The Silent Treatment By Lena Andersson

The small agricultural town of Magnolia Falls has always been distinguished by the McCrorys and their overdeveloped vocal cords; by Lena Andersson.

By the time the McCrory sisters died, a strange and alien silence had descended upon the town of Magnolia Falls, Mississippi. God had blessed the McCrory family with an extra vocal cord. What we would normally call hollering or bellowing the McCrorys called normal pitch. So it wasn't all that surprising that, when we laid to rest the last of the McCrorys, Edna Mae and Clorice, alongside their illustrious ancestors whose mouths had long been silenced by the damp, dark earth, we did not know what to make of the quiet that hung in the air.

As long as anyone could recall, the McCrorys had always spoken loud. Delbert, the first McCrory to settle near Magnolia Falls, had been a plantation owner. Since he was out in the country and rarely ventured into town, no one found his speaking insufferable. But the Civil War changed everything.

Delbert had long since died when the war broke out, and his son Frank now ran the plantation. But Frank lost everything - first to Union troops, then to carpetbaggers. Despite Reconstruction, however, Magnolia Falls was booming. Frank found a job in the lumber mill and settled his family here.

The Portrait by John Mueter

Charles Koranda is sent back in time to 1832 to carry out a nefarious duty; by John Mueter.

Charles Koranda was found one fine spring morning lying in the low grass beside a country lane in Somersetshire. Things had gone exactly according to plan: Dr Callum Gibson, who was on his way home from a visit to a nearby patient, was going to drive by in his carriage just after Koranda materialized. Koranda wasn't there two minutes when he heard the low rumbling of the carriage wheels and the unmistakable plodding of hooves on the well-trod earth. He didn't need to feign illness as he felt quite out of sorts after his ordeal - the effect was something like a hangover. He remained as he was, sprawled in the sweet-scented grass. As the carriage was passing him Dr Gibson commanded the driver to halt. Even before the vehicle came to a complete stop the doctor nimbly jumped down and knelt beside Koranda who was holding his head and moaning softly.

"My good man, whatever is the matter?" he asked, at the same time sizing up the young stranger who was dressed in a strikingly unusual manner.

"Oh, I'm not quite sure. Don't think I can stand on my own just yet, though."

The Way of the World by Mike Florian

Quebecois handyman Gaston Tardif rebels against a cruel duty; by Mike Florian.

Gaston Tardif was the handyman and jack-of-all-trades at Carmelo's Lodge in this northeastern corner of Quebec. He did everything Josephine Carmelo asked him to do. He made sure the Evinrudes were running each morning before the guests started their fishing day. He would feed the chickens in the chicken coop and pick out the wounded ones from the night before. He was always disgusted at the violence of the pecking order. The pheasants were more civilized, and of them, the Hungarians lorded it over the Ringnecks in the pheasant coop. He emptied the traps of the mink and skunk that tried to hunt the birds. When the guests left for fishing after breakfast, and with their lunch baskets full of sandwiches and thermoses, Gaston had many other chores.

He and his beloved wife Marie-Helene worked at the Lodge for years. They met there as teenagers, fell in love, married in the adjacent town of Guerin, and lived at the Lodge. During the tourist season they stayed in a small cabin not too far from the chicken coop. In the fall, after all the guests had left, and at the invitation of Mrs. Carmelo, they would pack their meager belongings and move to the larger of the guest houses overlooking the lake. In return for this favour, and for all the eggs they could eat, Gaston would take care of the complex while Mrs. Carmelo vacationed in Palm Springs, California, from mid-October to the end of April. He regularly flushed the toilets, repaired the door and window screens, and most importantly, filled the ice barn with ice blocks that he cut out of the frozen lake. The blocks of ice were used in the coming season to cool the iceboxes of the guests. Most of the guests travelled from Youngstown or Columbus, Ohio. Carmelo Lodge was the destination of choice of the blue collar families from that hard working area.

Fall from Grace by Mitchell Toews

Matt Zehen's wayward friend Davey persuades him to climb the roof of the curling rink to throw crab apples at passers-by; by Mitchell Toews.

A well-thrown crab apple, ripe and soft of skin, makes a distinctive sound when it hits a metal STOP sign. The many crab apple trees along Barkman Avenue were ready for this duty, branches slung low with dark fruit by late August. When I think of my childhood in Hartplatz, that's what I see. My friends and I would fill our pockets, alternately eating and throwing at targets like signs or telephone poles. Blackbirds watched from the tall reeds, their black bodies spattered like ink spots in the swaying green ditch across from my parents' house.

The playtime restrictions for young girls and boys in our small town were not high security. I was, in general, supposed to stay on this side of Reimer Avenue, which gave me access to the fire hall, Main Street, the 5¢ to $1 store, and other distractions including Loeb's yard. If I say we often played in the Loeb lumberyard - amid any number of dangers, treacherous without adult superstition - you will get a sense of the loose restriction placed on us. All the same, some of us were not supposed to go into the heart of the lumberyard compound - at least I wasn't. My mom had read of a boy who had been swallowed up while playing on top of a pile of sawdust and the tall, fragrant pyramids in the sleepy yard were like rattlesnake nests to her.

The Date by Laura A. Zink

Tevin, who lives with his boss and fantasises about his half-sister, waves down a drug-addled woman driving dangerously; by Laura A. Zink. First published in Oakland Review #3.

Tevin sat in his boss's living room with the lights off and his hand down his pants. On the television, District Attorney Casey Novak performed an aggressive cross-examination, the sounds of violins and cellos rising as she pressed the defendant for his confession. Tevin closed his eyes and imagined himself on the stand, her accusations swarming, eyes straining to penetrate his, a faint line of bra lace peeking out from her blouse. He rose from the stand and grabbed her. Desire and fear filling her eyes, lips parting, voice choked between protest and permission, and somehow the smell of Ben Gay and rose water joined them and...

"Jesus Christ!"

He jerked around to find his sixty-year-old boss standing behind the couch, stiff and wide-eyed, hand clutching her lilac print bathrobe under her chin. She took a few steps backward, turned, and shuffled back to her room.

No Parking by Kristy Gherlone

In early 1970s America, little Stevie's family tour Maine in a rusty old red bus, in pursuit of her father's dream of being a musician; by Kristy Gherlone.

It was early September in 1973 when Stevie stood in bare feet on the edge of her grandmother's yard and watched the bus pull up and park.

