A Gift by Jeff Weddle

Jim’s father has an unusual - and unwelcome - birthday present for him; by Jeff Weddle.

On the way to town, Doug opened the pint of Maker's and took a hit, then passed it to Jim.

"Go on, boy. You're old enough."

Jim held the bottle like it was a dead rat.

"No Daddy, I -"

"Son, just try a little sip. Come on. We're celebrating."

Jim took a good hit and did his best not to let his father see him gag.

"Now, that's more like it. If you think that's good, wait till we get to Lula's."

The two-lane blacktop was almost deserted as Doug's late model Ford pickup cut through the night. It was a twenty minute drive into Pikeville and Jim silently counted headlights. From home to town he counted a dozen pairs. Lula's place was on 4th Street, right across from Gordy's Tavern, and Doug drove straight there and swung in fast onto the paved lot.

"Okay, son. Happy birthday."

"Thanks, Daddy. But I -"

The Advert by Beryl Ensor-Smith

Gideon Visser advertises for a wife in another of Beryl Ensor-Smith's scintillating tales of gossip and misunderstanding in the sleepy South African dorp of Prentburg.

It was Suzie Lamprecht who discovered that Gideon Visser was advertising for a wife. Since his father had become an invalid, she had been helping out where she could. The old man was difficult, very bigoted, and would allow only Gideon to see to his needs which put a lot of pressure on Gideon, as it meant he had to leave his hardware business to come home every few hours to attend to his father's personal requirements.

Suzie would pop in when she had the time, to check that the char was doing her chores and not making long-distance phone calls to who-knew-where. (Gideon's phone account had soared since his father became bed-ridden.) If the truth be told, she also had a bit of a crush on Gideon, who was a good-looking and amiable soul, so it came as a cruel blow to discover that he had turned to the internet to seek a wife.

"I was helping out, as usual," she told the Sisters of the Church after their AGM when such important matters as fund-raising, charitable work and social functions were discussed. "Gideon went to answer a knock at the door and I just happened to be standing near the computer where he'd been working." In fact, Suzie had been distracting Gideon with her mindless chatter, but he had been too polite to put a stop to the flow. The moment he left the room, she pounced on the computer and read the advert he was composing.

Oliver's by Parnell Stultz

Oliver Wren's dream of running his own restaurant is soured by his scheming ex-wife - and events escalate when he meets ambitious and devious chef Carl; by Parnell Stultz.

On the day the President of the United States met an untimely end, Oliver Wren woke with the kind of food-hangover only a chef could manage. He shifted under his thin blanket, aware that each little movement exacerbated the delicate balance keeping his gorge from rising beyond the point of no return. A stale, almost charred smell lingered in the still air around his bed; it was more than he could stomach.

As he stumbled to the bathroom, Oliver kept one hand over his mouth, and the other cupped delicately beneath his chin. The bathroom floor imparted a cold absence of sympathy as he knelt before the commode, expelling the remnants of a surprise birthday dinner the night before in which his partner and relatively new head-chef, Carl, had been in charge of both the menu and the cocktails.

The charred smell renewed its assault on his senses as he stepped from the bathroom. He'd showered quickly, wanting only to get the day started so it could be over as soon as possible. Steam billowed above his head, its reassuring, soapy aroma clashing instantly with what Oliver now recognized as evidence of his ground floor neighbor's affection for deep-fried cuisine, and her inability to tell the difference between well done and prematurely fossilized. He slipped into fraying khaki slacks and a clean white t-shirt, reflecting that his neighbor, Mrs. Able, would probably think nothing of deep-frying cereal before adding milk.

Jessica's Navel by Anne Goodwin

Jessica Ridley is determined to appear fashionable to her schoolmates whatever her mother says; by Anne Goodwin.

"You're not going on the geography trip dressed like that!"

Jessica glances down at her flamingo-pink cropped T-shirt and black flared hipsters. The gap between the end of her T-shirt and the top of her trousers exposes a narrow band of pale skin, like a belt with her belly button where the buckle would be. "Why shouldn't I?"

"You know quite well," Ruth snaps. "It's a totally unsuitable get-up for Cranwell Craggs."

"I don't see why," says Jessica. "It's what everyone else will be wearing."

