Stories - Short Fiction Break

The Aroma of Coffee

It was on a Wednesday in early spring when Carla woke up dead.

Since she did not realize the seriousness of her situation, she went about her normal routine. She headed for the kitchen where the aroma of freshly brewed coffee filled the air with tantalizing familiarity.

The coffee pot with a timer had been a birthday gift from her very busy son, Robert. He had loved coffee from the first day he stole a sip as a youngster. Throughout his childhood he surreptitiously drank from Carla’s cup until she acknowledged his craving and proffered a mug of the captivating liquid to accompany his breakfast. Coffee became the beverage of choice not only for breakfast, but for discussing life’s issues, both big and small. A mug of hot coffee had been an invitation to talk. In recent years visits were few, conversations fewer and the coffee pot a sad reminder.

An Occurrence in Pumpkin Falls

If there was ever a day for pumpkin pie, this was it. I approached the wooden counter of my small, sunny kitchen and removed the glass case that protected the delicious treat and cut a slice for Mrs. Mayapple and myself. The pie shone like copper on the plate. I snatched a couple of forks and swept back across the room. Mrs. Mayapple had been assigned to be my chaperone ever since I was born.

When I was old enough to question it, my mother’s answer was, “How else are we supposed to guarantee that you stay pure?”

My father’s rumbling laugh followed. “That’s right. You know we can’t be with you every minute of every day.”

Walk Alone

When June first started the trail, she’d set herself apart from the other thru-hikers, preferring to travel solo. Now, at the tail end of the season, there were only a few of those thru-hikers left. Some days June didn’t see another human at all. She typically preferred it this way, despite her family’s warnings.

“Don’t walk alone,” they’d said. Her mom’s voice rang in her ears. “You’re a woman, Junie. I know you’re strong, but what if someone takes you, hurts you? Women shouldn’t travel alone; it isn’t safe.” And June boiled inside. Apart from the fact that no one in her social circle could or would hike the 2,190 miles to Katahdin with her, she shouldn’t have to have a buddy. Yes there were risks—she’d read the statistics about women who hike alone—but there were too many things in this life that she “shouldn’t do” because she was a woman. This wasn’t going to be one of those things.

So she bought pepper spray, bear spray—all the sprays—and she bought a knife. Then she laced up her boots, flew to Georgia, Ubered to Springer Mountain and said, “screw the patriarchy.”

Pumpkin Pie & Formaldehyde

“There’s a body for you downstairs,” Cassia’s mother announces, wiping the blood from her hands as she passes the open bedroom door. “All set and ready for you.”

Her words spark a flood of excitement in Cassia, and she springs from her bed to follow her mother down the stairs and into the kitchen. Her fingers itch to snatch up the scalpel, to dig under the skin and see what lies within the corpse.

“I thought it was Alistair’s turn,” Cassia says, falling into step with her mother. “He claimed the next three that came in.”

“Cousin Alistair is otherwise occupied with another target. He’ll be gone a few days.”

Cassia eyes the basement door, practically twitching in her eagerness to get to work. Her mother pulls a mixing bowl out of the cabinet and sets it on the counter. Then she turns back to Cassia, sees her inching towards the door, and laughs.

“Your father and I already had our fun tracking him down and killing him,” her mother says. “You go have your own now. I’ll be baking a pie for the Mitchells’ funeral.”

Airlock

The vast, red expanse of the planet spread out in front of Rodriguez—nothing but scarlet cliffs and crimson dust as far as the eye could see. A single speck of white, the pearlescent Hub of SX129, stood at the crest of the distant hill, becoming a rusted orange as the sand kicked up. Rodriguez could feel the wind pressing in on the arms of his EVA suit as he turned to scan the horizon. He clicked commands into his bracer, and the display inside his helmet overlaid waves of neon green onto his vision.

“Nothing here but dead space. I’ve tried every scanner I have; are you sure you saw the signature over here?” he asked Emerald.

“The infrared lit up like a Christmas tree,” she said. “Alerts and all.”

“There’s no way it could be that easy. We are not finding evidence of alien life forms this quickly.” Rodriguez rolled his eyes even though he knew she couldn’t see them.

