Twisted Endings - Sept 2013

September 2013

Twisted Endings

Twisted Endings September 2013

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Welcome to THE MAGAZINE FOR LOVERS

Frequency: March & September Founding Editor: Monique Berry Designer: Monique Berry

Table of Contents 3 A Word from the Founder 4 The Last Word by Cristopher Wright 5 The Tip by Ruth Parker 7 A Plan of Escape by Mark Perry 8 Donut Hole by Andrew Sacks 9

Early on a Friday Morning by Jeremy Bush

10 Zits by Art Heifetz 11 Slammed by Teresa Karlinski 12 Free Removal by Joanne R. Fritz 13 Meet our Contributors 13 Fluster by Claire T. Feild 13 In a Bottle by Colin W. Campbell 14 A Night at the Theater by John Mueter 15 Majestic by Kathleen Foye 17 Penelope’s Poisonous Plan by Colin W. Campbell 18

The Intruder by Paul Jenner

21 The Plan by Monique Berry 22

Meet Our Contributors

23 Twisted Endings Explained

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Twisted Endings OF UNPREDICTABLE PLOT TWISTS

Website: http://twistedendings.webs.com Email: monique.editor@gmail.com Twitter: @1websurfer

A Word from the Founder Welcome to the second issue of Twisted Endings!

It is my great privilege to showcase the talent within these plot-twisted pages. It was fun being privy to the meanings behind the twisted endings. Some are straightforward, some are cryptic, and others can be interpreted several ways.

Initially, I was going to let the reader figure out the twisted ending. If it was confusing, they could contact the writer. But some people might be too shy. So, I included the explanations at the back of the magazine. But read the stories first.

Otherwise it will ruin the surprise.

Thanks to all the contributors who took a chance on being published in this magazine. It’s been a privilege reading your work.

I hope this issue brings you lots of “I-didn't-see-this-coming” moments! Until next time, keep the keyboard clicking and the ink flowing!

Founding Editor Twitter: MoniquesMags & 1websurfer PS: I found an interesting website full of Surprise Ending Quotes! It may spark ideas for anyone wanting to write for the next issue. Check it out at http://funnyquotes2.wordpress.com/2011/05/13/surprise-ending-quotes/

Twisted Endings September 2013

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The Last Word

By Cristopher Wright Image credit: Photoxpress.com

“The Last Word” takes the reader through an argument between a writer and his mate, and up to the catastrophic consequence for the former...

“All the misery I write is to put my emotions on the page and out of my head,” the short story writer explained to his wound-up girlfriend.

“But it’s about me,” she replied. “I think you hate me!”

“It’s not about you,” the author insisted. “What I write is a conglomerate of all my life’s experiences. It’s my lousy day job. It’s the rent. It’s the rat race. That kind of stuff.”

“No! There are clearly things about us in there,” she countered. “You wrote about how you can never reach your ‘goals’ because the ‘endless daily events’ are always interrupting you.”

“So?” “You’re still ticked off because I changed it to the news during a Canucks game!” she cried.

“No! No! It’s about the daily grind wearing me down!” the writer insisted.

“How about all the ‘other birds’ that ‘invade your nest’ and ‘ruffle your feathers’?” she demanded.

“That’s about all the people who get in my face, all the jerk drivers, pushy clients, garbage like that!”

“Bull! You don’t like our dinner parties, and you hate my friends taking over your ‘nest’. Does everything I do smother you and irritate you?!”

“No! It has nothing to do with you! It’s just simple, stupid writing about everyday crap!” he insisted.

“Oh come on! ‘Relentless tides’? My period. ‘Revival of temperance’? You’re annoyed that I nag you about drinking too much! ‘Union pressures’? You’re petrified about committing to 4 | Twisted Endings September 2013

me!” accused the woman. “C’mon, buddy! You’re not very deep. I can see right through your crappy writing!”

“That’s about the endless cycles of commerce, ‘sobering’ reality, and ‘union pressure’ is about union pressure! The job!

That’s all! Geez!” retorted the man.

His girlfriend got quiet. She sat for a few moments with her arms crossed over her stomach as he glared at her while leaning over the table, waiting for acceptance and an apology.

She spoke.

“Look. I’ve just got this feeling about us. I feel a growing tension, and I don’t care what you say about your writing. I’m sure it’s one big nag about me. I-. Hmm. I’m gonna go. I’m done with this.”

“What?!” he questioned incredulously, peering at her through scrunched up eyes.

“I don’t wanna do this anymore. I’m done! It’s over,” she clarified, and got up to go.

“This is insane!” protested the writer.

“Well, it’s the way it is,” she said. “Good luck, man. I’ll get in touch with you later about my stuff, the lease, and everything.” With those final words she dashed upstairs, packed some things, then left the speechless man drinking his beer at the kitchen table.

The writer was damaged. Every time he pounded out some words, he got self-conscious, doubted himself, and scrapped the work. Linking his writing to the collapse of his relationship, he was badly shaken, and his aspiration to be an author abruptly ended one day, right in the middle of a sen 

The Tip

By Ruth Parker

Image credit: Photoxpress.com

A woman is enraged after receiving a tip and sets out to seek revenge.

T

wisted with rage, Abigail dashed towards the edge of the cliff. Dressed in black from head to toe, she made an eerie yet arresting spectacle as she ran across the moors. Although winded, Abigail knew she had to keep going. She had to reach her destination on time.

Abigail's face was pale and white as cream. Her movements were strained as she navigated the uneven terrain.

Angry eyes stared straight ahead as she made her way. Her thin and curled back lips revealed crooked, cigarette-stained teeth.

Abigail was on a mission and no one—no one would get in her way.

An aura of evil filled the space surrounding her. Abigail’s laughter as she approached the cliff, bore a hysterical hollow sound. The wind swallowed it up as soon as it escaped her taut lips. The cold, orange moon slid swiftly behind and just as quickly in front of the dark, overhanging clouds, creating a panorama of obscurity and gloom. An owl hooted eerily in a gnarled, old tree near the cliff's face.

The night was cold and damp, so Abigail pulled the hooded cloak tighter around her body. She shivered as she hastened through the countryside. Suddenly, Abigail cried out as she stumbled into a hole. Her scuffed black boot fell off but she continued to limp forward, favouring her swelling right ankle. Then Abigail dropped to her knees behind some tall, swaying grasses. The wind lifted her black cloak once more and revealed a red chiffon dress decorated with white lace all around the edge of the material.

Several hours earlier, Abigail had overheard her husband of twenty-five years talking on the telephone. He was whispering a name over and over. She caught the end of his conversation. "I'll meet you at the brink of the cliff on Truro Road. Be there at 8:00 my love. I can't wait to see you, my precious, and hold you once again."

Now Abigail could just make out the lovers, standing wrapped in each other’s arms. They stood close to the spot where the cliff jutted out into the ocean. Large jagged rocks and loud crashing waves lay one hundred feet below where the two stood, breathing in the sharp salt air. Abigail's anger was palpable as she crept towards her husband and his paramour.

