Deep in the Woods by Lynne Curry, double espresso

Massive storm clouds crouched over the mountains; their underbellies swollen with rain. The trail wove between towering Sitka spruce and western hemlock, their dark green boughs filtering the weak light into restless patterns on the moss-laden ground.

When I’d started the hike, the solitude had felt like a gift—space to breathe and to decide what to do. Jim had offered—no offer at all, really—that he’d marry me if I insisted on having the baby. A half-hearted concession, wrapped in an exit strategy. And now that I’d taken a hard look at Jim, I didn’t want him. I did want the baby—but could I raise a child alone?

But now, with the stingy sunlight bleeding away, and the wind’s teeth slicing through my jacket, I turned back toward the trailhead.

My boots bit into damp earth, the rhythmic crunch of loose gravel and decaying leaves a steady tether as dusk deepened. The trail dipped, sinking into a muddy creek bed—and that’s when I saw them. Fresh brown bear tracks. I stilled. The musky stink of wet fur clogged my nose. My pulse picked up, sharpening at the edges.

I needed to reverse course, go further down the trail, away from the trailhead but further from the bear. I turned, and two bear cubs tumbled onto the trail, fifty yards ahead, rolling, swiping at each other in a playful scuffle. One scrambled upright, nose twitching as it tested the air.

My breath hitched. Cubs meant a momma bear. I’d already seen the tracks—between me and the trailhead. I stepped back, scanning the brush, fingers clenching around nothing. No sow in sight. Yet. But the moment she scented me, she’d charge—no hesitation, no warning.

The trail—now an ambush waiting to happen. My fingers closed over the bear spray on my belt. I lifted the canister and listened.

A raven’s caw split the hush, jagged as a blade. And then, a low chuff. The momma’s warning. Behind me.

I veered off the trail, slipping into the undergrowth, where ferns and devil’s club pressed in thick between moss-draped trunks.  Quiet. Stay quiet. Watch every step.

A hundred feet in, maybe more, I stopped. The forest held its breath with me. No crashing branches. No deep-chested huff of a bear ready to defend its young.

Safe.

I’d angle through the woods, cut back to the trail beyond the bears, and return to the trailhead and my car.

            Except—the world had shifted.

I turned. And turned again. The trees stood like identical sentinels in every direction, their trunks charcoal with shadow. Silence pooled around me, swallowing my breath.

Another turn. No break in the undergrowth. No familiar landmarks.

I’d been watching the ground, panic herding me forward, not mapping my way back. A slow, sick realization curdled in my gut.

The sun bled into the horizon, its final streaks of orange pointing west. I squinted against the fading light, trying to orient myself. The trailhead—north, right? Or was it east? The forest had swallowed any sense of certainty.

I yanked my phone from my pocket. No service. The battery—low; I turned it off to save it. My gaze darted to the mountains—too distant to guide me back to the trail but I knew where the road lay in relation to them. I rested my palm against my belly. I’ll get us home.  

As I strode forward, the forest pressed close, branches clawing at my sleeves. The sharp tang of pine filled the air. And the rain began. A steady beat at first, then harder, drumming through my clothes.

I shivered. Not just from cold.

Why hadn’t I told anyone about the hike? But I knew. I didn’t want their questions—not until I had answers.

Twilight blurred the woods, rain stitching the forest into a bad dream from which I wanted to wake. The ground turned treacherous—soft in places, jagged in others. No trail. Not even an animal path. Just the occasional patch of disturbed earth.

Ahead, the trees thinned and for a heartbeat, hope flickered. Then—nothing. No road, no safety. Just a clearing swallowed in shadow. A sinking feeling settled in my gut. I wasn’t getting out of these woods before dark.

Despite the rain, the wind stirred the grass, lifting something faint, feral. A shiver crawled down my spine. I stilled. 

There—through swaying grass, barely visible in the fading light—a shack. Tucked away, the roof sagged, its wood dark and worn. Maybe I’d find someone. Maybe just shelter. A wall between the bears and me.