“I swear it was right here,” she said. “If you’re scared of a little wind, you can go back. I’m going to keep looking.” Her grayish form disappeared with the next swirl of dust.

The Bone Children

“The forest is haunted,” Tilly says. She holds me back but I pull from her grasp.

“Aunt Bess says you’ve never been in the woods,” I retort.

“That’s true,” she murmurs, twisting her long yellow braid in her fingers. “Because of the bone children.”

“The bone children?”

Tilly nods, her cheeks pink from the autumn air.

The Walkers

It was another miserable morning in a string of incessantly gray days when Beverly pulled aside the flimsy lace curtain and first glimpsed Millie’s even-paced shuffle. A shadow had initially drawn her to the window. She suspected the nasty black cat that had been hanging around might be lurking in her box hedges. But there was no cat, only her neighbor Millie in the road. She shuffled past without waving. Beverly frowned and closed the curtain.

The next morning, Beverly checked to make sure no cars were parked on the street. This was a favorite part of her daily routine; she’d gleefully ring the HOA to let them know about her neighbors’ policy violation. When Beverly glanced at the street, she found herself watching Millie walk by yet again. It was a strange coincidence, but Beverly didn’t believe in fate. Everything in her life could be controlled, managed, or leveraged.

Proper control was how she’d handled her son when he brought a boy home; unacceptable behavior was not tolerated in her home. He left. Her ex-husbands had to be dealt with so that she could control her own finances. Their departures were more permanent. Taking control of the situation was the practical prescription for all ailments.

Forever Yours

At first I was delighted when Aunt June returned from the dead. I had adored her as a child and even more so as an adult. She was the most competent woman I knew. She had managed her sixty-two-acre farm alone after her husband Ed died in a tractor accident when she was twenty-six. She could repair heavy equipment and wield a chainsaw. She could tell the difference between the whistle of a Broad Winged Hawk and the raspy shriek of a Red Tail. As a kid, I followed her around the farm with the same devotion as the pack of stray dogs that never left her side.

But after a while, June’s miraculous return began to feel less like a cosmic gift and more like a haunting. Unlike the live June, who had been placable and easy-going, the ghostly June was usually in a foul mood and complained nonstop about something I did or didn’t do on her farm, which she’d left to me on her death. These days, June and I bickered—a lot. I hated that.

Sunken

The waters of the dam glimmered alluringly between the trees beside the meandering road. Dozens of cars, caravans, and tents, piled up on the waterfront, appeared, as well as the fishermen, standing at a close distance from each other, patiently awaiting their catch.

“I assume this is the place,” said Michail, and he turned his Jeep down a gravel road to the left. While passing by the sign “Swimming forbidden!” the two gals on the back seat gave each other a perplexed glance, whereas the young lads at the front smiled mischievously. They all got off the vehicle and started looking around the place.

The Holy Instant

Pleading guilty to a state crime was one thing, but a federal crime? That was something else altogether.

First of all, the sheer amount of paperwork required by the feds was intimidating. Alice sat in the waiting room of the federal probation office with a stack of papers on her lap, waiting to be interviewed by a probation officer about the man she lived with, William Casey Battle. Billy had pleaded guilty to three counts of intent to distribute ten kilos of opioids and was being held in jail pending sentencing. The purpose of her interview was to talk with Agent Riley, who was preparing the presentencing report for the judge, about Billy’s character.

That was another thing about the feds—the probation officers were a far cry from the doughy, indifferent social workers who handled probation for the state courts. Federal probation officers were trim, neatly dressed FBI agents with close-cropped crew cuts and good posture. When Agent Riley introduced himself, Alice had straightened her shoulders, discretely sucked in her belly, and cursed herself for not wearing control-top pantyhose.

The Win

“S-swim team w-w-wasn’t m-my idea,” Stuart said, his voice muffled by pineapples and pink flamingos.

“Take that towel off your head,” Mom snapped, then she cleared her throat. “You’ll do great, honey.”

“Great,” Benny crowed. He reached over from his car seat and whacked Stuart’s arm with a slimy granola bar. Stuart shuddered and brushed off the crumbs.