At the kitchen table, Dominic, still in his pyjamas, turns up the volume on his iPod and shovels another spoonful of muesli into his mouth.

Ruth bends down to put her coffee cup into the dishwasher. "Maybe everyone else isn't lucky enough to have proper walking clothes."

Jessica goes to the fridge, pours herself another glass of orange juice. Pours herself a bit more time. "But Mum, honestly, it's a school trip, not a weekend hike."

She looks towards her brother for support, but he is assiduously reading the cereal packet, as if revising for his SATs.

Ethel's Exit by Bruce Costello

Bruce Costello's character goes paddling in the lagoon, remembering times past.

The days were long past when Ethel could perch on one leg and lift up the other to put on or take off a shoe. She found a log, sat, removed her shoes, then stood and tucked her frock into her bloomers.

The creek formed a lagoon that fed into the sea. Families from the camping ground played in the sand, paddled canoes, swam and splashed each other. Dogs chased sticks and boys skipped stones.

Ethel tied the laces together and slung the shoes over her shoulder. The sand on her bare feet felt yummy. She stepped into the lagoon and splashed along close to the edge, steadying herself with her walking stick, as she was overweight and the muddy bottom was slimy and slippery.

She could feel people looking and children pointing but she didn't care.

"Squelchy," she said aloud, "A lovely word. Squel-chy. Such a long time since..."

The Secret Weapon by Ziyad Hayatli

A soldier finds himself imprisoned in an abandoned hospital being questioned about a battle he does not remember; by Ziyad Hayatli.

"What's your name?"

"John Dawes, Private in His Imperial Majesty's army."

"And what do you last remember before the incident at Allesfield?"

That question again.

"I don't remember any particular incident."

A look of concern crossed the Interrogator's face, as it always did.

"Then what do you remember?"

"One minute I was boarding the train that carried us to the battle of Allesfield. The next minute I was lying down in that damned city, and your men came to get me. I must have lost consciousness."

The Interrogator wore a pristine green uniform. A sabre and flintlock pistol hung at his side, his helmet always off when indoors. Chiseled cheekbones, strong set jaw, clean shaven, short greying hair. He was a far cry from the soldiers like me, who were nothing but a disheveled mess. From what I remember in training, we only looked remotely as presentable as he once a day, and that was in the morning for inspection. He got up without a word and marched out in long, purposeful strides. His polished, black boots hit the floor with strength.

A Single Red Rose by Harry Downey

Expats in a Chinese restaurant in La Corumba, Spain hear a yarn fom antique dealer Gordon about his con-man friend; by Harry Downey.

It rained heavily the night we met Gordon. We were at the Beijing when it began and rather than get soaked going back to our apartment, we decided to linger over an extra drink until it stopped.

This chap was at the next table and he seemed to be putting off leaving just as we were. We didn't know him, but his efforts at trying to talk Sinshie into giving him her telephone number earlier had made quite an entertaining little side-show that kept the customers in earshot amused.

Sinshie is a charming girl, tall for a Chinese, well liked by all, and part of the pleasure of eating in her restaurant is the welcome she gives everyone - a smile from ear to ear and kisses on both cheeks. She giggles a lot, probably to cover the embarrassment she feels at the language limitation. If you bump into her anywhere down in La Corumba, in the bank or market for instance, or on the street, anywhere in the town, you get the same greeting.

1901 by Fred Skolnik

Newlywed Dorothea feels foreboding about the future in Fred Skolnik's charming turn-of-the-century American romance.

"Progress," Dorothea thought when Rupert brought the newspaper to their bed. He was wearing his striped pajamas but still looked like a Greek god. Dorothea was naked under the sheet. She loved the brazen sensuality of it. The room was warm. It was a lovely August day. "Progress," she thought again as they looked at the headlines. She was not yet used to the new century. She was barely used to Rupert. "Close your eyes. I'm getting out of bed," she said.

"Must I? I want to look."

"Then I'll close mine."

"Oh, silly Dorothea."

She walked quickly across the room and gathered up her clothes and then went across the hall to wash. The big house was empty. Everyone had gone to Buffalo straight from Saratoga to see the Exposition and hear the President speak. "How will you manage?" her mother had said, insisting that half the servants stay behind. "No, we want to be alone," Dorothea had said, and felt now that it was the most liberating and wicked thing she had ever done, other than lying naked with her husband in their bed.