But with every step closer, unease coiled tighter in my gut. Something felt off. My gut whispered turn back. My head said get out of the rain.

            I approached the shack, careful of every step, as if my footsteps might alert something—or someone—inside. I paused at the door, hand hovering over the knob. When my fingers curled around the rusty doorknob, it felt so cold I almost pulled back. Something in me wanted to knock or call out but the words died in my throat.

I opened the door and stepped into the shack, my boots whispering against the creaking floorboards. The room smelled of damp rot, stale sweat, and smoke. A wood stove sat in the corner, its surface rusted, the chimney pipe snaking up through a hole in the ceiling. A thin mattress lay on a wooden frame, its blanket askew as if tossed aside. An oil lantern with cracked glass sat on a battered table.

Whoever lived here cared about survival, nothing more. Just like the life I’d have had with Jim—the basics but no warmth. When I told him I’d rather make it on my own, he’d stomped out after saying, ‘You should take the deal you’re offered.’  It wasn’t until my mother sided with Jim that I began to second-guess myself. Who was I to think I could raise a child on my own?  

I moved to the cupboard and opened it. A coil of nylon rope, dried dirt clinging to the rope fibers and a heavy-bladed knife, dark stains crusted along the edge, lay on one shelf. On the shelf below, a battered notebook lay open. I pressed my cell on, turned on the light and squinted in the darkness. Jagged writing. They never see me. Never hear me. I turned the page. Another one came looking. And a list of three names, crossed out: Abby, Lena, Hannah.

A branch snapped—close by. Something moved in the forest, crunching leaves. Not the aimless rustling of an animal, or the wind, or trees shifting. My fingers gripped the canister of bear spray.

Move silently, move quick. I slipped out the door, around the side and to the back, sucked in a breath and held it. Whatever was out there had stopped moving. Waiting. Listening.

I forced my legs into motion, not pausing to glance back at the shack. False shelter was no shelter. Time to trust myself, to trust my instincts. The rain poured harder, but I didn’t care. The wet earth sucked at my boots, the branches tugged at my jacket, but I kept going.  

I concentrated on the mountains, barely visible through the rain but the moonlight helped. Their ridgelines could be a compass of sorts. It didn’t matter if I got to the trailhead, I only needed to get to the road and find a state trooper or a phone. I pressed forward through the brush, ignoring the sharp sting of branches scraping my skin.

The wind had picked up, howling through the trees. One step at a time, baby. I moved toward where the road might lay, the panic from earlier faded, replaced by the steady rhythm of my steps. I found my breath, slowed my pulse. I could do this—and I could have a baby on my own. I’d done harder things.

Finally, a familiar scent—the tang of asphalt and freedom—slipped through the rain-soaked air. The road. I pushed forward, rain slicking my skin, but nothing could slow me now. I wasn’t running from a bear or seeking false shelter.

When I stepped onto the road, I knew where I was. Miles from the trailhead—I’d walked a long distance in the woods, but walking came easy. The world felt light, despite the storm. The weight of these past months—uncertainty, indecision—lifted. I didn’t need a road sign or a map. I had myself—and my baby had me. And that was enough.

 About the author

 

Microfiction, founded “Real-life Writing,” https://bit.ly/45lNbVo and publishes a monthly “Writing from the Cabin” blog, https://bit.ly/3tazJpW and a weekly “dear Abby of the workplace” newspaper column. Curry has published fourteen short stories; three poems; one article on writing craft, and six books. Social media links: 

Facebook: https://bit.ly/44CjOyy https://lynnecurryauthor.com/ https://twitter.com/ 

https://lynnecurryauthor.com/ 

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Undercurrents by Sam Hendley, double espresso

‘It was a dark and stormy night, and the wind was blowing a gale... The Captain said to his Mate, Mate, tell us a tale. And so the tale began. It was a dark and stormy night...’

