PHOTO © R.D. GIRVAN 2018.   ‘RECAP, REPEAT, REPRISE’ © R.D GIRVAN 2018.

Rupal Singh ran down the hall, open lab coat streaming behind him like a low-slung cape.

He slammed down the crash bar with both hands, banged through the emergency doors and into the Asylum’s North Wing.

The PA system intoned, “Dr. Singh, please proceed to Room 417 North; Dr. Singh to 4-1-7 North.”
He careened past the main floor “You are Here” map showing the location of the elevators and advising an alternate route in the event of an emergency. He hit the stairs, running hard.

Winded by the time he reached the fourth floor, he stopped, smoothed his hair, fixed his tie.

Can’t have Ruth seeing me so disheveled. Flustered. Discombobulated.

***

Hello, Gang of Glorious Readers, Rhea here.

I am entering stories into contests, some of which do not allow any previous publication or posting of the entries of any kind, even on a blog.

If you would like to read the entire story, send me your email address and I will forward it to you. Also, I could add you to an email list of those who want the whole shebang automatically sent to their inbox.

Best always, RDG

PHOTO © R.D. GIRVAN 2018.  ‘WHITE FLAGS’ © R.D. GIRVAN 2018

The Crosstown bus swerved around a crater and struggled back into it’s own lane. Without looking up from his brochure, Jack kept his footing and slung his gas mask over his other arm. The bus clipped the edge of a blast hole, jarring the commuters. He reached up to steady himself, his wedding ring clinking on the aluminium bar overhead.
Jack’s grandfather would have said, “What season follows Winter, in Edmonton? Construction.” Not a lot of construction crews out this Spring, though; most people still standing were on Clean-Up details. Or had joined Removal teams.
The bus strained up a hill. Someone pulled the bell cord and the driver called out the next stop, “176^th and Yellowhead Highway!” Jack scrunched down to see out the window. From this height he could see the precision, the efficiency of the Enemy’s bombs. The City’s main railway depot – a carefully engineered, controlled chaos of lights and wires and switches and signals – lay, safe and untouched, behind a moat of tangled, twisted railway iron. The Enemy strikes had pulverized the lines leading in and the tracks leading out. Jack had noticed, though no one else seemed to: they only destroyed the parts that could be easily fixed. All the techy stuff – the finicky, expensive, labour-intensive parts – remained untouched.

***

Hello, Gang of Glorious Readers, Rhea here.

I am entering stories into contests, some of which do not allow any previous publication or posting of the entries of any kind, even on a blog.

If you would like to read the entire story, send me your email address and I will forward it to you. Also, I could add you to an email list of those who want the whole shebang automatically sent to their inbox.

Best always, RDG

Check it out at https://storgy.com/

Dick rubbed the surgical scar that scratched across his chest, straight and true.

Connie kept saying that said he should complete it with a tattoo. “Add some feathers and an arrowhead point,” she said, “like Cupid’s.”

Dick had said, “How do you come up with this shit? Why the hell would I do that?”

Their son Brad had crowed, “Mom, Dad doesn’t get the point!” and the two of them laughed over the stupid pun. Both kids had turned out weird, like her. Weird and weak.
Privately, though, Dick was already considering a tattoo. All the old guys were getting them, using morbid humour to whistle past their fears. Anything to appear in control. Calm, cool and collected, as they used to say in High School. Large and in charge. Chill.

His friend Joe had a tattoo of a zipper, teeth half-open around shiny scar tissue, marking where doctors would slice into his chest to access his pacemaker batteries.  Pretty cool. Not as good as the art Dick wanted, of a skeletal hand flipping the bird, but still cool. Of course, thanks to Connie, he never would receive the benefit of having his batteries replaced regularly with fresh, brand new models. He was stuck with these rechargeable ones. For the rest of his life.

***

Hello, Gang of Glorious Readers, Rhea here.

I am entering stories into contests, some of which do not allow any previous publication or posting of the entries of any kind, even on a blog.

If you would like to read the entire story, send me your email address and I will forward it to you. Also, I could add you to an email list of those who want the whole shebang automatically sent to their inbox. Unfortunately, you will never, ever, be able to unsubscribe from the email list, mwahahaha! Kidding, of course.

Best always, RDG

PS: Never!!!

Malpractice © 2018 R.D. Girvan

I bounced down that slope as though fleeing for my life, my car bottoming out on the hummock that split the deeply-etched driveway.

Frank had told me it was over two miles long, his road, and it hadn’t been plowed properly since the County had installed GPS trackers on their equipment and started charging folks for the grader. He wasn’t about to pay for crews to come out and take care of it.  It was their road.
If you looked on a map, you could see a little dotted line that cut clean across his property, and that was the County’s road allowance. They stopped maintaining it, he said, when he fenced in his entire section of land. He said they claimed he blocked their way and denied access to other residents. He said no one should be using the road anyhow, it led right past his house to the lake and Devil’s Lake had been in his family for generations. Sometimes, he sounded almost reasonable.

From the top of the hill, I could see that the gates were now shut, and as I bounced closer, something glinted sullenly in the tepid sunlight: fresh chain joining the two rusted cattle gates. I would have to ram them. In a Civic, no less.

***

Hello, Gang of Glorious Readers, Rhea here.

I am entering stories into contests, some of which do not allow any previous publication or posting of the entries of any kind, even on a blog.

If you would like to read the entire story, send me your email address and I will forward it to you. Also, I could add you to an email list of those who want the whole shebang automatically sent to their inbox. Unfortunately, you will never, ever, be able to unsubscribe from the email list, mwahahaha! Kidding, of course.

Best always, RDG

(Never!!!)

©2018 Zakk Goertzen

Words Are Not Enough

Words are not enough to describe how I feel,
To always place second and never speel.
Over and over, silver I receive,
Never earning gold, it’s hard to believe.
Not going up or down but staying the same,
Only seeing myself as the one to blame.
Words can’t describe it, they can’t even start,
The feeling it stimulates just tears me apart.
Some people say that second is just the first loser,
Personally,
It feels like a fatal abuser.
There’s always someone that has been a bit better,
Each time, my soul feels a little deader.
Words are not enough to explain what’s in my head,
Every time I place second,
The pain I must dread.

Every time I place second,
The pain goes unsaid.