Christopher Lee's Eyes by Michael C Keith

Darrell is frightened after his dad lets him watch a scary film in Michael C Keith's short.

'Tis the eye of childhood that fears a painted devil.

- Shakespeare

Sandra Cotton was abruptly awakened by the shrieks of her eight-year-old son. She leapt from bed and ran to his room where she found him sitting up and trembling.

"What's the matter, honey?" she asked, wrapping her arms around him. "My God, you're so hot... sweaty. Let me get a towel to dry you off."

"Don't leave, Mommy!" squealed Darrell.

"Why are you so scared, sweetheart."

"I'm afraid of..."

"Of what, Darrell?"

"The man with the red eyes."

"Red eyes?"

"In the movie Daddy took me to."

"Huh? What did he take you to see?"

"A man bit girls, and they screamed."

"Oh no, he took you to that movie. He shouldn't have."

Cheesehead by Kristen McHenry

Vladimir, prodigal cheese maker, goes to great lengths to impress the girl of his dreams, but arch rival Garrett Deever is determined to undermine him; by Kristen McHenry.

Go ahead, judge me. Just remember that at some point in your tidy life of dry-cleaned suits and pristine credit, you too, will know desperation. I was like you once - a cocky son of bitch, a hotshot, an up-and-comer, sure I was going to get everything I wanted. That was before Garrett, before Misty, and before Fabiano's grand re-opening in Mac's Famous Food Mart. Before I ended up in this hellhole, where the "cheese" consists of oily slabs of dye-injected milk fat. It's such an insult to humanity I wouldn't wish on my worst enemy, Garrett Deever, who I blame for everything.

It started with money problems. The artisan cheese business was slow. There's only so much you can produce when you're working on a five-by-two counter in an apartment kitchenette. And ever since the DIY crowd got wind that cheese-making would boost their hipster cred, they all started getting in on it and flooding the market. They got a lock on the local farmers' market, which wouldn't let me hock my wares. That crap about having an unlicensed kitchen was just a bullshit excuse. They're threatened by a real man who knows his art and can execute a Gruyère that makes the ladies scream. I know for a fact that those bearded pansies never made cheese in their lives. They pick it up from Running River Farms in their Suburus and tell the chicks they spent years cultivating the Asiago.

Leonard Bessom Hunts for a Present by Clifford Hui

Schoolboy Leonard Bessom dreams up unlikely money-making schemes so he can afford a present for his mother's birthday; by Clifford Hui.

My pal Leonard Bessom and I pushed our bikes into the bike rack. As we gathered our books from our bike baskets, Len said he was worried about what to get his mother for her birthday that was coming up soon.

"Why don't you make her a nice card?" I suggested.

"No. Not another card. I'm too old to make her cards anymore. I want to buy her somethin'."

"You got money?"

His face twisted into a dissatisfied frown. "No. I have to get some."

"How're you gonna do that?"

"I dunno, but I'll think of somethin'."

Sally Davis had just parked her bike in the rack near us, and we all started walking to our classroom together. Len turned to her and asked, "Sally, do you have any ducks?"

The Butchers by Nazib Wadood

Harezuddin must make sacrifices to marry his beautiful daughter Nosimon off to a wealthy landowner, and fulfil the obligations of his status, during the struggle for the independence of Bangladesh; by Nazib Wadood.

The soft golden afternoon rays of the autumn sun reflected over her fresh whitish cheeks. She looked so shining, nice and charming! As if a hur had descended from Heaven to the worldly compound. How could have such a beautiful girl taken birth in a poor family of such a marginal farmer like Harezuddin, thought Akber Mollah, the chief of the village. The bridegroom, a black, stout, healthy young chap of about twenty years, kept his shameless unblinking looks upon her, being unmindful even of the presence of so many people including the elders sitting around him.