Jemma hadn’t thought about that story for years, but now, as she looks out of the kitchen window into the darkening garden, she pictures her brother Johnny chanting it, his cheeky face close to hers and his wicked expression as he tried – and succeeded – to instil night-time terror in his little sister. Of course, the story had no ending, but the way it wound on and on had always left Jemma in a state of unsettling, wakeful anxiety.

‘Penny for them...’

Jemma jumps, and grips the edge of the sink with both hands. Her friend Rory is reflected in the window beside her, their two outlines ghostly on this late autumn evening. He laughs. ‘Sorry, Jem. Nige is pouring drinks. You want a whisky? I’m just getting the ice.’

He yanks opens the freezer drawer, large pieces of ice cascading onto the flagstone floor.

Jemma smiles as he bends over to pick them up, a few inches of bare flesh showing above his well-fitting walking trousers. She looks away guiltily. ‘Mmm, yes please. I’ll be through in a minute.’

She takes a deep, steadying breath. This meeting can’t be put off any longer; she has to face her old friend Sally in this new role as Nigel’s girlfriend. Her split with him had been amicable, but this scenario can’t just be making Jemma feel uncomfortable, surely? Still, it had been five years since they divorced and at least Sally and Nigel coupling up – what a phrase – meant it was the same familiar faces on their annual walking weekend, the same foursome who’d been surprised to fall in love with these hills as teenagers. And they are in their 60s now; time to grow up. Jemma had thrown herself into the single life, joined the U3A, even taken a course in car maintenance. Nigel is in the past.

She looks around the kitchen of the holiday let. Lockstone House is a favourite weekend haunt of the group, a double-fronted Georgian property hidden up a tree-lined gravel driveway and on the doorstep of some of the Peak District’s most beautiful walks. This year they’d come in Rory’s brand-new Range Rover, but it was better suited to the streets of Chelsea and had stuttered up the last part of the grass-grown lane. They’d all been relieved to get out and grab their bags from the car boot, which Rory had proudly declared to be ‘capacious’, and so it had proved to be. He'd first mentioned this when trying to sell the idea of bringing his car rather than Nigel’s old Volvo estate. Nigel had been quick to point out that his old Volvo had never stalled going up that hill in all the years they’d come here. Rory, who’d covered his obvious embarrassment by extolling the virtues of air-con and Bluetooth, had appeared not hear him.

Jemma dries her hands and moves through into the lounge. It’s a comfortable, old-fashioned kind of room – two squishy sofas with tasteful tartan throws, expensive-looking rugs on hard wood floors and an open fireplace.

By the time Jemma realises Sally is heading her way, the woman is almost upon her. She throws her arms wide, and, startled by this sudden attempt at intimacy, Jemma backs away into the kitchen, but Sally’s stylishly highlighted hair wafts into her face a moment later. Jemma can do nothing but accept the hug and breaks away as soon as she can, but Sally is not finished. She closes the kitchen door behind her and, incredibly, places her hands on either side of Jemma’s head.

‘So good to see you.’ Sally peers into her face and frowns. ‘Are you OK? I’m so sorry if my being here is upsetting you.’ Jemma can’t help but smile. The words sound so insincere that she has to resist the urge to laugh, but perhaps Sally takes her smirk for sorrow, as she continues, ‘I don’t want things to be awkward between us, you know?’

‘Of course not,’ says Jemma. ‘I couldn’t be happier for you, really. Nige was never any good on his own.’ She smiles at the memory of Nigel’s numerous domestic failings. 

As Jemma extracts herself from the clinch, one of her fingernails catches on Sally’s baby blue Cashmere sweater. Sally doesn’t notice the pull – thank God, she’d have a fit – but Jemma heads up to her bedroom to sort her nail, relieved to have a reason to delay joining the others for a little longer.

Back in the lounge, Jemma settles on the sofa nearest the fireplace. Nige is pouring generous measures of whisky into heavy tumblers, Sally now at his side, whispering into his ear. He smiles slightly and begins handing out the glasses. Jemma raises hers in an ironic toast, which Nigel fails to notice.