She moved stealthily forward, but only when the moon disappeared behind the roiling grey clouds. Her black cloak acted like camouflage in the dark, charged night. Closer and closer Abigail came to the two who were so caught up in their lust and hunger for each other that they were completely unaware of an impending doom. As Abigail leaped forward, a blood-curdling scream escaped her lips and the lovers sprang apart. Their faces were a mingled picture of disbelief and horror. Too late, they realized that Abigail had discovered their secret.

With a strength she never realized she had, Abigail pushed as hard as she could against their bodies. The two fell backwards simultaneously, and as they tumbled into the chasm below, the director called out, "Cut! Okay, everyone. That's a wrap."  Twisted Endings September 2013

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6 | Twisted Endings September 2013 Image credit | Photoxpress.com

A Plan of Escape

By Mark Perry Thomas Wolf said you can’t go home again. Rupert would, or die trying.

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hings were not going well for Rupert. His apartment in Atlanta was as uninviting as a cell in Timbuktu or some other godforsaken place. In fact, it might as well have been in hell. What was that Bible story that his mother read to him as a child? Something about a stranger in a strange land. That’s what Rupert was, even though he had not found his mother’s firm faith. He was a septuagenarian six months out of prison and not at home anywhere. All the relatives he knew were either dead or babbling away in some old folks’ home and all the ones he didn’t know didn’t give a damn about him. Of course, he knew nothing about negotiating social relationships in this new century.

Today was the day to do something about it though.

After shaving he put on his best shirt and his only tie. Next he grabbed a large knife from the kitchen. Then he took out a raincoat and a rain hat because an unpleasant drizzle fell from the gray sky. As he looked at himself in the mirror beside the front door, he saw a reflection of the dreary day outside. Tears silently welled in his glistening gray eyes and escaped like prisoners or fond hopes down his face.

His recurring dream of the last week was based on an actual memory. He had been on a work detail on the ten thousand acre farm at the Georgia State Prison in Reidsville in the 1970s tasked with burying a mule which had been the last survivor of a pack that had predated mechanization.

Rupert was young and strong back then.

In the dream he is always a mute old man. He falls into the grave with the mule. The guards and the prisoners are unaware of him and the detail continues to shovel, burying Rupert with the animal. Each night he awakes when a spade full of dirt falls directly on his face, and he knows he is meant to escape from here and now go back home to Reidsville or die trying.

The knife would be his ticket. If he were another kind of man, he might have cut his throat with it. He didn’t mind dying but he would not, could not, do it by his own hand.

The steps he had to take were as clear as the wet streaks on his cheeks.

He wiped his face with the palm of his hand and turned off the lights of the ironically-named “living” room in which

“The knife would be his ticket. If he were another kind of man, he might have cut his throat with it. He didn’t mind dying but he would not, could not, do it by his own hand.”

he had never felt alive. He stepped into the hall and firmly closed the unlocked door. Finally he descended to the entrance of the building and walked to a taxi stand.

Getting into a cab, he buttoned his coat and said, “Take me to the courthouse.”

“Which one?”

“The nearest one’ll do.”

There Rupert paid and generously tipped the driver. He alighted and shuffled up the steps. Inside, as he opened his coat, three officers drew their weapons because they saw the knife shoved between his waistband and belt. They easily subdued and cuffed the unresisting feeble old man.

One asked him,“What’s this all about?”

“I’m tired. I just want to go back to the state prison in Reidsville where I’ve been for forty years. All those years I dreamed of getting out. Now all I dream about is going back, going home again.”

“You won’t be going home, old man,” the deputy marshal said gently. “This is a federal courthouse.” 

MARK PERRY is a lawyer/author who lives in Calhoun, Georgia. Over a dozen of his works have appeared in several publications so far this year, including Boston Literary Magazine, WestWard Quarterly, Parody, and The Stray Branch. Contact Mark at mperry491@aol.com.

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Donut Hole

By Andrew Sacks

Image credit: Photoxpress.com

What would happen if a serious tournament chess player deigns to make a foray into the seedy world of mere untutored big-city coffeehouse chess hustlers? Is someone in for a nasty surprise?

T

ang’s Donuts was not an unusual name for a small coffee and donut shop on the rather seedy eastern edge of Hollywood, but the most common activity that transpired there, night after night, until the weeest hours, certainly was. It was speed chess, played with a special chess game timer—played only in that way—and played for stakes.

I had heard of the place for years, but ventured down only when I was confident that my skills at the Royal Game were ready. Five years of tournament testing and countless hours of casual blitz (speed chess) had paid off. I took my chess expertise and a pocket full of five dollar bills with me one Friday night around 10:30.

It was called Tang’s, but about the only hint of the Orient turned out to be a Chinese calendar: the help was Hispanic, and the clientele the same, with possibly a sprinkling of Filipinos. I literally had to order by gesturing and pointing.

I quickly gravitated, as if by instinct, to the board of the strongest player. I watched, interested but patient. I slowly sipped my weak black coffee.

It was really no contest. The skilled player was giving time odds, but won game after game; he was simply too strong for his opponent. Money changed hands with regularity and 8 | Twisted Endings September 2013

rapidity. Three dollars a crack. But the strong player was not really that strong—the other was just hopelessly outclassed. I could show their big fish what a pitifully small pond he had been playing in.

The quarters were rather cramped, and the place became busier and more boisterous after maybe 45 minutes. As this board attracted the most general interest, I was jostled more than once, but maintained the Styrofoam cup like a seasoned pro.

Finally, of course, there was a little accident, and the cup tumbled. No big deal. Not on somebody’s board. Just on my pants and the floor. My unprofessional exclamations brought over another spectator.

“It’s ok,” he said. “Happens a lot.”

I smiled sheepishly, and returned my glance to the board.

Then I realized. He spoke English, heavy Hispanic accent aside.

“Thank you for saying that,” I said to him. He smiled in a friendly manner and motioned me to an empty table.

“You play chess?”

“Very well,” I said. “I play in tournaments.”

(Continued from page 8)

“Aha!” His eyes lit up. “Speed chess too?”

“Yes. That’s why I’m here. I’d like to get into a game.”

“Ahh! Wait.” He smiled warmly and scampered back to the table where we had met, and whispered something to the donut shop champ. Whispers went back and forth.

“He’ll play you soon,” he said upon his return. “Listen, he speaks no English, but that’s ok. You don’t mind. Chess is chess, and money is money, eh?” and we laughed together.

“Listen,” he said, almost conspiratorially, as he leaned in and whispered, “if you want to offer a draw, say ‘gana.’”

I must admit I was taken with my new friend. He was going over and above for a stranger in a strange land. I thanked him heartily and returned to my post.

My time soon came, and I sat down to play. I brimmed with confidence and held up all ten fingers as a stakes offer. He smiled. Then he held up ten two times!

Now twenty dollars is a lot for a blitz game, but why should I show weakness? Truth to tell, I had only maybe $35.00 on me, so a loss would clean me out, at those stakes. No. I was the better player and I suavely accepted.

I

t was his table, so he took the white pieces, only a slight edge for him, and the game was on. Five minutes each.

Now, I don’t want to say I was nervous, but there was a rather large crowd closely around us, and I sensed there was no one pulling for me. Well, maybe except for my new friend, but there was no opportunity to search the faces to try to locate him.

