My short story submission for the 2013 Annual Writer's Showcase.

One day a cop showed up on my doorstep with no idea of who he was.
         Retired now, my primary job was to cultivate my garden. I cared for my garden as much as a young girl cares for the doll she sleeps next to at night. Sometimes, I would even take a break from doing the laundry just to check on my tomatoes and petunias.  Today was one of those days when the carnations and lilies seemed more important than the whites and darks.  As strange as it may seem, my husband and I lived in a maturing urban development, which had faced several robberies on Sunday nights, recently known as the Sunday Robberies.  The robber had still not been caught. 
         Grabbing a pair of scissors from the house to better manage the weeds in my garden, I could feel my heart jump as I saw a cop sitting on my doorstep.
I approached the gentleman as one would approach a stray animal.
         He watched me and made a strange noise like he was clearing his throat.
         “I need to see some ID,” I told him.
         “What ID do you need?” he asked me.  He spoke slowly with a slight backwoods accent and turned his head to the side like my old dog Tulip used to do when she needed to relieve herself. 
         “To prove that you’re a cop.” 
         He showed me realistic-looking ID while scratching his balding brown hair.
         “Are you here because of the Sunday Robberies?”
         Mention of the robberies made him jerk his head like I used to when I felt myself falling asleep in lectures. “Can I come in, ma’am?” he said.
         Keeping my eye on the cop, I realized that I had not locked the door. I wondered if the strange man had stolen anything, but scolded myself for accusing a cop of theft. With the man in my home, my eyes darted around the corners of the room, and I felt like a sleuth. The eyes of our hunting trophies also kept a look out above my fireplace.
         “What is your name, sir?” I asked as he took a seat on my brown leather armchair.
         “Pete,” said the cop, looking dazed and unpredictable. “That’s a mighty fine grandfather clock there, ma’am.”
         I was about to say thank you when Pete said, “Let me ask you something, ma’am. Do you know why the robber likes to leave spare change on the dining room table of the homes he robs?” the cop asked, as if something had clicked in his brain.
         “How would you know that the robber likes to do that, sir?” I said.
         “I don’t know,” the cop said.
         “How about you just stay here, sir, while I get us some tea?” I said, feeling my hands get clammy and a strange pulse in my neck. The cop stared at me blankly.
         Once in the kitchen, I thought of my husband, hitting golf balls on the driving range with the neighbors. With his memory diminishing and his health leaving him in old age, I encouraged him to spend time out wherever he wanted to go. In turn, he encouraged my gardening, telling me that before he spends his last day, he would like to see me plant every flower in the world. No longer wanting the strange policeman to pose a threat to our happy home, I dialed 911, keeping my voice down as much as I could. “There’s a man here,” I said. “Pete is his name, and he claims to be one of your own.”
         “Yes, ma’am, we do have a Deputy Pete,” came the policeman on the other line. “What’s the problem?”
         “He’s in a rather unusual state, and he arrived at my doorstep for no apparent reason,” I said, my voice shaking on the last word. I gave the officer my address, and he said he would be arriving shortly. I thought of calling my husband as well, but he would either be too startled for his health, or not remember by the time he came home. One thing he said that always stayed with me was that, “No matter what my mind decides to forget, love never leaves a heart, and there you’ll always be.”
         Before pouring the tea for my unexpected visitor, I peeked around the kitchen corner to see if the cop was still in my living room. He wasn’t.
         The grandfather clock chimed, and if I had poured tea it would have fallen on the floor, shattering into sharp puzzle pieces. I don’t quite know why, but I expected closet doors to swing open, unleashing the man and all of his fury. Instead of waiting for this moment, I walked back to the kitchen as quickly as someone my age could. I missed my terrier Tulip who startled everyone in passing, barking a shrill bark as if there was always an intruder. Now that Tulip was no longer here when I needed him, I decided to grab a knife. I wasn’t even sure how to lunge such an object at an enemy, but holding it gave me a sense of command; It was like I had gained two feet taller, had all the abilities of one half my age, and had gained the power of a mountain lion ready to spring on its prey.
         All of these traits soon vanished, however, upon giving the real police department quite a fright when they showed up at my doorstep, watching a gray-haired woman approaching them with a knife.
         “Put down the—“
         “There’s an intruder in my house!” I said, lowering the knife to my side.
         “Set down the knife, and we will investigate,” the policeman said. “Outside with another policeman you can wait.”
         Outside was just where I wanted to be, among my flowers and vegetables that would not harm a flea.
         The real policeman reported back once they had found the intruder coming back from the restroom. “It looks like it could be drugs,” said the real cop.  “We’ll have to test his blood and urine to see if he’s been overdosing. Then we’ll report back to you, ma’am.”
         “Thank you, sir,” I said. 
         Two days later I answered the phone in the kitchen while cutting onions for a vegetable stew.
         “Is this Mrs. Melany Below?” a policeman asked.
         I confirmed.
         “I would like to congratulate you, ma’am, on giving us a major lead for the case of the Sunday Robberies.”
         “Excuse me?” I said with a laugh. 
         The cop said: “Mr. Dredge, you see, who arrived on your doorstep earlier this week was suffering from drug-induced amnesia.  Whoever is the mastermind behind these robberies was drugging Mr. Dredge, telling him to rob houses, leave spare change on their tables, and report back to him or her with food and money.”
         I once again felt as triumphant as I had with the butcher knife in hand.
         The cop said: “Mr. Dredge lost his identity as a police officer and was given a new one as a thief by someone we have yet to find and punish.  Thank you for this lead, Mrs. Below.”
         “Thank you, sir,” I said. “I’m glad I could help.”  Then I hung up the phone, my face white as a daisy.
         “Who was that on the phone, Melany?” my husband asked from the couch.
         “You should be calling me Nancy Drew instead,” I said, and my husband did just that after the retelling of my story.        
         Nancy Drew did a lot of things and solved a lot of mysteries, but she could not tend a garden better than I.  No type of drug-induced amnesia could ever be strong enough to make me forget that.