The ground was chilly that time of year in Maine, but her feet had grown so tough and calloused over the summer, she hardly even noticed.

She went out to the street and circled the length of the bus. It might have been bright red at one time, but a layer of rust clung to the exterior. It made the whole thing look as if it had been painted with blood and set out in the sun to dry. She shook her head and sighed. The entrance doors screeched as they flapped open. Her mother poked her head out and grinned. "Hey, kiddo. Whaddya think?"

"Are we really going to live in that thing?" Stevie asked.

We Hunt Together: A Hominum Futurus Chronicle By Kevin Stadt

Oren, member of a new species of humanity specially adapted to live on an icy world, must hunt a Leviathan or his family will starve; by Kevin Stadt.

It hurt Oren even to breathe. He had three cracked ribs, a sprained ankle and stitches everywhere from last week's Owa'Unar hunt. As he gingerly packed his dogsled, a wave of dizziness hit him and he paused to rest. Oren leaned against the sled's frame and took in his surroundings.

To remind himself what was at stake.

Impossibly giant trees filled the forest in every direction, their bark colored in palettes of slate and indigo, their turning leaves gold and magenta. Trees so tall you couldn't see the tops with the naked eye, so thick people carved rooms into them for times when the winter got too cold to stay in the shelters built in their lower branches. Two of the young girls ran between the trunks, yelling and shrieking laughter with a half-dozen pups trailing. Kiel, his son, walked from one dog shelter to the next, dropping meat soaked with fat into bowls and taking a knee with each one to speak to them and stroke their grey fur. Oren noted how thick his son's beard had become this year, how broad his shoulders had grown.

God's Shoulder by Kevin McGowan

A cynical missionary navigates the ignorance and innocence of small town Deep South USA to spread the word of God in service of his own ambitions; by Kevin McGowan.

Conrad rocked on his heels and watched the local Negroes he had hired lather the sidewall of the church with white paint. Eight months spent selling counterfeit bibles to old loonies in Huntsville and now came the time to step up and sell God. His church was built of mixed softwood, mostly sand and spruce pine, but for the steeple, which was made from buckeye. Not one cent had been spared in his enterprise; this was no city tabernacle and he meant for people to know it. What that was called was investment and it was the holiest word he knew. Scripture was full of it. The good old Lord was a bank; people gave over everything to him with the promised return of greater riches once they were bone-dead in the soil. So said Matthew: lay up for yourselves treasures in heaven. Yes, the Lord was a bank, and every bank needed run by somebody. He slipped into his church, lithe and alert, like a bobcat into tall grass, the acrid nip of turpentine burning his nostrils, and stamped with his strongest foot. Solid foundation. The land, however, was less than desirable: it had an uneven pulpiness and all around the church festered thickets of alligator weed and slouching ferns.

He said to the Negro sanding a pew, 'Cut back that jungle next.'

'Yes, suh, Father.'

'Brother,' he corrected. 'Your father is the Lord.'

Cash by Angela Doll Carson

When she hears trouble on her street, a vulnerable woman fears her home might be invaded; by Angela Doll Carson.

The cold medicine was a mistake. Penny was in bed with her eyes wide open, staring at the ceiling for an hour before she finally got up and opened a bottle of wine. Bosley followed her from the bedroom to the kitchen. He watched her with head tilted as she uncorked the Merlot and poured herself a glass. She stood at the kitchen counter drinking the wine like water. She asked Bosley, "Well, they say that whiskey is good for a head cold, right? Maybe it's true of wine." The dog looked hopeful, wagging his tail and waiting for a snack or a toy or a walk. When none of that came to pass, he gave up and wandered back to the bedroom.

The house was quiet since John left. The kids were away at school, Margot at Harvard and Brad at State. John moved in with his girlfriend the week after they moved Brad into his dorm. Margot left over the summer, moving into an off-campus apartment. When Penny found John packing a bag on the bed, she knew he was leaving. They never discussed it, but Penny sensed that they both had seen it coming. Penny noticed him slipping away from her long ago, but she did nothing to stop it. If anything, she might have even encouraged the affair. The blow was not emotional as much as it was financial. She would have to get a job now. They couldn't afford to support two households, three if she counted Margot's apartment.

Star Dust by Phil Temples

A soldier shelters from battle for a moment of repose, and comes across a dying enemy grunt; by Phil Temples.

I creep in and stand just inside the door, listening attentively for over a minute. I hear nothing except for the sound of distant gunfire. There's a slight odor of rotting food, but it's not too obnoxious. I sit down in the only remaining intact chair in the room and take out a pack of cigarettes from my shirt pocket. I tap the pack against my hand. I'm inside of a bombed-out bodega about twenty klicks outside of Sarajevo, the capital city of BosHerz, looking for a safe place to rest for a few minutes and to smoke a fag.

There is a slight movement on the floor off to my right. I see him in the dim light, propped up between the wall and an overturned appliance. Normally, I'd shit my britches at the sight of one of them this close. But he looks to be in pretty tough shape; he's barely conscious. He's vomited on himself. His fur is matted and he's lying in a pool of yellowish-tinted liquid that passes for blood. He's oozing from bullet holes covering his legs, arms, and lower abdomen. One of them has apparently nicked a major artery. I can see he's wrapped a makeshift tourniquet around his leg to stem the flow but it isn't helping much. A modern medical facility could save his life, but out here in the middle of nowhere he doesn't stand a chance. The Rambo is gonna die. I'm sure he knows it. Just like he knows I'm not going to try and save his life. After all, he is the enemy.

Therapy by Abraham Myers

A disabled misfit must go to a psychiatrist to be "re-evaluated" for his social security benefits; by Abraham Myers.

I would have never gone to see the psychiatrist if I hadn't needed the money. I was twenty-five, had OCD, and no way to work or take care of myself. I lived in a dirtbag apartment in Troy Michigan, and never left, even for food - just ordered out, mostly Chinese. I was getting seven hundred bucks a month from the government and barely got by on it. Then they sent me this letter saying I needed to be "re-evaluated." So, I called the number, and the woman gave me an appointment with this Dr. Phillips and I had two weeks to sit around and worry about it.

When I arrived, there was a waiting room, with double glass doors leading into a foyer that I suspected led to his office. There were only two cars in the little parking lot, so I guessed he must be in there with someone. Impressionist paintings covered the walls of the waiting room: Monet, Renoir, Van Gogh, typical "calming" artwork. It wasn't working. I paced around, stopping a few times to look closely at the brushstrokes on each painting.