The position remained balanced and time was ticking away. I hit upon the idea of offering a draw and starting the next game with both the white pieces and some increased composure. I wavered just a bit in my resolve. What if he did not accept? The time ticked as I considered.

Now it was best to do so. Surely he would accept in the dead even position, and I was too short on time now for further reflection.

“Gana,” I said firmly, more in the spirit of declaration than request.

He laughed heartily and the crowd erupted, a couple of the men slapping him on the back in congratulation. He reached his right hand out, but not for a shake—for payment! I heard whistling and clapping around me. Nonplussed, I craned my head this way and that in search of my English-speaking advisor. He was nowhere in sight.

I did not understand, but I figured I had to pay and come to grips with it all later. I handed over some fives and made a hasty exit.

I got to my apartment and Googled a Spanish-English online translator.

Then I decided I better learn a little more Spanish. 

Early on a Friday Morning

By Jeremy Bush Hemmed in by the teaming throng of people - I can't escape!

P

anic, panic so thick I can almost reach out and touch it in the air, is slowly overtaking the crowds of people around me. What started as polite tones and ever-so-slowly became annoyed voices are now turning to angry ones. And the words that were sharply, pointedly spoken before are now being shouted at the top of lungs, spewed from purple faces. And all I can think to myself is, “My gosh, how did I end up in this spot? Why am I here?”

The mob is pressed up tightly around me, hemming me in, completely surrounding me. Behind me a shoulder gouges into my spine. And in front, an elbow stabs me in the ribs.

The shouting reaches a tumult. Something is happening. I see it now—a wave surging through the throngs of people, carrying everyone it touches hurtling along. Soon it will reach me and carry me with it.

And now one voice, this one with some excitement still in it, overtakes all the others, shouting above them all, “It’s open!

The doors are finally open! Black Friday has begun!”

And as the masses shove me headlong into the stream rushing into the store, and I involuntarily push and shout back, all I can think is, “Why am I here?” 

Image credit: © soundfromwayout | Flickr.com

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Zits

By Art Heifetz the evening of my date with luscious Gail the zit on the tip of my Durante schnoz exploded like the cream-filled center of a Barricini chocolate and left an angry slash across my face that was Rudolph writ large but without the sleigh I patched the damage best I could with a 2 by 2 of gauze and prayed for a quick and painless death on the tracks of the Astoria line Gail peered at the sad masked stranger in the peephole and reluctantly let me in it’s nothing just a scratch I shrugged old lady on the IRT two punks grabbed her purse I fought them off but not before they broke your nose oh Arthur I leaned my head against her cashmere breasts and studied the dimple on her chin while she fed me dates with marzipan dulce de leche scoops of Häagen-Dazs the foods that I liked best the ones that gave you zits 10 | Twisted Endings September 2013 Image credit: Phtoxpress.com

Slammed

By Teresa Karlinski The adoption of a cat is serious business. The cat may ignore you all she wants but you must never return that favor.

I

vy blew tiresome bangs out of her eyes and sank her hands into the cold water of yesterday’s dishes. Odd. Had her hair been this long and bothersome yesterday? She giggled—the sound like the twitter of a young bird. She glanced at the calendar on the taupe kitchen wall, but couldn’t see that far.

With dripping hands she ran her forefinger across the boxed numbers printed upon it. In box 23, she had scrawled: TRIM 2:30 p.m. Next week. Hope I remember my appointment this time.

Her marmalade cat, Miss Marigold—a regal, insatiable tabby—brushed past her ankles. Twice. “What? Didn’t I feed you today?” The cat bounced like a teenaged goat and headed for her dish in the laundry-room. Ivy shilly-shallied then followed. Snatching the plastic cat-food container, she dribbled the remains into the dish. “All gone. See.” Miss M. leaned over her supper, tail curled and tucked in close, attentive only to her bowl.

With a sigh, Ivy shuffled back to the kitchen. A long look into the refrigerator left her dissatisfied. Her stomach rumbled.

The kitchen clock read 7:09 p.m., still time to pick up groceries and cat food. She grabbed the writing pad off the kitchen table and searched for a pen. By now, Miss M. had perched on Ivy’s favourite kitchen chair where she preened. “Shoo, cat. Let Momma sit.”

CAT FOOD, she wrote in shaky block letters and tapped her pen on the oak kitchen table. “What else do I need?” The cat continued to groom at her feet, but stopped at the sound of her voice. They gazed at each other but only the cat stared back. Ivy was lost in the alleys of her mind. Tap—tap. Tap—tap, the pen continued.

Miss M. jumped on the chair behind her mistress, which allowed standing room only. She tapped her on the shoulders with worrisome paws. No response. Marigold stretched higher to tousle the grey hair at her neck and pulled coarse hair with her teeth.

“Ow!” Ivy jerked forward at last and reached over a shoulder to swat the cat. Her pen dropped. Miss M. sprang down and smacked the Dollar Store blue stick writer across the tiles.

When it stopped, she planted her marmalade-coloured rump on the linoleum and flicked her tail. The pen caught in its tip and rolled back towards Ivy, who watched forehead furled and eyes glazed.

“Meow?” said the cat, a loud question mark on the end.

An eerie light pierced Ivy’s eyes. “Bah, I don’t feel like going out tonight.” She leaned over her round belly to pick up the pen.

Head cocked and ears flattened, Miss Marigold’s tail thumped the floor. Black cat-eye pupils widened and protracted to slits. Her ears twitched. “Meow.” Her tone was more assertive this time, a half-growl.

Ivy’s stomach grumbled. She ignored the hopeful cat.

Patting her peckish tummy, she looked around the kitchen as if for the first time. With a hard push off the table, she lurched out of the chair, keen eyes focussed on the fridge. A stiff knee hampered a smooth execution. She bent and straightened the awkward limb until it loosened. “I’m starving.”

The refrigerator again revealed nothing even spit-worthy. A tired emptiness greeted Ivy. Swollen yogurt containers oozed dehydrated protein. Two or three suspicious Tupperware containers, lids popped open and a bag with a couple slices of white bread huddled together. Ivy poked a finger at the bread. It didn’t quite spring back but she snatched it anyway. On the various-drips-encrusted door she located a half-empty jar of crunchy peanut butter. The bread had mould but Ivy pinched off the green spots. She had to stuff her craving for food. While she choked down the sandwich, without a drink, the cat cozied up alongside her ankles once more.

“Cat, why are you underfoot today? Your food’s gone. Git.” Ivy swung her foot aimed at the cat, but Miss M. was faster and bolted across the room.

“Bully for you.” Ivy filled the electric kettle and switched it on. She patted her thighs, eyes squinting. “Tea. Where did the tea get to?” Cupboard doors yawned open and slammed shut by impatient hands. The cat watched from the doorway. “Eureka,” Ivy shrieked. A box of Red Rose Tea materialised in an overhead cupboard.

Ivy, startled by the snap of the kettle when it shut off, blinked, disrupting her reverie. She twisted around to grab her mug off the counter beside her. Marigold swooped across the floor in time to confuse Ivy’s feet. Twisted as they were, she lost her balance. Her head slammed on the gas stove and she slid to the floor as if she was a deflating balloon.