“Sorry I can’t stay and watch, but I have to take Benny to visit his new school. I’ll be waiting in the parking lot when the meet is over.”

“O-k-kay.” The fewer people there to watch him the better. And no Mom meant no Benny crying or getting drool on his towel. Stuart gathered up his things and opened the car door.

“Have fun!” Mom called. “Be safe!”

The Chains That Bind

The inhospitable shades of brimstone sear my vision as my mind stirs from its untold period of slumber. My limbs spasm as the agony of reawakening surges through me.

It is not an unfamiliar feeling. It always heralds the same obligation.

Another has called me. Another requires my service to commit sin so that their own soul may remain unstained.

The dim reds and yellows of my sight converge into a burning orange as the portal opens before me, beckoning me to the one who has demanded my arrival.

The Dinner Date

You’d laugh to see me writing this now. It was the first thing you asked when I told you I was a novelist. “Are you going to put this in a story?”

I gave you my standard answer. “Only if you piss me off.”

You grinned. “Revenge fiction, huh? Better than revenge porn, I suppose.”

For the record, you didn’t piss me off. And this isn’t fiction, though most people will think it is. Mysterious figures with magical powers will do that, every time.

But I’m getting ahead of myself, aren’t I? Let’s start over.

I’m a pro at that now, thanks to you. Starting over.

High Hopes

On a gorgeous day, the old man and his grandson rode side by side on the buckboard. Blue skies, white puffy clouds chased by a light wind, and songbirds provided a lovely chorus in the background. Ol’ Dobbin had his head low as Grampa gently clucked and encouraged him along a well-known trail.

Near the top of a low ridge sat a shed used by the old man for years to sell the produce from his truck garden to travelers on the road to Easton, going one way, or those on the road to Weston, going the t’other.

Grampa eased Dobbin to a halt behind the shed and gave the reins a turn around a pommel. Stepping down from the buggy, he pulled a red bandana from a hip pocket, doffed his hat, wiped his brow, wiped the inside brim of his hat, plopped his hat back on his balding noggin, looked at the sky, and said, “Gonna be a beautiful day, Billy.”

Rewired

Drip, drip, drip. Her eyes stuck to the laptop screen, flicking through the thirty browser tabs, trying to find the one with the good quote that was halfway down a page somewhere next to the weird graph . . . drip, drip, drip. How strange to hear a dripping sound inside? Oh, how she hated dripping sounds, and where the hell was the quote? And why did everything always. Have. To. Sound. So. Annoying?

Oh shit.

Maggie slammed her laptop shut and stood up. The drips grew louder and faster behind her, morphing into a trickle as she turned around to face the kitchen.

Happily For Right Now

David Livingston Parker was finally attempting to read his novel out on the balcony. But it was Friday night, which meant another Sol Vista at Bayside pool party with free tacos, Dos Equis beer, and steel drum music worming its way out of tinny speakers right into his ears. He fumbled for his AirPods to muffle the noise.

Today’s theme was “Welcome Summer,” but in Florida, there are only two seasons, rainy and dry, so how can you really tell? A nagging voice in his head urged him to go mingle. But it had been a long week and he was not keen on trying to juggle a mask, taco, and beer while making small talk at six paces. Or get into another discussion on mask etiquette. He’d spend another night alone, which was just . . . easier.

Hearts and Stitches

I am the last one. My sisters are long gone. They were soft, floaty, shiny, and beautiful. We were the muses that enhanced her charm and enchantment. Then he came, and my sisters either broke, tore apart, or choked in trash cans.

Did she hide me on purpose, or did she forget me? All I know, I am still hanging here plastered against the far end of the wall, biding my time.

My beads have lost their shine in the damp air surrounding me, but my hope has endured. The newcomers—thick, itchy, poky—are unattractive and bulky, the cruel reification of the new man she brought home.

THE RECONCILIATION

Mr. and Mrs. Venas were teleporters who looked like human beings. At the same time, they were the royals who ruled the mice populace in Porterland—an underground kingdom. Though they craved children, they wouldn’t have dreamt they would one day possess one of their own kind, either by chance or procreation. But it happened that Samantha, a beautiful 10-year-old girl, negligently went hunting, then went missing into a large mouse hole with her dog, and that seemed all.