Hearing the office door open, I heard a voice ask: "Who are you?"

Raw Concrete by Brooke Fieldhouse

A student writing a thesis on the World War II Atlantic Wall imagines an old Nazi bunker as a predatory animal and does not relish entering the belly of the beast; by Brooke Fieldhouse.

What a brute! Crouching in front of me like a scabrous creature. Tail and legs submerged, head pointing straight at me, and ready to strike. Its mouth hangs open, its teeth an inverted ziggurat of corroded steel which plummet into its concrete entrails.

Built by Hitler. Not personally of course. Built to defend Europe against Allied liberation, and built to last, which is why it's not going to move, and why I unwisely convinced myself that it could do me no harm.

My first mistake was to walk here. I left Roland's ancient Morris minor standing outside the Youth Hostel. Roland is almost certainly still in bed. I could hear him vomiting during the night - that and the falling rain. We did overdo the wine, but he said he's been feeling odd for a couple of days now.

---

First stop had been the charcuterie; 'big bloody steaks,' that's what Roland wanted. Then it had to be leeks, celery; endives, chou de Bruxelles, le fenouil - oh and broad beans in their pods. 'Let's take up lots of space!' shouted Roland as he waved his arms about.

Moth Therapy by Bruce Costello

Bruce Costello's flash about the son of a World War II fighter pilot struggling to find himself after his mother's death.

I was a mess after my mother died. For months, I sat about lost and bewildered, or wandered around the house, not knowing where to put myself. At night, I hardly slept, but I'd drop off during the day and have vivid dreams that went on for ages, which my elderly doctor said were more like hallucinations.

"Just enjoy them," he said, his jowls alert like those of a bulldog that's spotted a dropped meat pie. "The mind has its own logic."

I started going for long drives, always meaning to find a nice place with a motel and stay for a night or two, but as soon as I got anywhere, I'd want to go somewhere else, or just drive back home.

One day, travelling towards Queensville, I stopped in the middle of the Erehwemos Plateau at Akanaw Airfield, busting to find a toilet. Afterwards, I strolled among camera-wielding tourists queueing for scenic flights or daring aeronautics. A revolving propeller up a pole drew my attention to a sign: "Biplane adventures, only $255 for 20 minutes of open cockpit vintage flight."

Why not? I stepped into the office, talked to a bright-eyed girl with wavy blond hair, handed over money and signed some forms.

Deal of the Day by Sarah Dwyer

Must-Have Mary's job as a presenter on the shopping channel is as much about keeping lonely people company as it is about selling, but some of her fans take it too far; by Sarah Dwyer.

Here he comes again, Camp David, loitering in the studio wings before his grand evening entrance. What a drama! What a hoot! And how the ladies love him! David Price, fifty something shopping telly presenter, one-time children's TV 'character', but that was oh, over thirty years ago. To long ago for me to remember him, that's for sure. He's shopping telly to the core now. Cut him in half and you'd see 'Deal of the Day' imprinted in his marrow. There he is, rubbing his hands, smacking his lips, patting his side to make sure the mic pack is discretely fastened where it should be, brushing specks of imaginary dust from his beige jacket sleeves, eyes darting to locate the cameras.

Yes, David has an extra camera, while the rest of us make do with one and only. I sit here, 'Must-Have' Mary, looking straight at you, cheerful, one-of-the-girls, sharp make-up, polished nails, all set for another ladies' night in around the box. But David's the grand finale, late-evening company for all those lonely souls who have no one better to commune with on a Saturday night than a camped-up limp-wristed host behind a square screen. Push the buttons and turn him up. David's the man. He comes on like he's Larry Grayson reincarnated, all ready to play the Generation Game. Well! And his second camera, that's the deposit for all his subtle-as-shit innuendo.

Here's his dirty little story from last night:

Bullfight by Jonah Kruvant

Jonah Kruvant's character, a blue-eyed blonde-haired Texan child, struggles to be accepted into small town Colombian life.

Lajambra is one of a series of villages that dots the landscape of the Jalapa Valley of Colombia. The rolling hills of the Jalapa Valley are different shades of color, from mango orange to salamander green. In the rainy season, they become a limitless mist, and during the dry months, the heat is so oppressive that the señoras of the village never leave their houses without umbrellas to shield the tops of their heads from the rays of the sun, which shoot out of the sky like daggers. Small houses, square and built of wood, with roofs clustered with satellite dishes, and walls painted pink and peach, sit at the base of the mountains that separate the village from the volcanoes beyond. Lajambra has no bank or post office. The villagers need to go to the city, eighty kilometers north, if they want to cash a check or mail a postcard. The only way into the city is by bus, which storms through the village at six in the morning and two in the afternoon daily, but since the simple villagers have more medicinal herbs than coins in their pockets, they rarely leave Lajambra.

The Math Instructor by SF Wright

A math instructor tentatively considers acting on his feelings of attraction to a student; by SF Wright.

Although Robert was an adjunct English professor, he also taught a course called GED Math. The mathematics wasn't difficult - arithmetic, geometry, basic algebra - and the class was always small; it wasn't uncommon for it to be cancelled because of low enrolment.

GED Math wasn't just taken by people wanting to pass the General Educational Development Test. Students also enrolled for supplemental help on the GRE math section, extra practice for college placements, and general educational self-improvement. One semester Robert had an older man take the class to "have something constructive to do."

The student Robert remembered most vividly from this class took the course for help with the GREs; Robert remembered her so clearly because he fell in love with her.

Getting Ahead by David Henson

Shirley wants John to kick a bad habit, but his boss has other ideas, in David Henson's sci-fi flash.

I don't feel a thing after two... or four. No new ideas. Still got the shakes. Just as I'm shoving a handful into my mouth, Shirley walks into the bathroom.

"John, what are you doing? I thought you were trying to get off of it?"

"Can't," I say, shivering. "Besides, this global product launch Tweed gave me is so complicated I couldn't do it without 'Q." My hands trembling, I gulp a glass of water to wash down the pills.

"Tweed's a freak. I don't know how you can even stand the sight of him." Shirley looks at my eyes. "My God, how many have you had?" She takes my face in her hands. "Honey, I kicked it. You can, too. I'll get you through it." She dabs my forehead with a damp washcloth. I flash back to the long days and nights when it seemed like I was holding an ice pack to her one moment and a heat pad the next. When she would recite long differential equations in her sleep... then wake up screaming because she could no longer solve them.