Miss Marigold’s whiskers twitched. She leaped and lay spread-eagled—a blanket of cat hair on lean belly—across Ivy’s slack face. It was time to put an end to a life-long miser. 

Image credit: Photoxpress.com

Twisted Endings September 2013

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Free Removal

By Joanne R. Fritz

iStockPhoto.com, Opposite: Photoxpress.com

Of course George listens to his wife. How could anyone think otherwise? He distinctly heard her say she's going shopping.

T

he Giants were ahead and their defense was looking sharp. “Whoa! Interception!” George watched the screen wide-eyed as the defensive end ran all the way back for the touchdown. Ninety-four yards!

A bite of chicken went down the wrong way and it took him a moment to get his breath back. He coughed and wheezed and hocked up a gob of barbecue-flavored spit. Then he had to guzzle half a can of beer before he felt normal again.

He pulled up the nubby blanket, releasing a shower of potato chip crumbs, and tucked it under his chin. Ah. That was better. For a frightening moment there he had felt his age.

As he picked up his plate, the floor cleaned itself. Bless these modern conveniences.

Evelyn walked past his recliner, trailing that lily-of-thevalley perfume that George hated, and hovered just beyond his field of vision. She was struggling into her coat, from the sound of it. Then George heard her purse snap closed.

“So if you’re sure you don’t mind, there’s a sale on, down at the mall.”

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She was always nattering on about something. Blah blah blah. George only caught the tail end of it. He waved a chicken wing at her and nodded. Good idea. She should go.

What was she waiting for?

If she went to the mall, Evelyn would be out of his hair and he could watch the entire game in peace. Much better than having her stay here and whine about how boring football was and couldn’t he just switch over to that crime show she wanted to see, the one with that cute young Aussie actor.

“I’ll just be going then. You sure you’re all right with it?”

George could hear surprise in her voice, the way the tone went up at the end, and then sort of petered out. See? He did listen to her. It simply wasn’t true that he never listened. She was always going on about him not listening to her. Thirty years of marriage and you don’t listen to me, she would say.

But now he distinctly heard her say she’d be leaving and then “…you’re all right with it?” A hint of that upward inflection.

Almost as if she was puzzled that he didn’t mind her going shopping.

He didn’t want to miss the next kickoff. “Yeah. Fine.

Whatever. Have fun.”

Women.

A few hours later he heard an engine idling in the driveway.

From the thrumming sound and the vibrations that filled the den he figured it was a pretty large truck, but he didn’t feel like getting up to investigate. It was the two minute warning, for crying out loud, and besides, his legs ached.

Evelyn breezed in, bringing a taste of cold air. She was followed by four burly delivery men hefting a long box. It smelled of plastic. They set it down right in front of the TV wall.

“Hey, whaddaya doing?” George said. “I’m watchin’ here!”

They all turned to look at George. Three of them wore latex gloves.

The fourth, an especially beefy man, scrolled through his tablet. “Take away the old one, right?”

“That’s right,” Evelyn said. “Immediate delivery and setup, plus free removal of old model. That’s what the nice sales girl told me.”

Too late, George noticed the label on the box. 

MEET OUR CONTRIBUTORS CRISTOPHER WRIGHT

(p4) is

a graduate of UBC and lives in Vancouver. He enjoys culture, travel, nature and sports. His writing has previously been published in Burning Tree Press and Vanilla Crow. He is currently searching for a publisher for his completed first novel, and is well into his second. Cristopher can be contacted at crisbbwright@hotmail.com.

JOANNE R. FRITZ

(p12) survived a ruptured brain aneurysm in 2005 and realized if she was ever going to be a writer she'd better start writing. Besides flash fiction, she's written numerous picture books and two middle-grade novels. Joanne and her husband have two grown sons. Visit her website at http://mybrainonbooks.blogspot.com.

KATHLEEN FOYE

(p15) is a member of Writing.com and has enjoyed writing short stories and poetry for several years. Three poems have been published, and a third one, “Trek to the Train,” was published in the August 2010 Program for the 90th Division Tough Ombres Army Reunion. Kathleen is planning to self-publish a children’s book. Recently, she changed direction to include romance and enjoyed taking and completing 'NaNoWriMo’, the National Novel Writing Month Challenge. She is currently a member of the Romance Writers of America and the New England Chapter of RWA. When Kathleen is not working or writing, she also likes to sew and have enjoyed quilting with friends over the years. Her passion is the family history, so she is also a genealogist. Finally, Kathleen is an Independent Distributor for Fuller Brush and Watkins Products—old companies that are still in business!

Continued on page 22

Fluster

In a Bottle

By Claire T. Feild

by Colin W. Campbell

Big fannies turn corners, only to evacuate hundreds of elbows, acute cries in front of podiums for those who will settle down enough to HEAR, HEAR, HEAR.

All these many years have past as our message is ever-so-faithful.

You said our love would always last as we dreamed of a lifelong couple.

Pity you changed your mind so fast so I'll just put you back in the bottle.

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A Night at The Theater

By John Mueter What would have happened if, during a well-known historical event, things had gone differently? What if John Wilkes Booth, on his way up the stairs to the presidential box in Ford's Theater, had met with a little mishap? One surprise unleashes a sequence of surprises along the way.

Image credit: © Tim Evenson | Flickr.com

“Hold on to that horse! He’s a wild one—and make sure he don’t get the better of you!” admonished John Booth. He was in the alleyway next to Ford’s Theater, addressing Joseph, better know as Peanuts, the lame brained scrub he knew all too well.

The kid couldn’t find a pair of shoes in a shoe store, thought Booth, and so much depended on everything working out just right this evening. He had arranged for a more reliable person to hold the getaway horse but, without consulting him, the job had been passed off to Peanuts. Egads!

There was no time to lose. It was nearly ten o’clock and the third act would be well underway. Booth was timing his appearance to coincide with the funniest bits of the play, when the audience would be the most relaxed and distracted. He was familiar with Our American Cousin although he himself acted no role in it. Entering the side door of the theater as quietly as possible, he took a deep breath. He pulled the small Derringer pistol from his pocket and began mounting the stairs to the presidential box in total darkness. Earlier that same afternoon he had climbed these very same steps in order to drill a peep hole in the door to the box. He wanted to be able to see who was sitting where when the time came. Every detail had been carefully planned—or so he thought.

He had counted twelve steps earlier, so what the hell was this.....Damn! He tripped on the last step (there were thirteen, actually), and as he stumbled he fell on his right arm, causing the gun to go off accidentally. The bullet got him in the foot.

DAMN that hurt! In attempting to get up Booth staggered forward, lost his balance again and was propelled forward, right through the flimsy door and into the box. The President was immediately in front of him, but he seemed unperturbed by the 14 | Twisted Endings September 2013

commotion, only turning slightly to see who the intruder was.

Booth caught sight of Major Henry Rathbone rising from his seat in the far corner. The Major was no doubt wondering what in blazes was going on, having heard a shot fired outside the door and then seeing this demented stranger come crashing through the door.

