Short Story: Father's Little Boy

I’m spending lot of time with father and mother worries about it. I don’t see what is wrong though. I enjoy assisting him during his mending binges. Mother calls him ‘Mr. Fixo’. He has an elaborate set of tools. Sometimes he takes them out for overhauling. He oils, wipes and rubs them with flannel to get the rust off and explains to me their function and working. It isn’t a woman’s job he says because it requires a lot of precision and focus. We do not talk while mending because he says that unlike women, men never talk while working. The texture of the hurt it causes me when he says that never leaves me. I wish mother would make a little less noise with her tongue and not make father say such things. Mother’s voice calling me sounds very distant as I am just getting out of a dream and it takes me a few minutes to regain my orientation. She is relentless with her tongue while disposing off the domestic remains of the previous day.

Short Story: Please Forgive Our Sin

“Before we laid this man to rest…, maybe any of you want to say the last words to remember him by?” asked a priest to a very limited people who gather around on a funeral.

“He is a nice father, “sobbed a man while pretending wipes his tears with his handkerchiefs. “…And an old stingy bastard who left me nothing but the house!” silently he cursed.

Short Story: Budi's Back

[ed - This entry is one of the Top 12 Popular Vote Finalists for English Language Entries & The Grand Prize Winner for the English Language Entries]

This story will end in separation. Tara felt this, as she stared at her husband’s back that night. Budi always slept with his back facing her. After he turned the light off. After they made love. Or after he finished reading. Budi said his left ribcage would hurt whenever he slept on his left, facing Tara. Two of his left ribs were broken during a basketball game when he was in high-school. They’re surely healed by now, but Budi said they still hurt whenever he slept facing left.

Short Story: Black Box From Hell

[ed - This entry is one of the Top 12 Popular Vote Finalists for English Language Entries]

I’m in hell. And he was a frequent flier.

I don’t fall in love too easily but when I do, I can get pretty intense. I never knew what he did for a living. Probably what Edward Norton did in “Fight Club” or whatever it was that George Clooney did in “Up In The Air”. Something corrupt like that. Not that I cared if he did something corrupt for a living, he was good-looking. All I knew was that he requested kosher meals, liked window seats, preferred pulp fictions over in-flight entertainment, and flew to the same destinations every once in a while: New York, Bangkok, Nairobi, Geneva, Vienna, Beirut, and Santiago. He knew me by “Femke” and I called him “Mr. Contini” until he insisted I call him “Daniel”.

Short Story: Actus Dei

[ed - This entry is one of the Top 12 Popular Vote Finalists for English Language Entries]

My heart was beating fast, racing with the clock as its wands constantly tick and tock. Chill was brought to my spine as both excitement and doubt crept into my nerves. I reached my hand toward the wooden handle.

Is this even right? I told myself. There would be no turning back after this, right?

The door creaked quietly as I pulled it back, taking a step by a step on the porcelain floor. My ears captured the sound of Gregorian chants, sung in harmony by soprano and contralto. I saw petals of roses scattered on the path I was walking in, washed in pink and white. It was beautiful indeed, but my heart still would not calm down.

Short Story: Flying Jaguar

[ed - This entry is one of the Top 12 Popular Vote Finalists for English Language Entries]

People called him Jack. His carving knife was as sharp as the fangs of a jaguar.

[A jaguar did not need much water. There used to be a fresh water hole across the street. The water was sweet. It was long gone now. A pub replaced it. The water was also sweet but it intoxicating. A jaguar went to a fresh water hole at dusk to drink and to catch a prey. After drinking he would sit on a log and sharpen his claws on a piece of wood.]