The Quilt by Beryl Ensor-Smith

In the sleepy South African town of Prentburg, the church sisters make a quilt to raffle off for the benefit of the squatters neighbouring the dorp, but the project does not go as planned; by Beryl Ensor-Smith.

"Well," sighed Marion Klopper, placing squares of white linen in the centre of the long table in the church hall, "here we go again! Our annual effort to make winters more comfortable for the squatters in the informal settlement."

"And with the same humbling result," her co-helper, Rina van Wyk muttered as she sorted embroidery threads and packets of needles into neat piles in front of chairs around the table. "All this unnecessary fiddling about," motioning with one hand, "because of one person's jealousy. It was so much easier when we could all do our own thing, but no, we must now mete out supplies so that no-one has anything better to work with than the next, and all for nothing. As always, Miems Gouws's square will outshine all the others."

"Do you know what annoys me most? That Christina has imposed this on us and will find some excuse to opt out of producing a square herself, as usual."

A Statue, a Bridge and a Dream by Rick Brooks

Cal is so consumed by guilt after his brother's suicide, he considers desperate measures; by Rick Brooks.

BEFORE

The gaunt little man stumbled down the short hallway between his living room and bedroom, stopping once to lean against a wall and down the last bit of whiskey from the brown bottle he carried. Holding it up to his eyes, dark and bagged, he focused long enough to see the bottle was empty.

“Well, that’s it, I guess.”

He lurched the rest of the way to his bedroom and let himself fall onto the tattered mattress, the only piece of furniture in the room besides a beat-up storage box in the corner. And there, in his nicely-maintained suburban home, with its manicured lawn and welcome mat on the stoop, he reached for the pistol next to him, held it up to his left eye and pulled the trigger.

A Start Up by Fred McGavran

Fred McGavran's character and his grimy friend start a new small-time criminal enterprise with unexpected results.

You don't see crime scene tape around a garden very often, but it can happen with a start up. On garbage nights we'd drive through Shawnee Village, the city's wealthiest suburb, looking for the things rich people throw out: armchairs, refrigerators, mattresses, plastic pools for the kids, all the stuff they buy because they can and dump when they run out of space. Many nights it seemed half the city's scavengers had the same idea, but you don't want my buddy Bill Bob pulling up beside you and sticking his face in your window. He hasn't brushed his teeth since last time he got out of the VA hospital, and he can lift a driver out of his seat with one hand. Besides, he carries a .38 police special under the dash in case somebody tries to give him trouble.

Having a monopoly on a recycling route may not sound like much of a business plan to you, but we made enough to keep us in beer for the week. It was also the source of our greatest inspiration. Some of these mansions have gardens in their front yards with tall standing shrubs and flowers growing right up to the street. One night I spotted a stand of marijuana amongst the prairie grass. I got out of the truck and harvested it, and we had enough to keep us happy for two weeks. We had a good laugh thinking how pissed off somebody was going to be that we got to it first.

Tibetan Fling By Roger Meachem

Roger Meachem's characterful story about a Tibetan linguist reuniting with his old Nottinghamshire school friend.

It's not often you see a young Asian man in full Scottish Highland dress wandering around an ancient Nottinghamshire graveyard, peering at tombstones.

This particular graveyard did attract tombstone tourists - graveyard gawpers - from time to time; the church and some of the surviving gravestones dated back to the twelfth century. Robin Hood might have sharpened an arrowhead on one or two, and a civil war battle fought nearby probably contributed a few more.

I'd been at the church to photograph a local wedding, and expected that would be the highlight of my day. There was no need to hurry back to the mall where my studio occupied a lonely corner, and so I sat in the shade of a yew tree watching the visitor. He moved from one headstone to another, his kilt swinging lightly. I couldn't tell what plaid he was wearing but it wasn't just the kilt, he also wore the sporran, tartan socks, black brogues and - despite the heat - a tweed jacket. He paused a couple of times, once to brush with his fingers at a headstone, presumably clearing away moss, and once to hold up his phone and take a picture. As he came closer, I decided he might be Tibetan, not any Tibetan, but one I had known.

Beyond the City Limits by Clayton Stoneking

in Clayton Stoneking's post-apocalyptic tale, a young man in a simple farming community is curious about the forbidding secrets of the nearby city.

I trudge down the long row of dirt mounds; they're piled neatly to protect the delicate roots below. The light of the early morning sun cascades across the three large crop fields that surround the Community House. I love walking the grounds in the morning, especially this close to the harvest. I walk to the edge of the farm's land and look out into the thin line of trees that provides our perimeter. Through the thin, white, brittle trunks of the trees, I can see the bright lights of the city beyond. I look back, only briefly, toward the farm, before stepping onto the roots of the dying trees. I start to take another step when two small voices call out from behind me.

"Brother Kiran," the small voices squeak, "where are you going?"

I turn to see the two small redheaded boys who came to the farm only a few months ago. They're overalls are dirty, most likely from playing in the mud. One of them is missing a shoe and the other has left one side of his overalls unbuttoned, revealing the pale skin of his chest.

Home by Josephine Bruni

On the day of the EU referendum an Italian barista in the vibrant Camden Lock area of London muses on his status as an outsider; by Josephine Bruni.

The coffee shop was very trendy. It looked like a warehouse with rough wooden planks as seats and tables, cardboard boxes filling the shelves that ran around the walls, big, professional coffee machines worth hundreds of pounds shining amongst stylish coffee cups and colourful mocha. It was said that it made the best coffee in North London and Marco was one of those who made it happen. It was a repetitive chore. Grind the beans, twist the percolator, press the hot water button, steam the milk, clean the steamer. Marco produced one drink after the other, immersed in Anya's musky perfume that blended perfectly with the bitter aroma of Arabic coffee. She had the beauty of youth, soft features and wide lips. Hot, not so hot, small, less water. More milk thank you, no foam, more foam. Sometimes in the queue a friendly face said 'buongiorno' and chatted a little. Marco acknowledged their kindness with an extra hole in their loyalty card. Not everyone was for Brexit, he told Anya.

Cock-a-Roach by A.T. Sayre

In small town New England Frank has an unlikely encounter with a Hollywood celebrity; by A.T. Sayre.