‘Right, let’s get this fire going,’ he says, rubbing his hands together. For the first time Jemma is aware of how cold the room is. Wooden sash windows may look picturesque but there’s a definite draught coming in through the one nearest the fireplace. She gets up and draws across the thick velvet curtains.

Sally, perched on a footstool nearby, zips up her gilet, while Nigel appears to be shivering as he builds a Jenga-like mountain of sticks in the grate. He lights a match and holds it to the pile. ‘Damn, it’s damp,’ he says, as the wood fails to catch. The second match breaks.

‘Don’t worry Nige, let me do it.’ Rory grins at the women and kneels down beside him. He attempts to take the matchbox, but Nige slaps Rory’s hands away. Rory raises them in a gesture of defeat and waggles his eyebrows at Jemma, but her thoughts are miles away. She says, ‘Do you remember how good Johnny was at this kind of thing? Building fires, I mean.’ 

Nigel and Rory exchange a look. ‘He loved being outdoors,’ says Rory, who’s given up on assisting Nigel and sits beside Jemma. ‘Remember? All those dens he built in your garden, Jem. And the bridge across the stream. That was amazing. What was he, nine or ten?’ 

Johnny had loved swimming too, though that hadn’t helped him in the end, thinks Jemma. A new topic of conversation is needed and she leans back into the sofa, pulling the blanket around herself. ‘Shame we couldn’t get this place earlier in the autumn. We wouldn't have needed a fire then.’

Nigel looks disgruntled as yet another match breaks. Sally gives his shoulder a supportive squeeze. ‘Don’t worry darling, there is central heating. Have you got the instructions, Jemma? The controls must be here somewhere.’

Rory leaps to his feet. ‘I’ll find them. Coming Jem?’ He winks and she follows him out of the room.

When they return, the elderly boiler firing up in the cellar below, Jemma’s fingers are interlaced with Rory’s. Ever-observant, Sally notices this new closeness at once.

‘What’s this, you two?’

At Sally’s words, Nigel turns around to look at them, just avoiding a crack to his balding head on the underside of the fireplace. Jemma can’t help but notice her ex-husband's open-mouthed look of disbelief, before he switches on a smile. 

‘Good on you, Rory,’ he says, not looking at Jemma but extending his arm to his friend for the briefest of handshakes. Rory grins impishly. ‘So, what’s the plan for tomorrow?’

‘An early start,’ says Nigel. ‘The weather looks pretty good 'til about three, so let’s make the most of it. How about a hike down to Nether Tarn? Ready to go for nine?’

There are nods all round. ‘Time for bed then!’ says Jemma cheerily, downing the last of her whisky.

*****

When Jemma enters the freezing kitchen next morning, only Nigel is there. He’s tucking into his usual bowl of cornflakes but the back of his neck is red; a sign, Jemma knows, that something is up. 

‘Sally not up yet?’  she says.

‘She’s not here,’ says Nigel without looking at her.

‘Not in the house? Has she popped down to the shop?’

‘Maybe. But Rory’s not here either.’ Nigel points out of the window at the empty space where the giant black Range Rover was parked yesterday evening. ‘Sally wasn’t here when I woke up at seven. It’s been nearly two hours.’ He stabs a spoon into his mug of tea, giving it a vigorous stir.

Jemma can’t keep the amusement out of her voice. ‘You think they’ve gone off together, Nige?’ This is more than unlikely, but Jemma enjoys Nigel’s discomfort nevertheless, and it was clearly his first thought. Still insecure then, thinks Jemma. Nigel will have to wait a while, certainly; after all, Jemma knows exactly where his girlfriend is right now. 

Jemma recalls the awkwardness of the encounter with Sally the night before. Perhaps it is time to forgive and forget. She is no kind of friend to Jemma, true, but to give Sally her dues, she was there for Jemma after her brother died. Sally had also been a comfort to Rory, who’d been so upset that he didn't save Johnny. The river, just outside their village, was like a moth to a flame to the local children. But one summer’s day, it had been swollen by the storm of the night before, making its undercurrents lethal. Ten-year-old Nigel and Rory, together with her brother, had jumped in anyway, but once the weeds had become entangled around Johnny’s legs, dragging him under, that was it. Game over. Everyone had said there wasn’t anything Rory could have done to help.