Booth picked himself up. It was now or never, he thought.

The show must go on. “SIC SEMPRE TYR....,” he started to shout but was cut short by an unexpected thwack to the side of the head. He hadn’t seen Mary Todd Lincoln get up from her chair and was totally unprepared for the mighty smack she gave him with the back side of her fleshy hand. Ouch! That hurt too, but not nearly as much as his foot which was now really beginning to throb.

“You damn fool,” she shrieked indignantly, “get out of our box!”

Meanwhile, the Major’s fiancée, Clara Harris, started screaming like a banshee. Rathbone lunged at Booth who dropped his useless pistol and pulled out a knife. They grappled clumsily like two stags locking antlers at rutting time. Rathbone was the stronger man. He soon wrested the knife out of Booth’s hand, then managed to hurl him over the side of the balcony.

The actor dropped to the stage, landing solidly on his feet, but— THUNDERIN’ ZEUS!—did that hurt like hell! His foot was now exploding in pain. He managed to pull himself together. In a final gesture of defiance he turned to the audience, declaiming, to the best of his thespian ability, “The South is avenged!”— although he knew it was anything but. Besides, with the theater in total uproar, nobody could hear what he said anyway.

The actors on the stage were still frozen in place, mouths agape at this inexplicable disruption of the performance by their colleague. Booth exited stage right where he found Chester, the stage manager, blocking his way.

The man began to voice a strenuous objection. “Mister Booth, sir, what the devil....”

Booth pushed him aside without a glance. “Out of my way, you ninny!” he bellowed.

He limped out to the alleyway as quickly as he could, which wasn’t very fast at all, only to find no horse and no Peanuts.

Unbeknownst to Booth, while he was bumbling his way through Ford’s Theater the horse had escaped with the boy following in hot pursuit. They were now a good two miles away.

“Damn that stupid kid! Damn that horse! Damn everything!” he railed at no one in particular, the alleyway being deserted. It had all been a total fiasco.

John Wilkes Booth hobbled off down Tenth Street, into the darkness of the night, cursing the whole time. 

Majestic

By Kathleen Foye Clearing up the mystery changes everything for these two people!

T

he grand old theater stood empty and decaying for decades.

Thomas Sullivan bought it for a song in the '30s and worked the business with his two daughters. They kept it running after his death for several years before closing it for good. In its day it truly lived up the name Majestic.

Lillian and Mildred Sullivan never told anyone why they suddenly shut the doors to the opulent building all those years ago. Whenever anyone asked, they’d become agitated and change the subject or one of them would either faint or get a migraine. It was a subject they had no intention of clearing up.

Lillian passed away over a year ago, and now Mildred’s son is faced with his mother’s failing health and putting her papers in order.

“Mother, we HAVE to discuss the theater property!” His frustration level had reached its peak after his mother tried all the old tricks to avoid it for months.

His timing was finally right and she gave in. “I’m tired, son.

Do whatever you think best.”

Jeff’s decision was to demolish the old relic and build an office building. It was close to the courthouse so he was sure he could fill it with law offices. As soon as he pulled the papers to demolish it, though, the public was up in arms. The process required he attend a series of meetings, with what seemed like every committee and commission in town, all determined to persuade him to rethink destroying the historic relic. The end result was an effort to save the building.

Jeff called on a dear friend, a Real Estate agent. Barbara and Jeff went to school together. He had an awful crush on her through high school and while they always enjoyed each other’s company, he never considered her within his reach. He was too shy to get around to asking her out.

When she saw him again, though, she couldn't help but smile. At thirty he was very handsome and looked so sophisticated in his tan slacks and brown leather blazer. It was

Image credit: Pixabay.com

completely different look for him, and she approved. He still had that same puppy-dog look on his face. 'Maybe someday he'll get the courage to invite me out,' she thought.

Jeff couldn't help the expression on his face. One look at her auburn hair and creamy skin melted his heart. He always loved this girl—this woman—this perfect lady, but could never bring himself to tell her. He was sure she wasn't interested, and keeping it to himself was his only option. Seeing her again brought back all those old feelings and he felt 16 again; awkward and aching to blurt out how he felt. Of course, he wouldn't embarrass her like that.

She agreed to meet with him at the theater to look it over and advise him of the fair market value. They discussed some possible uses for the space, ending with, “Heck, why not reopen it as a theater?”

“I’ve been asking my mother and aunt that question most of my life. They would never budge—and they wouldn’t explain, either,” he said with obvious frustration.

“Well, we’ll check it out and see if we can figure out what the ladies weren’t telling you.”

Jeff and Barbara arrived at three o'clock to examine the building. They figured the light through the windows would be sufficient to see inside. He hoped she would have some good ideas on what to do with the building if he couldn’t sell it. It had been years since he’d seen the inside. Once the community got involved talking about saving it, he saw it differently, and was amazed at how well it had aged.

As he opened the door to let Barbara in, he noted some damage to a window and wandered away, leaving her to enjoy the architecture.

She was familiar with the front façade, the beautiful columns topped with images of gargoyles and wreaths and the tall windows, rounded at the top. As she entered, Barbara (Continued on page 16)

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(Continued from page 15)

marveled at the ornate marble staircase with the massive curved mahogany banister, the cherub carvings in the molding around the pressed tin ceiling, and statues of the muses gracing the corners. In the vaulted ceiling was a huge crystal chandelier.

The ornate detailing around the balcony defied words…

She ran her hand along the curved back of the seats and noted the plush cushions. The deep red carpet was worn, but obviously was beautiful in its day. She turned to look up at the mezzanine and the balcony with the curved mahogany rail and crystal chandeliers. “I didn’t remember it was so gorgeous,” she said aloud. The décor matched the theatre’s name. The feeling of elegance was almost tangible.

Barbara wandered down the aisle enjoying the energy of the place. As she climbed the steps on to the stage, Barbara stumbled and lurched forward falling behind the heavy velvet curtain. “What the heck? Jeff?” Barbara called his name again, but he didn’t answer. She had been so preoccupied with the architecture and intricate carvings; she forgot he wasn’t with her.

It was too dark behind the curtain to see, and she was annoyed both with herself for falling and for Jeff’s lack of response. She felt along the curtain and ropes until she located a wall.

“What…?” She felt his hands grab her wrist and elbow to help her up. “Why didn’t you answer...” she didn’t get to finish her sentence; his hand covered her mouth. ‘What’s gotten into him?’ she wondered, but listened, thinking he just wanted her to be quiet so he could hear something.

He pulled her close to him; she could feel his chest on her back. She was about to protest, both irritated and amused by the sudden change in him. She relaxed a little as his arms wrapped around her and she felt his lips on her neck. In the darkness, he turned her back to the wall and stepped closer, once again nuzzling her neck.

‘Well!’ she thought, ‘this is a surprise!’ She knew Jeff always liked her, but she thought it was as a friend.

