F I C T I O N   Thursday 3:41 PM- This hasn’t been a great day for me as a writer. Nothing I’ve tried to say to myself or anybody who’ll listen makes any sense. It’s almost cocktail time, and I feel like the proverbial drinker with the writing problem.

I was almost at the point of giving up on the project when it dawned on me that maybe the perfect topic for this assignment could be a flagrant outpouring of just how much I don’t appreciate the opportunity. To satisfy my goal of 400 words will require a half hour in the notebook, then another half hour creating a transcription to the word processor, plus a half hour to check spelling and punctuation. Then I’ll probably put it away for a few hours and maybe come back for another look tomorrow. Do the math; writing doesn’t appear without time and effort.

I ask myself: what do I hope to get in return? There really aren’t any guarantees. Is it because I enjoy suffering the self-mutilation? Do I really think that a normal person would read this pathetic lament and care in the least about my self-inflicted misery? Come on now, if you’re having zero fun as you claim, and there is nobody but yourself holding a gun to your head demanding pages, help me out here, there must be something in it for you? Do you love the worthless feeling of not knowing what you want to say or how to say it? Is this a play for some kind of prize depicting un-enlightenment?

Before you attempt to weasel out of telling the truth using that “I don’t know” scam, try completing the following sentence: “I don’t know, but if I did know . . .” I’d say that it’s probably about wanting some kind of recognition for the effort I make and it appears that I’m not getting that satisfaction from the writing process itself.

I could conclude this rant the way I usually do by giving myself a pat on the back for not being tossed away, and then take my own advice to remember that it’s only fiction, it’s my chance to tell lies like a politician or a novelist. Some people might envy me the option to say whatever I want, remind me to be grateful that for now I am my own harshest critic, and that tomorrow is indeed another day.

Anne Animas lives, writes and hides out in Southern Colorado.

F I C T I O N   Excerpted from the mystery novel Head Above Water.  You get used to things going bump in the night when you live aboard a boat. A fender works itself loose or the tide slaps an empty plastic bottle against the hull, and then you have to decide if it’s going to keep you up all night, or whether a pillow over your head might block out the noise. On this particular night, I knew that I was too keyed up to listen to any noise for very long. I was in a rearward cabin and from the sound of it, whatever was banging against the hull was right alongside the stern, just inches from my head. I pulled on my heavy terrycloth robe and well-worn boat shoes, and made my way up on deck. Grabbing a flashlight that I kept at the helm, I went out the port side door on to the walk-around deck, carefully moving to the foredeck where I kept a gaff pole to fish out the source of the noise. Moving back toward the stern I made a quick check of my portside fender lines, which were all intact. I aimed the beam of light toward the water line on the starboard side. If you’re expecting an old soft drink bottle or an empty plastic oil container, you don’t quite know what to make of a smooth round shape. It was like nothing that I had ever seen floating in a marina, and believe me, you see an extraordinary variety of disgusting objects floating on the water where there are boats and people. Holding the gaff pole in my right hand, I aimed the flashlight with my left hand and leaned over the teak capped railing, trying to get a better look at what was keeping me awake. I pulled upward with the gaff and rotated the orb until I realized that whatever it was, it was looking back at me.

“Jesus H. Christ,” I shouted to no one as I backed up with a start. The gaff pole hung up on the railing and the flashlight went skittering down the narrow deckway. My heart was fibrillating at an alarming rate as I realized that the thing banging against my hull was someone’s head bobbing just above the waterline. A very dead person, who nonetheless had stared back at me as though I could save him. And in a way, I would.

Jay Harrison is a graphic designer and writer whose work can be seen at DesignConcept. His mystery novel, Head Above Water, is available on Amazon and Kindle. You can also visit his author page here.

F I C T I O N   I ran into Albert Einstein the other day and coincidentally it was in front of a hair salon and an Einsteins Brothers Bagels. I was very perplexed because he certainly didn’t look like a man who just came from a “just a little off the top” experience.

Al? It is you. It’s been ages. Got a minute or are you in hurry?

“The faster you go, the shorter you are.”

Funny you should mention that because I thought maybe you got a haircut or you’ve been combing that mane of yours.

“Sometimes one pays most for the things one gets for nothing.”

Right. So what’s new? What do you know?

“The only source of knowledge is experience.”

You are so right about that. I guess that’s why everyone says you’re a genius.

“The difference between stupidity and genius is that genius has its limits.”

That sounds so quotable. Mind if I use that?

“I never said half the crap people said I did.”

That may be true but people think you have real talent.

“I have no special talent. I am only passionately curious.”

Okay fine, but the theory of relativity? I mean come on, who thinks up stuff like that?

“It’s not that I’m so smart, it’s just that I stay with problems longer.”

Sure, but do you think there’s some kid in school right now who can top E=mc2?

“It is a miracle that curiosity survives formal education.”

No kidding. So what’s it going to take for some physicist to top what you came up with?

“The true sign of intelligence is not knowledge but imagination.”

I get that but the kids coming out of school now just want to score the next big app or invent the next cool gadget.

“It has become appallingly obvious that our technology has exceeded our humanity.”

I hear you. I worry that these kids are missing the beauty that surrounds them.

“The most beautiful thing we can experience is the mysterious. It is the source of all true art and science.”

Well it’s no mystery that we’re living in scary times. You almost feel helpless when it comes to knowing how to resist.

“The world is a dangerous place to live; not because of the people who are evil, but because of the people who don’t do anything about it.”

You got that right!

Jay Harrison is a graphic designer and writer whose work can be seen at DesignConcept. His mystery novel, Head Above Water, is available on Amazon and Kindle.