Jemma tucks a strand of dark hair behind her ear as her eyes stray back to the empty driveway. It was while they were down in the cellar, fiddling with the central heating, that Rory had suggested the two of them go for a night-time drive. They’d crept out of the house at midnight, fuelled by the whisky and giggling like a couple of teenagers. The Range Rover had barely made a sound as it slid out of the drive onto the silent lane. In the moonlight, parked on the pull-in high above the still waters of Nether Tarn, they could've been in one of those posh car adverts. And Rory had a surprise for her, a bottle of Champagne in an ice box in the boot.

Now, standing by the sink and sipping her much-needed espresso, Jemma thinks about her big brother, her lovely, cheeky Johnny, and absently fingers something in her pocket. She draws it out. Nail scissors. When she’d driven them into the back of Rory’s neck last night as he bent over the ice box, it was she who’d given him a surprise. A quick shove into the car boot – it really was capacious, he was right about that – then Rory and the car had tumbled over into the blackness of the lake below. No need to find and cut brake cables, on that slope just a simple release of the handbrake had done the job. Jemma reflected that she hadn’t needed that car maintenance course after all.

 

Everyone had said there was nothing Rory, or Nigel for that matter, could have done to save Johnny. But the young Jemma, silently watching the boys from a tree branch above, had heard Rory dare her brother to swim across the swollen river. And Johnny would never turn down a dare.

She hadn’t needed the scissors for Sally, just a swift push down the cellar stairs. Jemma had come down at 6.30am to find Sally in a mood to chat and when Jemma promised full disclosure on her and Rory’s relationship it had been easy to get the woman to agree to go down into the cellar for a gossip. And really these old cellars were very well insulated, she could barely hear Sally’s cries from up in the kitchen when she closed the cellar door. Not that the sounds had lasted long. 

Jemma sighs. It was a single, blonde-highlighted hair on her pillow in this very house that had given Sally and Nigel away, almost ten years ago. She’d never let on she knew about their affair, begun well before Nigel had confessed he no longer loved her. 

She looks again at her ex-husband sitting at the kitchen table. She no longer feels hatred for him. He certainly won’t be feeling anything for her, and not just because of his shallow, easy-come-easy-go personality. After all, Nigel is pitched head-first into his bowl of cornflakes, a tiny but deep cut on the back of his neck the only sign that anything is wrong. Jemma fingers the nail scissors again. In for a penny, in for a pound, she thinks.

The cut is barely visible, and it strikes Jemma at that moment that it’s just like the emotional incision driven deep into her mind by Johnny’s death. Hardly noticeable on the outside, but as deep as a swollen river, where the cries of a struggling, drowning boy can still be heard. 

 

About the author 

 Sam Hendley is a former journalist who is currently working on her debut crime novel and studying for an MST in Crime & Thriller Writing Cambridge University. She also enjoys short-form writing and has had short stories published in Yours Fiction magazine. 

 

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WHY IS JEROME SAD? by Maxine Flam, double espresso

 An extraordinary ability always comes with a price. This unintended consequence of using this ability caused Jerome problems and made him sad.

            Jerome was not a normal child but had the gift of seeing into the future. The first vision occurred on June 27, 1914. Jerome saw that Archduke Ferdinand and his wife would be assassinated the next day and a great war would follow. He told his mother, Lydia. She laughed. No one would believe a young boy of four who made such an outrageous statement as this. And this made Jerome sad. When it came to pass that on June 28, 1914, the Archduke and his wife were assassinated and a month later, all of Europe was at war, no one believed that Jerome actually predicted these events. It was a coincidence.