Next, she felt her hands pulled, up over her head, her wrists held together in one hand. More than a little agitated now, she started again to speak and felt his mouth covering hers in an intensely soft, insistent, lingering kiss. This was a kiss that took her breath away --a kiss that made her knees buckle and her toes curl. She had never been kissed quite like that before. She felt his hand wrap around her neck and hold her against the wall for a moment before tracing her throat down to her collarbone. She felt a level of excitement greater than she had ever experienced.

His fingers drew a feathery line along her arms sending shivers down her spine. She felt his body press against her own.

Startled and excited, Barbara gasped, but couldn’t form a coherent thought. Only sounds were coming from her throat not even words would form.

Even though she knew the building was empty except for Jeff and her, the notion of being treated in this manner in a theater was exhilarating. The masterful kiss, the implication of the hand holding her wrists, and the total disregard for any courtesy or convention lent to the intoxication. The fact that they were literally on a stage where audiences 'watched' added yet another level of arousal.

16 | Twisted Endings September 2013

Her mind and body were reacting traitorously to his kisses.

There was no chance of playing coy or hard to get - her desires had been tapped and exposed. She felt his free hand reach around her and pull her close. Her breath caught in her throat as he moved his hand up her back to her head, lacing his fingers in her hair he pulled her closer, still. His mouth was again caressing hers, her lips defying any effort to pull away.

Dimly, in the back of her mind, she thought she heard someone coming toward them, but she didn’t even pull away as her mind suggested she should. The dance went on…

She heard it again; someone else IS here! She heard a whoosh and through her closed eyelids could tell it was lighter now. But she couldn't stop now.

W

hen Barbara fell, the sound echoed throughout the theater and misdirected Jeff to the balcony. A few minutes later, he heard moaning and followed the sound back to the stage.

Under the curtain, he could see Barbara’s feet. He started toward her and pulled the curtain open, but what he observed shocked and stopped him cold.

It was only a moment before he realized the sounds she was making was from pleasure. She did not seem to be in any danger, and his confusion held frozen to the spot! The accidental voyeur was puzzled as to just what he was seeing!

She was enjoying whatever was happening, but he wondered why her arms were over her head. She appeared to be kissing someone! His reaction was an increased desire for her. "She is so beautiful!"

When her hands were released, Barbara stood there against the wall, breathless. One more kiss and he was gone. She opened her eyes and looked across the stage.

Directly across the stage, all the way across the stage, stood Jeff; with his mouth hanging open, his eyes were as big as saucers. Shocked and confused, she turned quickly to the left and the right. "How... What?" If it hadn’t been Jeff making love to her, WHO WAS IT? Jeff finally found his voice. "I thought I heard a moan and realized you weren't with me. I was afraid you were hurt..."

Barbara's breathing was still ragged and her face was glowing. "It wasn't you?"

Jeff’s huge grin spread across his face. He didn’t miss the implication, or the implied invitation, and looked forward to his chance to fulfill that role. All he managed to say was, "Barbara, you were alone!"

She shook her head in denial and partly to clear her thoughts. As she tidied her hair and self-consciously smoothed her clothes, she didn’t miss the expression on Jeff’s face; she saw the change in his attitude and smiled somewhat timidly.

He came to escort her off the stage and put his arm around her. Clearly they would be discussing more than the fate of the building at dinner this evening!

After a moment, she smiled at Jeff and told him, "At least now the mystery of the Majestic is solved. I understand why the sisters never wanted to sell this place; it is delightfully haunted by a Lothario!" 

Penelope’s Poisonous Plan

By Colin Campbell Penelope might be your best friend but be careful not to make her ever-so-cross.

“You’re taking it all very well. Trust me, I know you’ll soon get over it. Nice herbal tea.” Cindy spoke with all the sincerity she could project but inside she was thinking what a doormat this girl is. I steal her best boyfriend ever and she invites me round for tea for two and tells me everything will be alright.

“I know, sometimes shit happens but let’s move on from that,” said Penelope. “It’s a tisane, it’s really called a tisane not herbal tea. It’s my new hobby. I used to buy the stuff in fancy stores then I realized I was just paying for the packaging and the profits. The Internet is a great equalizer. A couple of hours online and I knew where to get the seeds and how to grow the plants and dry the leaves. There are even forums for sharing stories. Have another cup you’ll find it very relaxing. I thought it would be just the thing for the day of your big speech. Oh, and I guess you’ll be making a big splash on TV.” “Yes live on TV and the whole thing will go on for hours too,” said Cindy looking at her watch. “I’m so sorry but I will have to watch my time. One more cup and I’ll really have to go.”

Penelope watched and waved from the window as Cindy went off to the TV studio.

Then she lifted Teddy up from behind the potted plant that had been getting most of her own tisane. This was her loyal old friend with buttons for eyes. The friend who never lied to her and who would never even think of stealing her best boyfriend ever.

As they settled down to watch cable TV with a nice box of chocolates, Penelope carefully explained to Teddy what they could expect to see from a really strong herbal laxative. 

Image credit: Photoxpress.com

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The Intruder

By Paul Jenner Julie wakes up and tells her husband she's heard a noise downstairs—there's someone in the house!

“There’s someone downstairs. Wake up Jack, there’s someone in the house,” Julie whispered as she shook me awake.

“Julie, please. This is the third time this week. It’s just a dream, go back to sleep,” I said. Julie had been unable to sleep without imagining intruders since our guard dog had run away three weeks ago. It could all be traced back to the time burglars had broken into her parent’s house when she was a child. I felt sympathetic, but I also wanted to get a good night’s sleep.

“No, it’s not a dream Jack. I heard them – listen,” whispered Julie. So I listened.

“I really can’t hear anything. Don’t worry, I locked all the doors and windows before…” I was cut short by a sound coming from downstairs. A lamp or maybe a tower of DVDs had been knocked over. Suddenly there was quite a lot of noise, someone was definitely downstairs. My stomach cramped with fear.

“We should ring the police,” I said.

“Yes, good idea darling! Where’s your phone?” asked Julie. Where was my phone? I got up quietly and began to look around the room for it. It wasn’t plugged into the charger by the bed. It wasn’t on the bedside table, nor was Julie’s. She always kept hers down in the living room so calls didn’t disturb us in the night. My heart sank as I remembered where my phone was.

“I left it down on the kitchen table,” I said.

“Right, we’ll just stay here then. We’ll keep very quiet and very still. They can take what they want from downstairs and hopefully they’ll leave us alone,” whispered Julie. She was so quiet now I could barely hear her. I sat back onto the bed and thought about what to do. Julie’s plan seemed like a good one, after all we had insurance. TVs, laptops and DVD players are only things and could be replaced, but our lives couldn’t. Yes, we’d wait here quietly and hope they didn’t come upstairs. But what if they did? What if they came upstairs? What if they came upstairs, killed me and raped Julie? No, staying here wouldn’t do at all, I decided.

“I’m going to sneak downstairs, find a phone and call the police,” I said to Julie.

“No! It’s too dangerous! Stay here with me,” she begged.

“I need to find a weapon of some sort first,” I said. “A golf club would be perfect. Where are my golf clubs?”

“In the garage.”

“What about a knife. Where are the knives?”

“In the kitchen drawer. Just stay here, please darling.”

