Spetember 2014
Twisted Endings THE MAGAZINE FOR LOVERS OF UNPREDICTABLE PLOT TWISTS
Twisted Endings September 2014
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Welcome to Twisted Endings THE MAGAZINE FOR LOVERS
OF UNPREDICTABLE PLOT TWISTS
Frequency: March & September Founding Editor: Monique Berry Designer: Monique Berry
Website: http://twistedendings.webs.com Email: monique.editor@gmail.com Twitter: @1websurfer
Table of Contents
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Summer Barbecue Lorna Pominville
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Seven Dan Delehant
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One Day in July Irene Ferraro-Sives
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Two-Finger Finnigan Colin W Campbell
Cover: © Joshua Resnic / Photoxpress.com This page: © robertosch / DollarPhotoClub Opposite: :© Kelly Young / Photoxpress.com
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It’s time to unwrap
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Summer Barbecue By Lorna Pominville A match is struck. The barbecue bursts into flame. Everyone is in a festive mood. Aromas waft into the air. Hamburgers sizzle. Steaks sear. Chicken browns. Hot dogs grow plump. Ribs release their fatty juices. The salivating crowd comes forward to claim each meaty prize. I turn away. I am a vegan.
LORNA POMINVILLE is a retired nurse living in Sarnia, Ontario and attends the writing group, WIT (Writers in Transition). While traveling to various parts of the world working as a cruise ship nurse, she wrote monthly travel articles for an on-line magazine for eighteen months. In 2011 she wrote and self published a book of short stories titled, "Alpha! Alpha! Alpha! Tales of a Cruise Ship Nurse." The recent publication of WIT's anthology, And a River Runs By It, contains two of Lorna's short stories about Sarnia. She also dabbles in poetry. Opposite: Š Joshua Resnick | Photoxpress.com
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Seven By Dan Delehant The numbers, the numbers, always – the numbers.
Many believe, and have across the span of centuries from Pythagoras to Einstein, that everything is connected, and the glues and ligatures that bind it all together are numbers.
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esterday was Fred’s seventy-seventh birthday. He celebrated it by himself last night, sitting in Smitty’s Tavern drinking Seven & Sevens until his being so old didn’t seem to matter too much. He rolled over and looked at the clock on the little table next to his bed. 7:07. Damn! Still early, he thought. He staggered to the toilet; a long familiar headache tormenting him. He stood there relieving himself and stared at the calendar that was tacked above the toilet tank. July 7th. Hmm, he thought, seventh month, seventh day, and it’s 1977. That’s kinda strange. He turned on the coffee maker and walked slowly to the little apartment’s door and opened it and bent down and picked up the newspaper. I should drink a shot of Seagrams just to get rid of this headache. Back in the little kitchen he poured himself a shot and sipped at it as he opened the paper to the sports section. Baseball and horse racing – that’s all he cared about any more these days. The Dodgers lost to the Giants last night. It was a crazy game 17 to 7. Both teams combined to hit seven home runs. Again with the sevens, he mused. After going over the box score he flipped to the racing page and looked over the day’s horses at Santa Anita. Donnetta was running in the Third, but that filly had let him down twice now. Fred almost spilled the little bit of Seagram’s 7 he had left in his glass when his bloodshot eyes looked at the entries in the Seventh Race. Seventh Moon was listed as the seven horse, and the odds were 7-to-1! This is wild, he thought, all these sevens! I mean I gotta go for it I guess. It’s a sign for sure. Of course, everyone else will see these sevens too
and the odds will go way down. But maybe I should bet it up with every dollar I can get my hands on. This is a once in a horse-bettor’s lifetime opportunity. He finished the whiskey and poured himself some coffee. He grabbed his wallet and sat back down at the little table. The breath rushed out of his old chest when he finished counting the cash he had in his wallet. Seventy-seven dollars! At the track he put it all on Seventh Moon in the Seventh to win. He didn’t even buy a half pint of Seagrams 7 like he usually did on the way to the track. It didn’t even faze him when he counted the people as he got off the bus – he was the seventh person to exit it. Fred waited until the last moment to go to the window and place his bet. He chuckled quietly out loud as he counted the number of bettors in line in front of him – seven! He placed his bet. The odds had held. Seventh Moon remained at 7-to-1. Fred, now without a dollar to his name, only that magical win ticket in his breast pocket, walked over by the finish line. A few minutes later the bell sounded from across the infield and then the gate opened and nags came charging out.