The queen rose that evening and sped into the hall to the King.

“We must meet the mice,” she said.

ARTIFICIALLY INTELLIGENT

Pamela stormed into the living room, where George was lying on the sofa reading a science magazine.

“You’re an idiot!” Pamela stood over her husband, hands on hips, red in the face.

George dropped the magazine.

“What?!”

“A blithering idiot.”

“What are you talking about?”

The Anniversary Train

Lou and Jetta sat silently inside the tent, holding hands in the darkness. Outside, thunder rumbled, and rain pounded on the plastic roof as if trying to get inside.

Lou cleared his throat. “We have to make a decision.”

“I know,” said Jetta quietly. “What do you want?”

A sudden flash lit up the tiny space like day, and Jetta saw the grief on Lou’s face. Her stomach twisted, knowing she caused him so much pain.

“You know what I want,” Lou said.

Finding Rachel

For as long as I can remember, I’ve been a runner.

The door slammed shut, rattling the walls. I’d drawn it extra hard to make my point. Outside, I spun on my heels and zipped up my hoodie. The day had gone so well until we began arguing over something trite. And through some circuitous route, we’d ended back at a discussion we’d been having for the last few months. I could have stopped the argument, but I had already set myself up to bolt.

A gust of wind blew when the front door opened.

She’s Back

It had been one of those Rarotonga summers when the heat consumed the day at dawn and baked the island late into the evening. The air was sticky, and many of the young honeymooners preferred the comfort of air-conditioned spas or their cleaned hotel sheets to the beach—even if it was whale season.

Marie Fuller preferred the ocean.

“Not much further, Marie.”

She nodded, eyes on the waves that broke against the front of the boat. She gripped the railing and tilted her chin over her shoulder to acknowledge her husband, but stopped. Leaned forward instead.

Still, I Think of Him Every Day

I’m back again.

In that stupid plastic chair. Under those heinous fluorescent lights. Drinking copper-flavored fountain water. Eating a doughnut ten other people touched. Listening to those ten other people drone on about their lives. Watching them blow snot into their tissues and then use that same tissue to dry their eyes.

When I first started coming to these meetings, I liked to think I was so much better than all of them, the sniveling messes. They were pathetic.

But that voice on my shoulder whispered the truth behind my dry eyes. I was a monster wearing the skin of an objectively attractive twenty-four-year-old. I was pathetic.

Some Sentences About My Sentence

I etched the slanted line onto the wall. Once done, I looked across the expansive wall. Three hundred sixty-five of these lines I had carved into the rough surface of the stone. I had only been in this cell for ten days, but I am an impatient guy by nature and three hundred sixty-five just looked more dramatic than ten. Also, no one really tells you this, but when you’re sitting in a prison cell there aren’t that many activities you’re able to do. Wall carving just seemed to be the most accessible hobby around.

Reminiscing is also quite popular here, so let’s do that now!

Eating the Sun

Colors have a taste. They also have a feel. Purple is feathery. Dark blue is rich like velvet. I’ll admit, if someone told me that a year ago, I would’ve figured they were high. But almost everything’s changed since dying.

I perched on the roof experiencing the sunset. To say I was merely watching it would be an understatement. Brilliant white smells slightly of confectioner’s sugar and tastes sweet. Orange is like swimming in a warm lake on a summer day with a hint of citrus. As you can imagine, the undulating colors at sunset or sunrise are a whole-body experience. Since I no longer enjoyed the culinary delights of life, these were my favorite times of day.

I heard Elliot’s car long before I saw it. It needed a new fan belt. I was always the one who took care of such things. Elliot pulled up to the curb, coming to a choppy halt, and stumbled out of the car holding his briefcase and a bundle of flowers. My dematerialized lips grinned and a school-girl thrill raced down my spine.

The Anniversary

Cyndi awoke before her alarm. She clicked it off, grateful not to have been woken by its beeping—a necessity on most days. But not today. Today was different. It was her day. Her anniversary. It would be a good day full of special moments.

Red-tipped feet in pink slippers, she slipped on her robe and tiptoed out the room—without glancing at the large, snoring lump under the bedcovers—down the corridor, and into the bathroom. Shutting the door, she leaned against it and smiled. It had begun.