F  I  C  T  I  O  N  
Exerpted from the book Beneath A Shooting Star

Fear bound her tighter than the rope encircling her wrists and ankles; like a python’s coils it constricted her chest, and made each breath difficult. Her body was a constant reminder she was not trapped in some horrible dream, her cheeks pinched by the tape across her mouth, the inside of her throat dry and sore. … And if that was not reminder enough, there was the gunman right in front of her, all too real. Every time his eyes swept over her, she felt naked under his scrutiny. If only she could tunnel into her mind and hide in a snug burrow of her creation. But her discomfort fixed her in reality.

At first, she kept her head up, eyes staring straight ahead, the only show of defiance possible, but it forced her to look into the dark tunnel of an automatic weapon barrel which frightened her even more. She redirected her gaze downward, her view limited to her legs and feet, the roped extremities of her family who sat on either side of her and the floor. …Time inched along at a sloth’s pace. In the absence of conversation, sounds amplified, the whir of the fan above her head, the distant clap, clap of leather sandals against stone, the squeal of wooden furniture being dragged across the floor, cupboard doors opening and closing, and the occasional bark of an order to the men scavenging in the other rooms of the house.

She considered their situation. Escape was impossible and the likelihood of rescue seemed remote. The walls that surrounded the house for protection and privacy provided the same advantages to the criminals who had breached them. In her helplessness, the only thing she could do was pray to Allah to keep them safe, each silent prayer slipping between her lips like prayer beads through her fingers. But, her petitions failed to push away the thought that fate had caught up with her and this was how her life would end.

As this sense of doom held her in its grasp and all hope fled, she struggled to conjure up pleasant memories to provide some comfort and instead was ambushed by her regrets. If only she could go back to the beginning, back to when anything was possible, back before her missteps had sacrificed the life she’d dreamed of and distanced people she loved.

Connecticut Book Award finalist, Susan Harrison Rashid’s debut novel, Beneath a Shooting Star is available on Amazon.

F  I  C  T  I  O  N   It was a dimly lit sushi restaurant. There were little candles on each table, but except for the candles it was dark. The sushi chef stood at attention behind the bar, flanked by one short waitress, one tall waiter, and an perpetually smiling host.

We were literally outnumbered as there were only two of us and four of them. Maybe five if there was a dishwasher in the back room. Not good odds. I eyed the door discretely, measuring how many steps it would take to make a run for it. I knew I could make it but I wasn’t sure about my companion.

Calm down. Forget about it. Enjoy the moment, right? Think positive thoughts. We came here for a good meal so why not relax and study the menu. Have some hot sake, loosen up. There was a long list of familiar sushi dishes…sashimi, nigiri, California roll, caterpillar roll. There was a nice selection of noodles, soba, udon and ramen, plus some tempting tempura and teriyaki dishes. And potsticker appetizers…everyone likes those. It all looked good. Things were turning around here.

Then my eyes drifted down to the bottom of the menu. What’s this? In large capital letters that one could not miss. It was an unmistakable warning that filled me with foreboding thoughts.

NO SEPARATE CHECKS

What does that mean? Why the harsh tone? What had happened that was so dreadful that management felt the need to boldly print this admonition at the bottom of the menu? Had there been a separate check massacre? A table of six ordered 15 different dishes and then insisted on separate checks for each of them. Business was so good you could turn away customers because they insisted on having a separate check. There were only two of us in the restaurant at 6:30 p.m. What would happen if we insisted on separate checks? I had visions of sushi samurai warriors with very sharp knives coming out from behind the bar. Maybe on horseback, although I would say that would be most improbable given how small the restaurant was and how close together the tables were. Difficult to maneuver on a horse, but not impossible.

Where was I? Right, the separate checks. I decided the best course was to play along, order our food and then when the check came – not going to happen. I was not going to fight the system. The threat of samurai warriors was too great.

I wonder how they are going to react when we ask them to split the bill on 2 credit cards. There was no warning about that.

Jay Harrison is a graphic designer and writer whose work can be seen at DesignConcept. His mystery novel, Head Above Water, is available on Amazon and Kindle.

F I C T I O N

American Federation of Fry Cooks
2313 E. M St. NW
Washington, D.C. 20022

To: Mr. Res Ident

Dear Mr. Ident

We have had enough. Please help us. Our records indicate that you have purchased and presumably consumed fast foods during the past several years. For this we thank you from the bottom of our hearts.

Our colleagues are under constant attack from effete politicians, megabuck corporate welfare daddies and vapid commentators from sea to shining sea.

What is the first thing people say when they want to beat somebody up about education, crime, welfare? “Flipping burgers. If we don’t put a billion into satellite links to kindergartens, these kids will wind up flipping burgers. If we don’t put pool halls in the prisons, these guys will return to crime – they don’t want to be flipping burgers. If we don’t elect Bob Heartworm, all the people in the district face a future of flipping burgers.” This in a country that can’t wait for weekends so that people can fire up the grill and flip their own burgers. Go figure. Disrespecting fry cooks is hypocritical, immoral and un-American.

What in the world is wrong with commercial food preparation as a job? Not everybody gets to be the president of a multi-national corporation right out of grade school. We’re a hungry nation on the run. Fry cooks feed millions every day. What’s wrong with that? It’s honest work. It’s necessary work. They don’t have to sign life contracts. All they have to do is show up. And they do. By the tens of thousands every day. It’s enough to make you want to run outside and scream. Go ahead if you want to. This letter can wait.

There. Well, that’s the story. We need your help. The next time you hear or read of someone denigrating this honorable calling, take issue. Or drop us a line. We’ll take issue for you.

Sincerely,

Watson Wallaby
Chief Cook & Bottle Washer

Lanny Tonning is a pilot, roustabout, mechanic, bottle washer and co-owner of Old Town Farm and Bike In Coffee. When he’s not doing all those things he’s 4-wheel driving on roads that are not really roads.