Explanation: Seventh Moon came out of the gate clean and went smoothly to the front. Fred smiled knowingly as the horses rounded the far turn. At the quarter pole Seventh Moon was leading by three lengths. As the nags rounded the final turn and headed for home, Seventh Moon fatigued and gave up the lead. He faded badly coming down the home stretch. He finished seventh.
DAN DELEHANT has had stories appear in The Other Herald Magazine (Oct. 2011 & Jan 2014), Alfie Dog Magazine, Future in Flash online Magazine, and Twisted Endings Magazine (March 2013). He and his wife Dora live in Whittier, California. Opposite: © jedphoto / DollarPhotoClub
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Image credit | Photoxpress.com
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One Day in July By Irene Ferraro-Sives Loyalty is a two-lane highway. Kindness may replace bad tempers, even in the summer heat.
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t happened one sultry, summer day when the blacktop burned with the phantom fire of heat waves. The shimmering surface of road stretched out between happy foliage. On either side, the thicket groomed itself for the growing season. Bright wildflowers basked in the nurturing July sun. Bursts of yellow bloomed cheerfully under the tall, waving reeds and evergreens, spotting an assortment of floral shades. “I’m not mean,” the man said to the panting pooch beside him, “You won’t behave yourself. You’re too much trouble.” The dog gazed fondly at the gentleman. The puppy trotted faithfully behind hid master, stopping to chew dutifully on the green grass, patterned with clover. “Woof,” said the dog. “I’m going to find the spot,” said the man,” I’ll know it when I see it.” The heavy, laden air dazzled all around. A light breeze teased the perpetual branches, so full with time against the piercing, blue sky. The perfume of verdant pine was penetrating. It seized the man’s senses and flooded his mind. A rabbit ran furtively into the dense cover. It stopped as still as stone, barely breathing as the man passed with his dog. The canine sniffed the air suspiciously, but otherwise barely seemed to notice. “You’re so dumb you don’t even know enough to chase a rabbit. I’m tired of putting up with you and your worthless ways. I’ll know the spot when I find it. I’m just going to leave you there,” said the man. He stopped to take a drink of water from a commercial bottle. “I’m not even going to give you any water. Find your own,” said the man. The dog halted and cocked his ears. The azure heavens tumbled from the golden cup of the sun. The tar road disappeared in a convening of vegetation. The double yellow lines in the highway’s center vanished, too, in the very same place. The dog listened, but the man heard nothing. “Around that bend, that’s the place. You’ll be tied so you can’t follow me. If you chew through
the leather leash, don’t come home. I don’t want to see you, again,” said the man. The dog led the man, trotting gaily around the curve, taking possession of the spot with the natural right of one of earth’s animals. A joyful yip rode the air, dissolving into the bushes, a glass ball of glee turned to dust by distance. The steamy temperatures settled comfortably into the shadows. “I guess you’re more eager than I am,” said the man. “Look, Joe, I know we’ve had some issues,” said a voice. The man looked around, but there was no one present, except for him and the dog. “Why don’t you lighten up?” the voice continued. The man looked at his dog, timidly. “Give me another chance,” it said. “You’re not talking to me, are you? I’ve been walking too long in the hot, July sun. I’m exhausted and dehydrated,” said the man. “Keep telling yourself it’s your imagination, if it makes you feel better,” said the dog. The summer heat danced along the highway, telltale spirits of the equinox. They would perform until the evergreens were laden with berries and pinecones, until all the flowers bore fruit. Then, they would be gone, escaping before autumn painted the first layer of frost. The man puzzled over his dilemma. Was it the enchantment of a summer day, or was he simply losing his mind? “I’m taking you home,” said the man to his dog. He turned around, the dog following at his heels. He walked a homeward mile, sticky with sweat, following the highway, which was the way he came. A cool bath would be welcome. He was glad he was going home.