Nobody could dislike the girl; it was certain, Mollah thought. And if the question of family was raised, undoubtedly it would be, then one should know the name and fame of the Gharamis had not been a matter of very distant past. Concern of the present was that the Gharamis had fallen on evil days. Harezuddin's father, Shafiuddin Gharami, had developed a deadly disease and sold almost all his farmlands, mango gardens and ponds to get money for his treatment. After his death, he had left only one and a half acres of farmland for his son; and Harezuddin took lease of another one acre of land as a sharecropper. He had a pair of bullocks and a plough for cultivation of his own lands; and used to plough other's lands too, to earn extra money. Thus, Harezuddin Gharami was hardly managing his family.

The U-Haul Shuffle by Jesse Kirkpatrick

Three young men muse about being trapped in the rat race while looking for somewhere to live; by Jesse Kirkpatrick.

It's called the American dream because you have to be asleep to believe it.

- George Carlin

I.

Steve's car was busted, so I drove. We got there first and parked in front. Eric drove past us, trying to find parking further down the street.

To their credit, it looked like the pictures. A blue and white split-level sitting on a hill, the driveway snaking down to meet the road.

"Not bad," I said.

Steve nodded.

Eric was shaking his head before he came in earshot.

"Thumbs down before any of us step inside... that's a record," muttered Steve.

"Absolutely not," said Eric as he closed the distance to us.

"Why?" I asked.

"It's too far."

"What? It's right near the highway..."

"Which would be fine if there was never any traffic or construction ever. Come on, I'm at the edge of a lame commute as it is."

He had a point, but I didn't want to waste the trip.

"Can we at least check it out?" asked Steve. "I can't do anything tomorrow until nine, so that leaves Wednesday at the earliest."

Eric shrugged.

"Sure. If my rent is four hundred dollars a month or it has a hot tub, I'll consider it."

Progeny by Iulian Ionescu

A sick mother and her disabled son run out of government support credit and are forced to resort to desperate measures to stay alive in Iulian Ionescu's dystopian story.

Agent Spencer pushed his ID card into the red slot below the check-in window. The screen flickered and the words 'Bureau of Human Affairs' morphed into a woman's head.

"Sale?" the virtual blond girl asked.

The agent winked. "Yep."

"About time, it's almost the end of the year. Specs?"

"Off the charts. I don't think I've ever seen one like this."

"Excellent performance, Agent Spencer," the blond girl said, "I congratulate you for this undeniable success. The commission will be recorded after the completion of the evaluation."

The Agent threw her a soft salute and a sly smile. "Thank you, ma'am, for your equally undeniable warm appreciation. Here is your delivery."

Two men in white overalls entered the corridor, pushing a bed floating about two feet above the floor. They stopped in front of the screen and one of them scanned a tablet through a light reader. The virtual girl nodded. "Thank you, all done."

"I will see you boys next year," Agent Spencer said, spun on one foot and disappeared behind the doors.

"Go ahead," the blond girl said, "the classroom is in session. Operating room twenty three, your entry token will pop out in just a second."

The Curse by Beryl Ensor-Smith

When Suzie believes she has been cursed, the church sisters try to unlock the mystery before she is driven to despair; by Beryl Ensor-Smith.

When her detested cousin Bertha landed on her doorstep and announced she would be staying for two weeks, Suzie Lamprecht thought life could get no worse. Little did she know it was but the start of her problems. The Sisters of the Church got pretty tired of her whinging whenever they met in the course of the next few days. At first her complaints were of a general nature.

"Bertha's so lazy. Doesn't lift a finger to help in any way."

Later Suzie's grievances became more specific and tinged with resentment.

"I'd forgotten how sly she is. Do you know what she's done now? She swapped my bottle of Dune perfume with a fake!"

"How could she manage that?" Helga Swanepoel raised her eyes from sorting through the donations received for the white elephant stall of the coming church fete. "It sounds impossible, never mind unlikely."

"It's very possible and I can tell you exactly how she managed it. Last year she manipulated herself onto a cruise up the west coast with some friends, and when they stopped at Dakar, she bought boxes of French perfume from a vendor in the dockyards at what she thought were bargain prices. They were in proper packaging right down to the cellophane wrapping and it was only once she opened the bottles that she found they were all fake. I know because she phoned me to whine about it. The only time Bertha ever bothers to phone me is to complain about something!"

"Well, you're fast joining her in that little habit," Mrs Merton said bluntly. "All you ever do these days is moan."