I was sittin' in a Denny's solo seat at the front room coffee bar when Frank came in. Frank's this small kid, a little chubby, all scruffy hair and wrinkled clothes. He always had on this dirty old army jacket he'd probably found at goodwill. He had huge bags under his eyes, from no sleep or too much booze, or some combo of that nature. If he wasn't so chubby and didn't have that crazy underbite he'd have that grunge thing down perfect. Not that he was tryin' to, necessarily. I'm sure he'd look fucked up even if it wasn't the thing to do.

Frank spotted me right off. He nodded a little and made a beeline for the seat at the coffee bar right next to me. I was just reading some book or other at the time, something for class I think. I was tired of it anyway, so I wasn't bothered seeing him.

Dante's Barn by Kelly Griffiths

Kelly Griffiths's thoughtful flash story about Jude, whose life has a flat tyre.

Without warning the steering wheel sprang to life and jack-hammered in Jude's hands. The vibrations rocked all the way up his arms and clattered his teeth like plates. Jude knew what had happened. But did it have to happen in the snow? And not just any snow. School would likely be closed tomorrow. Jude pulled off and killed the engine.

The memory lanced him.

"You what? Bought a - you bought this piece of crap? You know what Ford stands for, don't you? F-O-R-D. Fix or repair daily. And what th'hell you need a truck for?" His father slammed his hand down on the tailgate. "You haulin' somethin, pretty boy? I know what you plannin' to do. Only one reason pretty boys need a truck bed. You just keep yer di -"

"Pop!" Jude got in his face, nose to nose and noted with a measure of satisfaction his father broke the stare first.

Summer's End by John W. Dennehy

Sean has grown up by the lake, but his summer companion Alfonzo is from a rather more menacing background; by John W. Dennehy.

Sean played down by the lake until he heard a car pull into the driveway. Running up the hill between their cottage and the neighbor's multi-level home, his heart beat expectantly. Summertime had ramped up, and the community buzzed with activity. Boats cut across the water and docks were crowded with swimmers. During the dead of winter, he often ventured on the frozen lake alone, isolated, but in the summer, he usually found a companion.

He glanced at the neighbor's driveway. A shiny '74 Cadillac was parked on the asphalt. The big engine grumbled from the heat, having raced north from Boston. He sprinted up the stairs to the parking area. Two more Cadillacs whipped down the driveway, then a green car rolled into his parking area.

Large men got out of the cars, securing the area before Alfonzo's dad alighted from a sedan. Back for another season, they'd rented the neighbor's place again. Sean would have a friend for a few months. They were different from other families on the lake; guys that worked for Alfonzo's father stayed at the house the entire vacation.

Dog Breeder by Frank Beyer

Frank Beyer's character finds that his father's obsession with breeding show dogs has gone too far, and he must take drastic action.

The ambulance arrived five minutes after I made the emergency call. The paramedics put a brace on Dad's neck. They got him on a stretcher, out the gate and into the back of the ambulance. Dad's eyes were open, but he didn't say anything. He was getting too old for this kind of carry on. Or maybe he was too young? He was years off being frail. One of his dogs had knocked him over and he'd bumped his head on the concrete path in the garden. The paramedic who rode with us in the back, a well-built Samoan guy, told us that he had a naughty dog too. Dad managed a smile. I couldn't, I felt bloody sick that one of Dad's dogs had caused trouble again.

As a precaution Dad was kept in overnight. I went back to the hospital straight after work the next day. A doctor wanted to see me. He was tall and broad-shouldered, the kind you expect to be supremely confident. A man of thirty with two kids, still managing to fit in club rugby on Saturdays. But this guy was tentative, embarrassed even. He spoke so quietly I didn't catch all of what he said: The blow to your father's head caused a minor concussion... few things were amiss... sweating profusely and pacing the ward last night... kept complaining that the sheets were giving him a skin rash there was no visible sign of... not symptoms of concussion. And then he said this: Did you know your father had a problem with amphetamines? Bloody hell no. I thought dexies were for dickheads down at the pub not somebody like Dad. The doctor outlined the steps for me to help the Old Man through. I had to get in touch with his GP as soon as possible, fill out such and such... I didn't really listen, dreading the forms and appointments.

The Case of Stagger-Lee by David W Landrum

David W Landrum transports Sherlock Holmes to the swinging scene of 1960s London in a case narrated by his new assistant, Dr. Ophelia Turnberg.

Sherlock Holmes Case #1, 1966

Narrated by his assistant, Dr. Ophelia Turnberg

You heard the music everywhere you went back in those days. Almost everyone under the age of twenty-five carried those small, portable transistor radios, so you heard the music in parks and out on the street. Restaurants and stores played it. As I sat down to keep my dinner date with Holmes, I heard a song I had heard a lot lately - one of the "top 40 hits" as they were called - playing over speakers in the restaurant.

There've been so many girls I have known

I've made so many cry and still I wonder why

It was "Heart of Stone" by the Rolling Stones. While I wondered if I was becoming a fan of popular music, Holmes walked into the restaurant. Before he sat down in the booth he looked at me and said what I knew he would say.

"You too, Dr. Turnberg?"

I had worn a minidress that morning - white with black stripes. I shifted nervously in my seat.

In Father's Eyes by John Mullen

John Mullen's Irish tale steeped in poetry, religion, and the guilt of a son's betrayal.

They needed an extra bearer on each side of Father's coffin to hoist him onto his funereal bier, later to ease him into his Irish soil. The morning sparkled with a gusty wind that sent dry air in great circles, rousing and mingling the smells of laden sheep with the lush grasses blanketing the hillsides. Mum and I stood in front, our backs to the others sitting in rented plastic chairs. Her arm pulled mine tightly against her; I in navy suit with white shirt and gray tie, she in the long-sleeved black dress that had adorned her on occasions of death as far back as I had memory.

I leaned to whisper, "Why did the monk Seamus do the church service? Why not Father Keely?"

She said, "Mary Healy told me he went down to the Garda. They arrested him."

I said, "Arrested?"

Mother whispered, "No one knows why."

But I knew all too well.

Uncle Harry by Michael Stewart

When Michael travels to visit family, Uncle Harry picks him up from the airport and takes him on a wild trip down memory lane; by Michael Stewart.

My uncle Harry was bigger than life. I expected him to roll up in a Lamborghini this time or a chauffeured stretch limo or even a fire truck with sirens blaring. It wouldn't have been out of character for him. But as it was, this foggy evening, he drove a classic '73 Corvette with a paint job that changed colors like a chameleon under the florescent lights. He beeped his horn twice and swung in front of me, popping the trunk.