IRENE FERRARO-SIVES was born in Brooklyn, NY. She currently lives in New Jersey with her husband. Irene has been writing since she was nine.
Opposite: © termis1983 / DollarPhotoClub
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Two-Fingers Finnigan By Colin W. Campbell A young lad who is lost and found and more in the bitter cold.
“What are you looking at me? I guess you want to see if I’ve been dealt a full hand?” Two-Fingers Finnigan spat blood, warm and salty on the snow as he pulled off his heavy gloves. Young Tom didn’t get too close. Old TwoFingers may be hurt and pinned under a rock-fall, but he came with a fearsome reputation for evil doing. “See, I’ve still got my ten fingers, handy that,” said Two-Fingers waving a large hand at the boy. He reached deep inside his winter furs to pull out a stub of a pencil and a cigarette pack to draw a map on. “And lucky you came along, with me like this and you lost and going round in circles in the wilderness.” “I wasn’t very lost. So where did you get the name then?” said Tom, pulling his scarf tighter against the sting of wind-driven snow. “Cos I’m not afraid to do this to the whole world.” The old man grinned and held up two fingers to the world, to his injured legs, to everything. “Take this, it’s all I’ve got,” said Tom. But he bit off half the chocolate bar for himself first. After all, even with scribbled directions he would still need his own strength to get all the way back down through the winter weather. “Don’t go away,” said Tom. He laughed rather too loudly as he set off down the valley. Two-Fingers shouted after him through the wind. “Don’t get lost, you got a map now. Just get back on the trail and stay on it this time. And remember boy, you’ve got to come back for me.” Young Tom stumbled off. Soon the daylight was gone but a little of the light of a full moon was now pushing through the swirling snow. He cursed the cold. He cursed the snow but most of all he cursed himself for coming out here on his own and getting lost. He thought of finding old
Two-Fingers, alone in the wilderness, injured and helpless and depending on a young lad not yet finished school to bring help. This ought to make him famous on Facebook, the local papers, even the TV. The boy saw the lights of the logging camp first. Then there was the smell of wood-smoke carried along in the wind. He quickened his pace throwing up a flurry of cold drift-snow with every forced step. And then there was shouting and he know he was safe and warm. “Tom, don’t talk, just rest. Thank Goodness you’re safe. We’ve just heard about the prison break-out on the radio.” The voice of the logger sounded far-away and dreamlike to the exhausted boy. “Escape?” said Tom. “Yes, Two-Fingers Finnigan escaped. He used to live around here before he got locked up, so the word is he might be heading back to familiar territory.” “But ...,” Young Tom started to speak and what a story to tell. He was interrupted. “But nothing. He’s dangerous. By the way, you don’t suppose they ever told you it was him about that thing with your mother all these years ago?” said the logger. Tom didn’t reply. He paused at the warm stove and then slowly went over to the window and held up two fingers in the general direction of the winter wilderness. “Two-Fingers?” said Tom. “Didn’t see nothing. Just snow, lots of snow.” Explanation: A nice young lad suddenly become changed for ever when he understood cold revenge. At last, Tom knows who had hurt his mother all these years ago. The map has been burned in the stove and Two-Fingers Finnigan will die alone in the snow.
COLIN CAMPELL 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. Opposite: © drx / Photoxpress.com
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September 2014
Twisted Endings THE MAGAZINE FOR LOVERS OF UNPREDICTABLE PLOT TWISTS
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