys and hills, just drinking in the beauty and peace. Our young had departed for their day’s activities, so we were enjoying the quiet and each other’s company.

That’s when I heard the chime from the comm unit. Instant fear. What could that mean except some problem with our eldest male, who is somewhat rambunctious. I was up out of my lounge in a moment.

Enclosed

She wanted a life of her own. A normal life that couldn’t be compared to anything anyone could imagine. A world where she could feel the ray of sunshine on her face with peace of mind. What happened to her? Why was she in this place of distress and torment? She used to be full of joy and wild dreams now she was an outcast forced into this world. Trapped with no way out.

Her mind raced to a time where she had it all figured out.

“Caroline!”

“Day dreaming again?”

Arachnid

Friday morning, Melinda Frey had resolved to get an early start on the day. The unexpected absences of Bill, one of their account managers, had increased their workload for the week, so the only way she could complete her tasks was to put in the hours early. If she could just get the last of the filing done by lunch, she had a chance of convincing the manager to let her sneak out early for the weekend.

Honey, I’m Home!

Amber removed her key and shut the front door. She left her car in the driveway in case Dorian wanted to grab dinner out. The welcome scent of charcoal suggested otherwise. Relieved, she smiled. Dorian had the grill going.

“Honey, I’m home” she called, tossing briefcase, purse and keys onto the entry table. Her day had been hellish, spent putting out one corporate brushfire after another. She hadn’t had time for lunch or time to read Dorian’s texts.

The Door in the Cellar

The following is a guest post by Ryan Reid. Ryan is earning an MSW degree in the school of social work at Aurora University. He is an aspiring author working on a young-adult horror novel. “Tell me a scary story, Grandpa Seth,” Jeff Slater told his grandfather. It was a snowy January night. Jeff and his…

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