"Hey, Michael," he said, rising out of the driver's door, thick black hair blowing in the wind as he rushed around the car. Overcoat flapping.

Cars drove by and others pulled alongside to pick up passengers. People bustled by pulling baggage behind and porters helped them. A plane flew overhead and the tumult was lost in the roar.

A Journey Begun In Lovers Meeting By JC Freeman

JC Freeman tells a gentle ghost story set in the ancient New Town Cemetery outside Charleston, South Carolina.

Sunrise comes late to New Town Cemetery. The graveyard is seated in the west face of Torqwamni Hill, and no matter the season the quick fall of the slope and a thick line of adolescent Douglas firs at hillcrest combine to delay the cemetery dawn by a hundred yards or so. New Town's a pretty place; the winding paths are lined with fragrant, non-fruiting cherries and delicate Japanese maples; on clear days the Olympic Mountains fill the western horizon with their beautiful yet icy indifference, and there're an abundance of old fashioned, winter-weary tombstones just begging to be charcoal-etched by artists and the sentimental at heart. A handmade wood sign attached to the main gate informs would-be visitors that the cemetery is open from dawn to dusk. It's been observed by the wise that dusk almost always finds its way to New Town just before the start of Happy Hour at the nearby White Pig Tavern.

The Pretty People by Dakota James

When Dakota James's character loses weight he becomes so attractive he's invited to join the secret cabal of pretty people.

The following story is an excerpt from Dr. Robicheaux's CABRET AWARD WINNING book, The Pretty People: Psychoses Behind the Masks and Mascara. The interviewee in this excerpt asked to remain anonymous; with the exceptions of certain names, nothing from this interview has been edited, removed, or added for publication.

---

It always confused me to see attractive people do bad things. They could've gone through life with such relative ease, I thought. But that wasn't true, exactly; pretty people have their own set of issues. For example, one day, thinking it over, I realized I didn't know a single sane attractive person. They'd all lost their fucking minds.

No one likes to think of themselves as ugly. I'm no different. But I was a bigger boy than most and then a bigger man than some, so I wasn't exactly sexy. Not by traditional standards.

The Song of Black Bear Mountain by Sharon Frame Gay

Bitsy, a traditional healer in the remote mountains of Kentucky, feels threatened when a new, educated doctor arrives; by Sharon Frame Gay.

Bitsy sat on the porch, smoking a pipe after a long afternoon traveling the hills. The sun had melted behind a Loblolly pine, the sweet after-smoke of day stirring up gnats in the woods. Before long, fireflies attended the dance, lighting up in a fever, seeking mates in the coming darkness. Down below near the shed, the horse and mule snorted, tuckered out and set in for the night with a coffee can full of molasses bran, and a whisky barrel of spring water.

For most of her life, Bitsy was the closest thing to a doctor on Black Bear Mountain. She learned her craft from the old ones, how to use herbs for teas and poultices that ease the breathing of a small child, or calm the heart of an ancient woman. She learned how to apply honey to scrapes and burns, the natural antibiotic soothing and sucking all the bad out of the cut. And Bitsy knew when to say goodbye to a soul, watching it drift out of the body like mist over the valley, until the eyes looked skyward and met tomorrow. She helped bury many a person here in the hills, digging into the Kentucky clay with a shovel alongside the family, a ritual, the blade cutting into the dirt with a sorry thump, and the rhythm of the bereaved swinging the shovels in cadence as it rang through the trees.

Front Centre Stage by Don Herald

Out of the blue, Don Herald's character decides to turn his hand to acting. How hard can it be?

My wife peered over the rim of her morning coffee. "But you've never acted before. Ever."

"How hard can it really be?" I replied. "I'm going to audition this coming Sunday for a part in that upcoming community theatre production. I think it's called 'Crystal Palace' or whatever."

She set down her mug, smiled a bit like the Mona Lisa and went out to the kitchen to feed the dog.

We never talked about it again.

On Sunday afternoon, I turned up at the audition with other aspiring actors - two teens and thirteen adults of all ages. There was an anticipatory buzz of energy flitting unseen about the room.

Lilacs in the Lily Field by Dylan Martin

The Garden only grants three shots at true love, and Jason is striking out; by Dylan Martin.

"You're not the one," she says with a sigh as the man walks into the small café, a café which has neither servers nor coffee.

Taking the only other seat available at the only table in the place, the man looks at the brazen, brown haired woman in confusion. "How's that?"

"You're not the one," she repeats. "I'm sorry."

"What do you mean, I'm not the one?" His eyes begin to squint as small black strains of hair fold over his forehead.

"Don't make this more awkward than it already is."

The man begins to ripen with rage as his cheeks turn into cherry red apples. "Is this a joke? You're fucking with me now, right?"

The woman rubs her fingers against her temple and raises her eyebrows. She feels like a small part of herself is about to dig through her forehead and fly free. "No. I'm not joking. Please, can we just go to reception and see if we can get a refund?"

Beach Party by Andrew Miller

Sixteen-year-old Megan lets her hair down at a beach party and chats with best friend Kimberly about their future; by Andrew Miller.

Megan Conyers was surprised when Kimberly called and asked about the beach party on Saturday night. Kimberly never went to parties, hardly ever went to dances, mostly hung out with a small group that took Advanced Placement biology and history. Her parents weren't party types either; they taught at a private school in the next county, went to plays and concerts, volunteered at the shelter downtown. Not only did Kimberly want to go the party, but offered to drive. That suited Megan. This meant she wouldn't have to go alone, since she had just broken up with Benjamin Carter. Or, even worse, be asked by one of the Tyler twins, who kept showing up at the Tastee Cone, flirting with her and begging for free stuff.

Megan checked the clock on the wall above the ice cream machines. Almost ten o'clock. Kimberly would arrive in a few minutes. Penelope, who managed the Tastee Cone, never worked past closing.

"Whatdaya say, call it a night?" said Penelope, slamming the serving window with a bang, motioning Megan to shut the other one.

"Let's do it," said Megan.

Wallflower Solution by Paul Beckman

Mirsky takes his wife's advice for getting on at cocktail parties a little too literally; by Paul Beckman.

My wife said, "If you're going to just stand in a corner alone with a drink in your hand all night and not speak to anyone there's no sense in our going to this party. You can only spend so much time looking at their photos and paintings and poring over their book cases like you're a CIA agent. You've got to talk to people because they know you're avoiding them and they think you're rude and you think you're better than everyone else."