Time Capsule

Thanksgiving Day, 2011, was haunted. My husband’s family had sealed a time capsule forty years earlier, and our apartment buzzed with electricity from the moment Matt, my husband’s brother, texted Sport a reminder of its opening that day. Sport listed the items he remembered having included: a 7-inch Astron Scout rocket, an issue of Mad Magazine, and a chipped bowie knife.

I wrinkled my nose. Don’t you bury a time capsule? He shrugged, saying they’d stored theirs in the garage.

THE MALLARD

“You vill be lying on a beach. Zere vill be … a breeze zat vill—how you say—tinkle? And a … bird, I sink … I can see a bird. Viz a green head and a … beak? Is zat ze vord?”

“A mallard?”

“I do not know vot zat is. A bird, or somesink like a bird, is vot I see.”

O’Rourke left the tent a little unsteadily. He’d had a few pints of Guinness beforehand and it was going to his legs. But he was also shaken by the fortune he’d been told. He was a superstitious person at the best of times—he kept a shamrock on him always—and the cryptic image that the old lady had described was already getting under his skin.

Snakes Alive!

Brian crouches down, nervously lifts the edge of the bedspread and peers under the bed. Turning on the flashlight of his phone, he sees that the space is clear. He straightens and breathes a sigh of relief.

~~~~~

Vera slams the door of the shop and stomps to the loaded van. Who does old man Beasley think he is? He may be her boss, but that doesn’t excuse the way he talks to her. “Do this! Do that!” And never a please or thank you. Ooh, if only she had a bit more nerve . . .

The Parent-Child Relationship Index

Sam stands at the one-way mirror in Observation Room Twelve. To anyone who doesn’t know him, he would seem indifferent. His hands are in his pockets and his posture is relaxed. His breathing is calm. He’s betrayed only by the fact that he hasn’t moved in seventeen minutes.

He hadn’t planned to stay here so long. He’d assumed he’d go straight into the Meeting Room. But Kara got there first, and something about the tenderness in her face and the way her body already seemed to curl protectively around the baby in her arms arrested his hurry. And so, here he stands, soaking in the sight.

“Have you ever witnessed a First Meeting?”

The Final Anniversary

Joseph walked slowly to the bus stop on his way to work.

It was a short walk; however, it got tedious each day. Lost in thought, he pondered about life. Counting the cobblestones on his way, he could see the moss in the stone cracks drying off due to the heat. In winters it glistened like green crystals trapped in ice, but in summers it waned and dried only to be reborn in spring. He wondered whether his life would ever find that spring again; or are humans just built to fade from the spring of their youth to the withered winter of their lives. He peered downwards as his back had arched and there was little he looked ahead to except for the final days of his life.

Ne’er The Twain

Once upon a time there lived a young couple who were very much in love.

Maggie was magnificent: flowing golden locks, the face of an angel, a perfect bosom. Her top half checked out as an 11 in Harry’s book.

“What a rack!” he exclaimed to himself the first time he saw her, when she bobbed out of the sea near his homemade paddleboard.

Plane Sailing

Tendrils of smoke twisted into the air before disappearing into the night sky.

“This might not be how we thought things would go, but you can’t deny it’s beautiful here,” Dominic said, flashing Ally a dimpled smile.

She forced a smile in return, then swept her eyes across the beach until she found the wreckage of their small plane. Waves lapped against its crumpled nose, now blackened from their emergency landing. Even though they’d emptied it of its fuel, Dominic had warned her to stay away from it, just in case it still exploded.

Let it, Ally thought, turning back to the crackling fire.

Ten Inches

I had an hour to wait for my connection. I came out of the station, wandered around a little and found a small pub. It was sunny outside so it took me a few moments to get used to the gloom.

The pub was empty except for me, the barman, and another man.

I settled at the bar and ordered a bourbon. While the barman was getting my drink, I had a look round the room. The other man, who could have been forty or sixty, was sitting two or three stools away, hunched over what looked like a large whisky.

I paid him no mind initially and took a sip of my bourbon. The variety of bottles on the shelves behind the bar provided some interest until the man mumbled something. Because I hadn’t been expecting him to speak, I didn’t quite catch what he said. Then he repeated it.