“There must be something I can use around here somewhere,” I said and started searching around. A can of deodorant? No. A lamp? Maybe. A screwdriver? Yes, that’s it.

You could stab a man in the eyes with a screwdriver. I gripped it tightly and crept towards the door.

“Jack, please don’t go,” Julie pleaded.

“I love you,” I whispered and slipped out of the door.

Slowly and quietly I tiptoed towards the stairs. I could hear some commotion going on, perhaps in the kitchen. The living room, which had Julie’s phone in, was just at the bottom of the stairs. If I could get in there, without being heard, I could ring the police and creep back up.

I inched downed the steps, taking them one at a time. I knew the third step from the bottom was creaky so I stepped lightly over it. The noises were clearer down here and I knew for sure the intruders were in the kitchen. Surely they had my phone by now, but I hoped they hadn’t got Julie’s.

I snuck across the hallway to the living room. I didn’t dare turn the light on so I began to grope around in the dark for the phone.

“You bastards had better not have taken it,” I mouthed and tightened my grip on the screwdriver. With my other hand I patted around on the arms of the sofa, where Julie usually left it. There was nothing on this one. I began to creep over to the other sofa, but forgot about the coffee table in the centre of the room. It was invisible in the dark and my left knee went straight into the corner with a sharp bang. It took all my willpower to suppress a cry and stay on my feet. Had the intruders heard me? I crouched with the screwdriver ready. Go for the eyes, go for the eyes, I chanted in my head. I waited for an eternity, but no-one came.

Eventually I heard another noise. They were still in the kitchen! They hadn’t heard me! I limped over to the other sofa and resumed my search. I found the phone on the arm of the chair and almost jumped for joy. I fumbled at the buttons, but only managed to type in ‘9’ before I was knocked clean off my feet by a blow from behind. I fell on my front but I managed to quickly roll over onto my back. I’d kept hold of the screwdriver, but before I could strike one of them pinned me to the floor. I couldn’t make out his face in the gloom, but I could feel hot breath on my face. As I tried to stab the screwdriver into his side a strange thing happened – the intruder began to lick my face. It was then I realised it was a dog! Not just any dog - it was Hercules, our pet Doberman who’d run away three weeks ago!

“Hercules, where have you been?” I asked him. He just wagged his tail and licked my hand. Then another question occurred to me. A more disturbing one, as I’d locked all the doors and windows.

“Hercules, how did you get into the house?”  Image credit: Photoxpress.com

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20 | Twisted Endings September 2013 Image credit: Photoxpress.com

The Plan

By Monique Berry The perfect plan was set in motion. Peace at last. Or is there?

C

arol watched the morning shadows stretch their way through the window slats, as she waited for her best friend to return to the phone. Her anxiety rose when she heard her son’s feet shuffling across the creaky flooring upstairs. It was time to start breakfast. She looked at her watch—7:20. Viv, hurry up. Bill is about to come downstairs.

Moments later she whispered, “Oh, good. You’re back.”

Carol looked around to make sure she was alone. “The boys will be down soon. But thanks for the support.”

After the table was set, her mumbling husband walked into the kitchen. Carol shook her head. Another morning of ‘argue cereal’ for breakfast.

“Bill, I am so sick of waking up to this every morning. We hardly discuss things anymore. When we do talk, it always—” Bill’s face darkened with defiance. “Why should I talk? Or even listen, for that matter? It’s nothing but complaints.”

She stopped when her son stood outside the kitchen door.

Bobby pursed his lips and walked through the continuing verbal assaults.

Agitated, Bill gave him a vicious glare and then got up to pour himself a second cup of coffee. The abrupt movement caused the chair to tip, which sent a high-pitched howl through the kitchen. He didn’t see the dog sitting at his feet.

“You stupid dog!” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Carol, this discussion is closed. I have to finish dressing. And don’t forget. I’m meeting an important client today. You better hope it goes well for your sake.” Half way up the stairs, Bill yelled, “Oh. And make me a tasty lunch this time. They’re always so boring.”

Bobby got up to follow but Carol put a hand on his shoulder.

“Aren’t you going to eat breakfast this morning?”

Carol sensed that Bobby wanted to tell her something.

“Uh, no, Mom,” he replied. “I gotta get going. Not hungry anyway.”

While her husband and son dressed upstairs, Carol stared at her disheveled reflection in the cracked mirror above the sink.

Two helter-skelter strands of hair toppled onto her forehead. Even my hair is exhausted from arguing. I’ve had it with walking on eggshells. I’ve had it with being bullied. I’ve had it with being afraid.

A sudden calm replaced her angst. She felt as though her soul had suddenly been unlocked—she had a plan and would see it through. Tomorrow things will be different. As Carol made their lunches, Bobby ran down the stairs.

“Mom, you shouldn’t make such big lunches. I don’t usually eat everything, anyway.”

“Don’t worry about it, Bobby. I’d rather see you full than being hungry all day…There. Finished.”

Bobby picked up one of the lunch bags sitting on the counter.

“I’m gonna be late for the school bus. See ya, Mom.” When Bill walked into the kitchen, she greeted ‘Goliath in a shirt and tie’ with a smile.

“You’re right, dear. This conversation is finished. Have a good day.”

B

obby walked to the back of the bus, past the expected giggles and snickers, and kept his head down. He wanted to see if Bulldog Sergio was on the bus but didn’t dare.

Once it was in motion, he closed his eyes and tightly held the lunch bag with his short, stubby fingers.

Suddenly, the giggles stopped. Bobby opened his eyes. It was Sergio! The human serpent was slinking a path right to him.

Bobby’s hands shook.

“Hey, lookie here, folks,” taunted Bulldog. “It’s Bobby Sloppy! Did you come to try to learn something today? Or did you need help with adding a few lumps to that peewee brain of yours, huh? What’s this? Cat got your—” Bulldog’s eyes narrowed in on Bobby’s lunch bag. He yelled to his girlfriend, “Hey, Gypsy girl. You bring a lunch today? No?” Bobby sank his teeth into his lip. Not wanting any trouble, he surrendered his lunch even before the bully took it. Sergio rummaged through the bag like a snarling dog, and then stepped on everything except the sandwich.

He flung it toward his girlfriend. “Here you go, Gypsy. A present for ya. Vivian wouldn’t want you going through the day hungry.” All the kids laughed.

C

arol was drinking tea at the kitchen table when Bobby came home.

“Hi, son. How was your lunch?”

“It was good,” replied Bobby.

His rapid blinking and lack of eye contact confirm her suspicion—Bobby was lying. He went to the sink, washed his hands, and took a deep breath.

“Mom, I didn’t eat my lunch today. Sergio always picks on me and takes my lunches. If I don’t give them to him, he punches me and—” A phone call interrupted his confession.

Carol placed her hand over her heart. “Vivian! Slow down…What? I’m so sorry. Is she alright? What’s her condition?”

Carol’s favorite teacup fell through her shaking hand and on to the floor when she saw a familiar silhouette outside the door.

“Mom? What is it?”

Bill walked in and put his lunch down.

This isn’t possible. He should be dead.

“Carol. Remember the meeting I told you about? I was going to treat you to a dinner but—” “D-didn’t you eat your lunch?”