            As Jerome aged, the visions increased. He saw Germany’s defeat in WWI and the Versailles treaty that ended the war. But he also saw that Germany was treated harshly and put in an untenable position. He didn’t understand all he saw; he was only nine but he knew the future looked bad. And this made Jerome sad. He tried to talk to his mother about this but she laughed again and said, ‘Jerome, the war is over. Be happy. A child your age should play and be with friends – not fret about things he can do nothing about.’

            Jerome’s visions came randomly; there was no rhyme or reason, except they always foreshadowed a doom of some kind. When a vision appeared, it caused Jerome great consternation because he knew he couldn’t do anything about it, but he said to himself that one day he would act to prevent a terrible occurrence from happening and make a difference.

            Jerome’s vision that liquor would be outlawed came to pass, but it didn’t matter. The roaring 20s had arrived.  Times were prosperous. Jerome’s father made lots of money bootlegging liquor for the mob. It didn’t matter that there were mob hits and many people were killed. Booze was plentiful. Some people distilled their brew in private and went blind because of it, but the smart people went to the underground bars known as speakeasies. These places were always packed. Jazz became popular. People would dance to the Charleston all night. The years passed and people were driving automobiles. Telephones were plenty as were radios. Herbert Hoover ran on the slogan, “A chicken in every pot.” Still, Jerome was sad.

            Then he saw the day that would change the world: the stock market crash on October 24, 1929. He tried to warn his father, but his father dismissed the teenager. Before it happened, his father said, ‘Nothing like that could ever happen.’ But it did. The rich were thrown into poverty. People committed suicide. Jerome was 19 and was sad because, as always, no one listened to him. He had to find a way to leave home and find someone who would believe he had the power to see into the future. He wanted to stop some of the terrible things he saw before they happened.

            The year was 1933. The Nazi Party won the election in Germany. The Versailles treaty caused the German people to look for someone to deliver them from the crushing inflation they had endured for years and bring back Germany from the brink of ruin. That someone was Adolf Hitler. Jerome foresaw another World War, more devastating than the first. Germany would again be at the center of it. Hitler would inflict unspeakable horrors on millions of people. Jerome was beyond sad because he knew if he told his parents, they would dismiss him as always. He decided to go to Germany and try to warn the people whom Hitler would kill. He sailed across the ocean and when he arrived, he went to the largest Catholic Church in Berlin where he told a priest what he saw: a second world war was imminent with more death than the first. The priest thought the visions were the Devil’s handiwork. Jerome left and went to the head Rabbi of Berlin, saying the Jews would be persecuted. They would be forced to wear yellow armbands; their business would be looted and burned, and then the people would be herded like sheep into ghettos, labor camps, and concentration camps. The Rabbi thought he was a lunatic. He went to the Gypsies. They invited him to stay and eat. When he told them what he saw, they laughed at him. No one took Jerome seriously. His heart was broken from all the sadness he felt. The newly formed SS carefully watched Jerome and arrested him for being a threat to the Fatherland. As he sat in a jail cell, he saw the future flash in front of him: the entire world is at war, the cattle cars, the gas chambers, and millions of dead bodies. It was too much for his eyes to see. He closed them and when he reopened them, he saw his future. He would be shot tomorrow afternoon after being interrogated.

Jerome never prayed before, but suddenly he blurted out, ‘Dear God, why did you give me the gift of seeing the future when no one ever listened to what I said? It made me sad to witness all the suffering over my lifetime. The only good thing is I won’t be around to see what is about to happen.’

            As he put his head in his hands, tears streaming down his face, he heard a booming voice say, ‘But I will see it all. And now you know how I feel, as the One who created them.’

Jerome sat there for a moment, overwhelmed by what he just heard, and wept uncontrollably.   

About the author 

Since becoming disabled in 2015, Maxine took up her passion for writing. She is taking classes at the local college in writing and analysis. Maxine has been published several times in the Los Angeles Daily News op-ed section, The Epoch Times, Nail Polish Stories, DarkWinterLit, and CafeLit. 

 

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Dedication

Ahead, the first car blocked the road, doors hanging open. The driver lay collapsed by the front wheel. His dying words were “Shaman ride the wind.”