"You know that's not how I think," I told Elaine. "I'm no good at small talk and somehow when I get in these situations I feel inferior and awkward. I do talk to people when they come over and say hello."

"Well, that's the point. You need to make the effort. Last time we went to the Kleins' you studied their books and then read for most of the night. That was rude, and if you keep being rude and stand-offish we're not going to get invited to any more parties and then what will we do?"

The Calling by William Quincy Belle

Louise gets called up to make her contribution to global sustainability in William Quincy Belle's sci-fi short.

Thursday, June 15. Time: 1625

Louise reread the message. She glanced away, then read it again for the third time. There it was in black and white. No more conjectures. No more wild guesses. Nothing remained to be discussed. One didn't have to speculate about the future, as the future was here. Time to stop dreaming and start doing.

She looked at the time. It was nine twenty-two in the morning. She had seven hours and three minutes. What could anybody do with three minutes? she thought. Let's round it off to seven hours and figure out how to cram everything necessary into such a short time.

Then again, was it a short time or was it the right time, just what anybody needed to tidy up before checking out?

Mother Beyond the Border by Muhammad Nasrullah Khan

At the India-Pakistan border a natural disaster decimates the enemy, and during the ceasefire that follows Major Jaswant lectures his men on humanity; by Muhammad Nasrullah Khan.

At the top of Siachin glacier, sitting outside of their igloos, Indian army officers and soldiers measured the depths of their patriotism with sacks of frozen enemy corpses. The sun didn't foster life there, gasoline did. They lived in a world where the only recourse was vengeance, fueled by an insatiable lust for blood.

Major Jaswant despised these games and had his sights set on retirement. He had dozens of subordinates, but he preferred the company of Lieutenant Sharma and Lieutenant Arun. They made him feel young.

From their position atop the glacier, Jaswant and his two comrades watched a contingent of Pakistani soldiers. The sun brightened the ice and the Indian soldiers relaxed as minutes of ceasefire stretched into hours.

The stench of death clung to the freezing winds and they reveled in it.

The Meaning of Life by J L Higgs

J L Higgs explores the meaning of life through the lens of birthday wishes.

Today is my birthday. Eighty-four. Usually, they greet me with, "Good morning," sounding all chipper. Today they're gushing, "Happy birthday!"

I guess I'm supposed to feel today is somehow different from yesterday, special. But after eighty-four years? This morning, my scarred Baby Ben alarm clock rang at its normal time. The bare concrete walls of my room were still the same somber gray color painted throughout this building. My silver comb, hairbrush and hand mirror were still lying on the white lace doily atop the four drawer Formica dresser that holds every stitch of clothing I own. And that squeaky metal frame chair that faces my bed was vacant as it always is.

I once owned 867 pairs of shoes. I'd buy four or five pairs when stores held big discounts or sales. Even had multiple pairs in the same style, just different colors. Nothing compares to the feel of feet sliding smoothly into new shoes. Shoes always made me happy.

Choosing to Stand Still by Justine Manzano

The platonic status of Katie's relationship with her roommate Matty is challenged when one of his exes draws attention to a secret in plain sight; by Justine Manzano.

"Kathryn? Kathryn Norris? Is that you?" Bethany squealed and, in lieu of putting my hands over my ears to block out the shrill sound of her voice, I winced and turned towards her.

"Hi Bethany." I tried for polite. I don't think it worked. After all, Bethany was the ex-girlfriend of my best friend, Matty Alonzo.

Every morning, I went to the 24-hour bodega on the corner from the apartment I shared with Matty, and every day I ordered a bagel and cream cheese, a roll with butter, and two piping hot coffees, light and sweet. And somehow, every morning until now, I had happily managed to avoid her.

"How are you? What have you been up to?" Her questions ended high, in a squawk.

I smiled, brittle and forced. "Well, you know. Still auditioning. Still hosting open mic night at the club."

"College?" It was a shame she seemed comfortable with that as a full sentence.

Tina and Time by JD Hyde

A force of nature befriends a talkative child and learns something of humanity in JD Hyde's comic sci-fi.

Tick

The little girl with black hair looked at the man in a perfectly pressed grey three-piece suit. His hair blew when there was no wind. He was standing in the park, so she cheerfully said, "Hi, I'm Tina Gutierrez Rodriguez Olmedo Bairan Castillo Flores. You can call me Tina. I have a dog; You have been standing there for a long time. Why are you standing in the park? Do your legs hurt from standing for so long? I have a ball will you play with me? Why do you wear a tie? My mommy said that only bankers wear ties. Are you a banker? I'm five years old. How old are you? What's your name?"

While young Tina waited for an answer to her questions, she stopped to breathe. The man in the three-piece suit eloquently said, "I am Time. And I have always been here. I am everywhere."

Tina blinked several times then started talking again, "Hi, Mr. Time. I'm Tina Flores, and I'm five. Would you play ball with me?"

The Magic Carpet by Brooke Fieldhouse

Mohammed buys a rug from IKEA and discovers it has a very unusual property; by Brooke Fieldhouse.

'STOCKHOLM', that's what the on-line catalogue said.

There's a whole family; a lamp, a table, a sofa, a mirror - nothing to do with the city, it's just a name. Mine is Mohammed - Mo I prefer - and I work in The City. I'm a global accounts manager, I'm twenty-five, shockingly well paid but don't have much spare time. I don't have a girlfriend either.

IKEA was made for people like me. I click, and it don't matter whether its aktad, antilop, backaryd, beboelig, fanigt, fillsta, stig, or sprutt it's here in two shakes of a monkey's tail, or two shakes of an apa's tail I guess I should say. Stockholm by the way is a rug; 2.4 metres by 1.7.

The day Stockholm arrived I was crazy busy juggling the Asshole Airlines account with Parmesan Homes, and it was past midnight when I shimmied out of the lift of my apartment block on Upper Thames Street. I could see that the courier had left a parcel outside my door - 1.7 metres long - same height as me, a smidge taller if you allow for the chunky visqueen in which it was wrapped. I dragged it in, dropped it onto the laminate, and glanced at the label before heading for a bit of the old aqua treatment. Hand Woven in India it said.

The Psychedelic Basement by Mark Tulin

Mitchell skips school to visit his friend's blacklist hippie den; by Mark Tulin.