“Yep, ten inches. At least.”

Even Hell Has Angels

After years of inactivity, I decided to follow my doctor’s orders and start exercising to prevent my heart from “exploding out of my chest,” as he so gently put it. I figured the blood test results were going to be considerably less-than-awesome but those cholesterol numbers and the doc’s grim predictions of my inevitable heart attack definitely got my attention.

Well, that and the mirror-related trauma I experienced when I accidentally caught a glimpse of myself while exiting the shower.

I couldn’t deny my physique was a product of my unwanted divorce. Three years of depression apparently has the same effect on your physical health as it does on your emotional well-being. Still, my doctor and my mirror had given my waning willpower and determination a much-needed boost. Armed with a growing resolve to stay alive, I entered Hell (henceforth referred to as “The Gym”) to begin my new, death-defying lifestyle.

The Price of Silence

Secrets. They spilled out of people faster than their guts when sliced down the middle. His ears hissed with their noise, a ceaseless buzzing as the Whisperer spoke in sour breaths. There were always Whisperers, those who came to tell him their secrets. In fact, the cobblestone path and the twisting wooden staircase they had to climb to come visit had been worn down so violently from repeated use that if one was not careful, they’d lose their head.

The Whisperers were foolish and hateful, gluttonous, eager. To have him bear their lead-weighted sins like the prisoner he was. As the people washed their hands clean of their secrets, he grew more wretched and more scarred. There wasn’t a spot on his body that wasn’t covered in swirling, glowing words, each letter throbbing like millions of tiny heartbeats as they curled along the curve of his ribs, down the length of his spine, beneath his jaw. But he was used to the pain, the ebb and the flow as a new phrase sewed itself into the fabric of his skin.

England, 1624. The witch hunts had been going on for a while, with women as the main targets. The list was long. Not many men were accused, but some were. He was.

Fortunatus Fall

“It’s hopeless,” said Jones. “Zeke’s probably dead already, just like everyone else.”

“It’s not hopeless,” said Nozomi. “We’ve been in tough scrapes before and we’re still here. We just need to kill those things before they kill us.”

Rapid footsteps echoed off metal walls from the extended hallway leading to the incinerator bay. Jones, Nozomi, and Conner watched through the triple-pane glass of the second-story control room as Zeke sprinted into the expanse below.

“He’s here,” Nozomi said. “And they’re chasing him!”

Erlkönig

It was the first night of the new year. Frost hung in the air, heavy with icy crystals and glittering whenever a stray twinkle of moonlight drifted through the trees. Misty-eyed, I inhaled, filling my nostrils with the scent of pine and moss. It was a chilly night, but I didn’t freeze. I never froze, not anymore.

Gravel grumbled under my boots as I wandered along the path near the river. I could hear the water call through the dark, clear and beckoning; see the tendrils of mist creep over the side of the bank and reach for me.

“Not yet,” I whispered as if it could understand me and headed for the main road.

Thick fog covered the ground like a blanket, and I felt as if I were wading into another world. An owl hooted in the distance, the echo rustling through the barren branches. I stopped and listened, my head lifted to the treetops, counting the hoots.

Stricken

This story is by J. D. Edwin and was a runner-up in our 2021 Spring Writing Contest. You can find all the writing contest stories here. JD Edwin is your average worshipper of strange things. She splits her time between working full time, writing fiction both long and short, and creating digital and traditional artwork….

From this Day Forward

Good morning, pale stranger in the mirror. I look like I aged twenty years overnight. This relationship is making me physically ill and it shows. Still, I need to pick myself up. I’m going to try to keep yesterday’s mood going into today.

“I’ll get coffee going, hun! Take your time!” my husband says as he leaves the room, using his sweetest voice. I don’t muster the willpower to answer as if his love is requited, so I pretend I didn’t hear him.

The little energy I have is spent in deciphering how the woman in the mirror grew those eye bags. They’re completely alienating. I try taking a picture but my phone’s dead. It’s almost as if my body is trying to tell me what I’ve known for the past three months. I can’t force myself to love Michael.

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