Closing the man’s eyes, Professor Anton Romanovich sighed. There were no injuries; the man had simply died of fright. Why had Mother Russia ever expanded its empire into the lawless, heathen Stans?

He turned to his assistants. Maxim had dragged Alexandra out of the car and was cradling her across his knees, staunching her blood with his T-shirt and crooning reassurance.

“She needs a hospital.”

“Impossible, Maxim Nikolayevich. We cannot go back. Everyone at the research station was dead when we arrived. Whatever the cause, that building is a reservoir of infection and must be isolated. Even the village must be quarantined. As soon as my phone has a signal, I will send a message.”

“Alexandra needs help now!”

“We are 500 kilometres from the nearest hospital. Even if they send a plane, it would be too late.” The professor knelt beside Alexandra. “What happened?”

“Horsemen,” she gurgled. “In a cloud of dust. They took the samples, professor. I could not stop them.”

“I know, my child.”

He produced a pistol. “Maxim Nikolayevich, make your adieux. This offers a merciful end.”

“Professor, no!” His howl of protest split the sky. There was a flicker of assent in Alexandra’s eyes and the professor smoothed her hair before he pulled the trigger.

Anton Romanovich’s words were fierce. “She understood. What is one death weighed against millions? If what we suspect is true, if it is virus LM14 that has mutated, it is imperative we contain it. If a mutated version reaches China’s cities, the world stands no chance.”

“But how? Those devils will break open the package and smash the sample tubes.”

“No, they will offer them to the shaman. He is our only chance. Hurry now.”

“Yes, we will explain our mission. He will understand.”

“Don’t be a fool, Maxim. The shaman won’t co-operate. He is a parasite, a smelly old man who lives a life of relative ease, because his spells and potions frighten the villagers into giving him food and firewood. He has made trouble for the research station for years.”

“Professor, with respect, Alexandra and I studied local beliefs. Far from being crude superstition, some of their ideas are compelling. Modern medicine has been slow to acknowledge the feedback between mind and body. As you know, the locals believe every living thing possesses a spirit: humans, animals, trees—”

“And viruses? Do they have a soul?” the professor interrupted.

Maxim had no answer.

“We have no time to argue. I must find the shaman. If you wish to leave, go now.”

“What will you say to him?”

“I do not negotiate with charlatans. If he will not surrender the samples to me, I have a grenade of poison gas that destroys everything within a two-kilometre radius. I too will die, but that does not matter. I have dedicated my life to fighting disease, but I am 69 and my best work is behind me.”

Maxim’s voice channelled resolve. “My life ended here, with Alexandra. If our spirits are reborn, I wish mine to be reborn here, alongside hers. I come.”

The second car turned back.

About the author:

Madeleine is the auhtor of  A Shackled Inheritance, Enchantment in Morocco

Heaven's Waiting Room

by NT Franklin

double espresso

 

Becky walked into her Dad’s room at the Cedar Creek Nursing Home and said, “How are they treating you here?”

He glared at her. “Nursing home? Bullshit. Look at the people in this place, waiting to die.”

Becky leaned in close like she did with her kids and whispered, “Dad, we’ve been over this. This is where you need to be. You’ll be safe and properly cared for here.”

“Bullshit.”

“Dad, this is the third nursing home you’ve been in over the last six months. Coarse language upsets the staff and the patients. In case you’ve forgotten, your behavior and language caused you to be removed from the past two places.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

Becky rolled her eyes.

“Don’t you roll your eyes at me, young lady. I’ve been telling you that your entire life.”

Becky closed her eyes for a moment to gather her thoughts. Dad had always been in charge, always took care of everything, but now he couldn’t. “This is the only nice nursing home left. I don’t want to put you in the one run by the county, it’s really depressing.”

“Then don’t, Becky. Take me home.”

“Don’t make this harder than it has to be, Dad. This is your home now. Your house was sold to cover medical expenses for you and Mom. The proceeds came up way short. You know all this.” Becky’s eyes moistened.