Shawn and I were walking to school Friday morning. Shawn was wearing bell bottoms with moccasins and a loose fitting white button-down collar shirt. I wore dark Levi jeans with chukka boots and a tan v-neck sweater over a white undershirt.

"Dude," Shawn said, "do you want to cut school?" He always referred to me as dude. "Why don't you come over my house and we can chill?" he said.

He didn't have to coax me very much

"I fixed up my basement, dude. I want you to tell me what you think."

"Groovy," I replied, not worrying about whether my mother would find out. My father always said, "What they don't know, won't hurt them." I gave my mother no indication that I smoked pot or took off from school on occasion. It was our last year of high school and we felt entitled to skip a day or two.

Lost Property by Sharif Gemie

Steph's habit of losing things forces some introspection; by Sharif Gemie.

'Please remember to take all personal belongings with you,' said the voice over the loud-speaker as the train reached the station.

Steph stood up, adjusted her jacket, picked up her handbag, and walked off the train, leaving her overnight bag on the luggage rack above her seat.

Outside the station, she thought about catching a bus, but decided that she'd been sitting down for too long, and so she walked home. Steph enjoyed the walk, feeling curiously light. She arrived home at three. It would be at least a couple of hours before Tom came back. What could she do? She made a cup of tea, and she remembered an interesting article in the paper that she'd half-read while waiting for the train. Now, where had she left the paper? It was in the outside pocket of overnight bag. And where was her overnight bag? Oh. It hit her.

'I've done it again.'

Her first thought was how awkward it would be telling Tom that she'd lost something else. What would he say?

As the Wind Blows by Charlotte Silveston

Charlotte Silveston's character is hounded by bullies that make themselves out to be the victims.

Yes, I know - it's very easy to blame someone else. But in this case, it really wasn't my fault, OK? Let's get that straight from the off. If it weren't for that sociopath El Gordo, I wouldn't be locked in this tiny basement room.

From the first day of secondary school, he was out to get me, El Gordo. Not his real name of course but it might as well have been. Even Mrs Purcell called him that, as though she was the mother of some miniature mobster. Which, in a way, I suppose she was. El Gordo was a name that just fitted him - unlike his school shirt (ha!), which always popped open to reveal his flabby gut. But he was never ashamed, not El Gordo. Suppose if he had been, he would have been the victim of bullies. As things stood, that spot was reserved for me.

At first it was a dig in the ribs here, a missing packed lunch there. But then his older brothers got involved: an unholy trinity, if you will. Oddly, the eldest brother was the smallest. He could have been straight out of Lilliput - the runt of the litter, so to speak. The middle one was bookish; 'gifted', some teachers called him. Personally, I thought the word 'boffin' was more appropriate, but of course nobody ever asked my opinion.

The Feud by Beryl Ensor-Smith

Beryl Ensor-Smith takes us back to South African backwater Prentburg for another comic story of gossip and misunderstanding, this time with a cute little kitten.

"A storm in a tea-cup," Christina du Plessis said loftily, on first hearing about the upset between Helga Swanepoel and Suzie Lamprecht.

"I've always maintained that pets cause nothing but trouble, and that spoilt pig-of-a-dog of Helga's is the worst of the lot!"

Rather harsh words to say of Helga's beloved poodle, Bianca, but one with which many of the church sisters agreed. While many rather liked poodles, Bianca did the breed no favours. She, unlike most of her clan, was a dog of little brain and nervous disposition and had made the mistake, when unexpectedly encountering Suzie's newly-adopted kitten, of reacting in fright by pouncing on the much smaller animal and sinking her teeth into it.

Neither the cat nor Suzie took kindly to the attack. The ferocity with which Suzie defended her pet surprised the entire sisterhood when Helga regaled them with an indignant description of what had transpired.

"She swore at Bianca using an expression that would have shocked Dominee Seibrandt to the core and aimed a vicious kick at her! If it had connected, it would have sent Bianca flying. I couldn't believe my eyes, and when I objected, she swore at me!"

Iron Horse by Philip Barbara

An old man signals train drivers his horse racing picks as they pass his local tavern, and befriends a boy in need of a father figure; by Philip Barbara.

Louie DaRosa stood beside the railroad tracks near the crossing gates that had just descended, halting car traffic on Main Street. A freight train rumbled toward him. When the locomotive was close enough to see the engineer's face in the cab window, DaRosa raised his right arm above his head, showed three fingers, then lowered his arm and swiftly raised it again to show five fingers. He added his left index finger to make six before finally holding his right arm out parallel to the ground.

This sequence of signals took only seconds. He stepped back and the engineer gave two short blasts of the horn in reply. Satisfied, DaRosa turned away from the track and found Nicky sitting on his bicycle, one leg planted on the ground for balance, watching in bewilderment.

"Jersey Meadows Racetrack, fifth race, sixth horse, to place," DaRosa said by way of explanation. His voice always sounded as if it were filtered through waterlogged gravel. "That was Frank Barry up in the cab. He's a friend."

The Island by Martyn Clayton

After a family tragedy, Murray brings his daughter Isla to visit his childhood home, a bleak and windswept rock lost in the harsh Atlantic; by Martyn Clayton.

"Was granddad sad to leave?" Isla asks as the boat pulls away from the harbour out into the blue ocean. It's a precious sunny May day. A large herring gull, feathers pristine white, fixes the departing craft with a prehistoric eye.

"I don't think so. I think he knew he was the last of the line. He got the better deal I think. His father though, your great grandfather - now that's another story."

"What about my great grandmother? You never mention her."

"I don't know too much about her. I know she only had a smattering of English. Hardly left the house when they got her to the mainland. Terrified I think. Completely lost. Most of the older ones were. It was cruel to uproot them like they did but there was probably no choice. You couldn't leave a handful of ageing folk with no one to help feed them and keep them okay."

Donation Box by Ayesha Marfani

A poor and roughly educated child longs to make a contribution to the school donation box; by Ayesha Marfani.

They set the beautiful donation box at the entrance of the school. I loved the beauty of the box. The purple ribbons over it were cool. I saw students and parents putting in money. Every time someone neared it to put anything in its mouth; shaped as purple smiling lips, I felt happy and sad at the same time - happy because I loved the thought of money reaching the victims and sad because I couldn't contribute anything.

I didn't have a single penny to put in the donation box. I am poor penniless. The reason I am in school is my brilliant mind and the benevolence of one man who saw me selling the balloons. He asked me if I want to study and I said yes. I never disappointed the man. I excelled, and so he maintained his scholarship.