“No, I didn’t. It looked like the same boring lunch as usual.

Besides, that brilliant boy of yours took the wrong one to school. I ended up getting a bag marked Bobby instead of Bill.

Why?” “Hello? Carol, are you there? I cant believe I have to identify Gypsy at the hospital. How could this have happened?”

Carol slumped back in her chair. “Oh, God!” 

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MEET OUR CONTRIBUTORS ANDREW SACKS

(p8) is a college Professor of English, currently teaching in two local community colleges in the Southern California area. He is also a rated chess master. Andrew’s freelance literary output includes article on chess, and flash fiction, as well as parodies of well-known poems. Contact Andrew: ajsacks@earthlink.net.

ART HEIFETZ (p10) has had over 80 poems published in the U.S., France, India, Spain, Canada, Argentina, Israel and Australia. See polishedbrasspoems.com for more of his work.

CLAIRE T. FEILD

(p13) is an English composition instructor. She has had 262 poems accepted for print publication in 192 literary journals, such as, The Tulane Review; Chinaberries and Crows: An Anthology (Solomon and George Publishers); Palimpsest: A Creative Journal of the Humanities; Veil: A Journal of Darker Musings (Small Press Publishers of High-Caliber Poetry in Tucson, Arizona); Skive Magazine; and Zymbol Magazine.

COLIN CAMPELL

(p13, 17), originally from Scotland, is ever-so-lucky to be able to divide his year between homes in Sarawak on the lovely green island of Borneo and faraway in Yunnan in southwest China. He writes short fiction and poetry and spends way too much time on www.colincampbell.org and www.shortstory.mobi.

JEREMY BUSH

(p9) lives

in western New York with his beautiful wife, Bekah, and their son, Andy. Check out his website www.jeremybush.weebly.com to read more samples of his work and see where else his stories have been published.

JOHN MUETER

(p14) is an educator, composer, writer and vocal coach/accompanist. His opera Everlasting Universe was premiered by the Kansas City Civic Opera in 2007. His fiction has appeared in Freedom Forge Press, Wilde Oats Journal and Biblioteca Alexandrina. He currently teaches at the University of Kansas in Lawrence. He can be reached at: johnmueter@gmail.com.

MONIQUE BERRY

(p21) is the founder of Halcyon, Praise Writers, and Twisted Endings. She also founded the former Perspectives and Christian Perspectives magazines. Monique has published stories and poems in The Sitter’s Companion, Searching for Answers Anthology, and Rock Bottom Journal. She is the workshop leader of a local writers group “First Impressions.” Monique lives in Hamilton, ON, Canada. Contact Monique at monique.editor@gmail.com.

PAUL JENNER

(p18) is

RUTH PARKER

(p5) is

a teacher living and working in Sheffield, England. He has been teaching math for nearly a decade and has recently begun writing fiction, in-between changing his new son's diapers and shaping the mathematical minds of tomorrow. More of his work can be found at Infective Ink, Alfie Dog Fiction and on my website, http://pauljenner.blog.co.uk/. a retired teacher living in Winona, ON. She has short stories published in Finding Your Unique Voice. When not writing, Ruth enjoys knitting, creating stained glass gifts, singing in a choir, working out at the gym, and spending time with her grandchildren. Contact Ruth at nruthparker@hotmail.com.

TERESA KARLINSKI

(p11) lives with her family in Ontario, Canada. She is a grandmother and a student of life.

Retirement finally allowed her immersion in short story writing. Her latest publication is in an anthology, Flashes from the Bistro, a collection of stories from only 50 to 150 words. Contact Teresa at teresakarlinski@gmail.com.

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TWISTED ENDINGS EXPLAINED “THE LAST WORD” The Last Word is the very piece in which the short story writer's ambition failed while composing.

“THE TIP” I didn't want to discuss broken bodies on rocks at the end of the story so I decided to turn it into a final scene in a movie being shot.

“A PLAN OF ESCAPE” The main character finds life outside state prison difficult after having spent so much of his life incarcerated. He plans to get sent back to the prison, where he will feel at home. However, the new crime he commits results in his being sent to a federal prison, where he will not be at home.

“SLAMMED” Every kingdom has its protocol; disobey at your risk. The Royal Feline demands respect and regular meals.

Ignore these basic needs and your head, or your airway passages, might get snuffed.

“ZITS” Our intrepid hero invents an outlandish story to explain his bandaged nose and ends up in his girlfriend's arms, enjoying the sweets which give him zits in the first place.

“DONUT HOLE” At the close it turns out that his new “friend,” in actuality a compatriot of the other player, had misadvised him in Spanish, a language the protagonist was unfamiliar with, to think he was offering a draw—but in fact he was resigning the game.

“EARLY ON A FRIDAY MORNING” It's a straightforward ending. The story makes you think it's an angry mob or a riot - but it turns out to be the shopping crowd on Black Friday.

“FREE REMOVAL” George realizes when he reads the label on the box that he's the "old model" being replaced. I like to leave it up to the reader's imagination exactly what that label says!

“FLUSTER” One Interpretation: There are some big women who don't care whom they hurt as long as they have front row seats to hear a political debate among controversial political speakers. Before the speakers come to the podiums, the women's cries are acute or sharp because they want answers from the political leaders who are about to speak. Ironically, toward the end of the speeches, some of the women are asleep! The last line suggests this because the first "HEAR" notes the women are at attention. The second "Hear" suggests their interest in the speeches is diminishing. The third "Hear" suggests some are completely tuned out. So their hitting each other to get a good seat is a disappointment. Further, the women are all flustered as they want those special seats and will do what they can to get the great seats.

“IN A BOTTLE” This little poem might be a love message in a bottle - long ago into the ocean and now found. Or perhaps, the memories are just in a bottle of whisky. In either case, there is a time to put it "back in the bottle."

“MAJESTIC” Once Jeff and Barbara found out about the ghost, the romantic lead in a play, and that the ghost still plays his part with enthusiasm, it was all too clear why Mildred and Lillian were unwilling to discuss or reopen the theater. After all, everyone knew the Sullivan girls worked there for years… What would people say? The bonus for Jeff and Barbara is after all these years, they will finally get together.

“A NIGHT AT THE THEATER” My story is in the genre of alternative historical fiction. What if, as historical events unfold, there is a little snag that changes everything? The 'surprise' in my story happens near the beginning and things go downhill from there.

“PENELOPE’S POISONOUS PLAN” Penelope settles down (with her good-old teddy bear) to anticipate her revenge on (untrustworthy) Cindy. The herbal tea (laxative) will mean that Cindy will have ever-so-loose bowels when she is live in front of the TV cameras in the studio.

“THE INTRUDER” It's a straightforward ending. It turns out the intruder was the dog which had run away from home.

“THE PLAN” A bullied wife plans to end her husband’s life with the support of her best friend. But poor planning and a switched lunch bag cost an innocent girl her life. And in the end, no one got what they wanted.

Twisted Endings September 2013

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© SEPTEMBER 2013 | MONIQUE BERRY HAMILTON, ON, CANADA

24 | Twisted Endings September 2013