“Yeah, fat lot of good that did. What’s-his-face doesn’t want me. That’s why I can’t come home with you, isn’t it?”

Becky sighed. “His name is Randy; he’s my husband, the father of my children, your grandchildren. You know I can’t provide round-the-clock nursing care like Cedar Creek.”

This wasn’t Becky’s regular visiting day She’d only placed him in this nursing home five days ago and they’d already called about him verbally abusing the staff and generally being rude and uncooperative.

She stressed in the entry interview that the last six months had been difficult for everyone. He wasn’t dealing well with the loss of his wife and being wheelchair bound. Despite that, he was healthy for his age but was losing his will to live without his wife of 50 years. None of this she could have said if he was present.

Becky pushed the wheelchair toward the games room but was intercepted by a huge but jovial orderly. A towering man stopped in front of the wheelchair, bent down and said, “I’m Jerimiah, who do we have here?”

Becky cleared her throat and said, “I’m Becky, and this is my dad, Eugene.”

Jerimiah stood up and smiled a wide, toothy smile. The white teeth were a sharp contrast to his dark skin and warm brown eyes. “My dad was named Eugene, so we’re already friends. He’ll love it here. Come along, bingo starts soon. Becky, let me take the stern and guide this gentleman to the game room.”

Before Eugene could protest, Becky stepped aside, saluted, and said, “Aye, aye, Capt’n.”

Jerimiah let out a belly laugh that shook his whole frame. “We’ll soon be friends, too. Follow me. The game won’t start without me calling the numbers.” Jerimiah winked at Becky and pushed Eugene to the game room.

Becky relaxed her shoulders, releasing tension.

Jerimiah’s deep musical voice filled the room as he announced, “Hey everyone, please welcome Eugene. He’s going to be playing bingo with us.”

Becky smiled a half smile when a chorus of “Hi, Eugene!” filled the room.

Jerimiah turned the wheelchair back to Becky with a nod and went to the front of the room.

“See, Dad, this is going to be a great place.”

“Take me out of here, Becky,” he growled.

“Why?”

“There are nine other players. With one card per player, the odds of winning are ten percent. I need better odds to play.”

“For Christ’s sake, Dad, play the game and don’t worry about winning. Can’t you enjoy yourself without having to be in control?”

“No. I can’t.”

“Learn to. We’re staying.”

“B 7,” came the deep, rich voice. Followed by “G 55”, then “N 41.”

“Where’s your card, Dad? This could be fun.”

“Becky, with ten players, odds are there’ll be a winner by 26 balls. Unless these old bats aren’t paying attention. Do we really have to wait until then before we can go?”

Becky fought back tears.

When Bingo was called, the winner received a crisp, new one-dollar bill as a prize. Becky wheeled her dad back to his room.

                

Becky was trying to think of something to break the uncomfortable silence, but didn’t have to.

“You know, Bob and Martha two doors down have it made.”

“Glad to hear you’ve made friends here,” Becky said.

“They’re not friends, just names on the door.”

“But you’re socializing with them?”

“Hardly. They cleaned out their room yesterday. Seems that Martha died one day, and Bob died the next day. Nice that they went together.”

Becky sat on the edge of the bed and searched for words. “Maybe you should try to talk to some people here, Dad. I’m sure you’ll find someone interesting.”

He stuck out his lip like a pouting child. “Harrumph.”

Becky looked into his sad eyes and knew she had to leave or she would break down. “I’ll be back later in the week, Dad. Be nice so I don’t get an unpleasant phone call from the nursing home. Try to enjoy yourself. Please try.”

“Nursing home. Bullshit. It’s a place to die, it’s Heaven’s Waiting Room.”

Becky cried the whole way home thinking, maybe Dad’s right.

 About the author 

NT Franklin has been published in Page and Spine, Fiction on the Web, 101 Words, Madswirl, Postcard Shorts, 404 Words, Scarlet Leaf Review, Freedom Fiction, Burrst, Entropy, Alsina Publishing, Fifty-word stories, Dime Show Review, among others.

N.T. Franklin

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