        

            


Short story submission by Amy Mastrangelo, presented at the 2012 Annual Writer's Showcase at Lebanon Valley College:

Part 1 
            The silver building was cylinder-shaped and had no windows.  A long line of people stood waiting to step inside every day.
            “What’s going to happen to those people, Mommy?” her daughter asked with cantaloupe eyes. 
            “Oh, they’re just waiting to see some people.” The young mother was frail, her face drawn.
            “Who, Mommy?”
            She stopped walking, hesitant to answer.  "People,” her voice shook, “people who will make them feel better.”
            “Like a doctor?”
            “Yeah, like a doctor.”
            “But not a doctor?”
            The mother paused again.  “No, not quite,” she answered, and her seven-year-old daughter seemed satisfied.
            Tomorrow her daughter would be taken to the Waiting Room.  Tomorrow was her day, but she was not afraid.
            “Home!” her daughter squealed.
            The house was a small, gray cube, like so many others.  Inside, a fire danced and soft music spread through the house like air freshener.  Everything was in its place.            
            The mother sat down on her red leather couch and read her daughter the book all parents were supposed to read their children called, The New Life:            
            "Have one house, little Andrea.  Have one child.  Have one pet.  Have only what you need, and do not be upset.  Have one husband, little Andrea.  But let him have one job.  Take care of your daughter or son.  Go on a vacation, but only go on one.  Visit the Psychic once a month, little Andrea.  He will tell you what to expect.  He will keep you sane.  You won't have reason to cry, and you won't feel any pain.”
Part 2            
            Though most of the city was gray, there was an emerald grove of evergreen trees, and in this grove sat the sleek, silver building known as the Waiting Room.  Once the mother and daughter stepped inside this room, their ears were filled with children's laughter.  The mother felt that this was a safe place to leave her daughter, amongst other children, toys, and adult Helpers.  She notified a Helper of her daughter's presence and she was wished a "Happy Checkup."           
             Within minutes she was waiting in the long line leading from the cylindrical silver building with no windows.  She thought of her daughter.  She thought of her future.  Then, following the rules, she attempted to clear her mind of all thoughts until she saw him.           
             "Good morning," he greeted her once she was inside the building.  "Please have a seat."            
            She sat and became lost in his olive eyes.  His mustache hung down to each side of his mouth, curling at the ends like music notes.  His skin was beginning to sag, and his hairline was receding.            
            "Are you sane?" he asked her.  "Are you of the right mind?"            
            "Yes."            
            "Then you will prosper.  You have nothing to fear.  Follow the ways of the government and you will be happy, your daughter will grow and continue to be happy, and your husband will continue his success in his line of work.  All will be okay as long as you are of the right mind."            
            "Thank you, Psychic.  Please accept this as a token of my appreciation," she spoke and handed him one hundred dollars.           
            "Thank you, and be sure to return this same date and time next month."            
            "Of course."            
            Everything was right in the world.  That's what they were told, and so it was.

A short story by Amy Mastrangelo:

The record spun round and round the turntable, lessening Ruby’s heartbeat. She held the newspaper close to her chest, then unfolded the paper and read the title once more, “Bartlett, 38, dies in tragic railway accident,” before opening her door and stepping out into the solemn sunset.

The tears were building up in Ruby’s eyelids as she entered the dark, dismal train station. Many beggars and homeless lined the walls eyeing up her fur coat and the felt, bell-shaped cloche hat atop her cropped brown curls. Ruby avoided their eyes and continued down the station filled with a new air of economic and emotional depression, which mirrored her own heart. Many travelers passed her, heading home into the twilight, to the little food at their tables.

“One ticket to Brooklyn, please,” Ruby told the overseer at the gate. She could just taste the bitter-tasting alcohol on her lips as she received her ticket.

Her husband’s body had been severely mangled on the train tracks, and his right hand was never found. Instinctively, Ruby’s dark eyes swept the platform in search of the hand. She closed her eyes at the thought that she would never see any part of her husband’s body ever again.

Ruby had time before the train’s scheduled arrival. As she continued down the murky platform, her crimson-embroidered glove reached in her coat pocket and she felt the cold flask. Her heart beat increased and her senses heightened. The lamplights irregularly flickered around her, creating dancing shadows on the decrepit walls and illuminating gossamer spider’s webs. Ruby wondered how many rats scurried under the railroad tracks that may have investigated her beloved before detectives discovered him.

Ruby turned a desolate corner that seemed to be filled with an air of gloom and despondency. Looking over her shoulder to make sure she was completely alone, she drank the remainder of the bitter liquid in the flask. Paranoid, she quickly fled, as penalties of her habit would be severe. She sat on a bench on the platform, as the drink flooded to her brain and exhaustion swept through her body. Her eyes closed . . .

“What the hell is that?” Al whispered to himself in the dimly lit, scarcely populated train platform. Near him, a woman with cranberry-colored lips in a fur coat and a cloche hat was sleeping on a bench. Hands outstretched, intending to steal her wallet and jewelry, his eyes were distracted by a moving lamplight. Even stranger, the sinister lantern seemed to be approaching him. Squinting his eyes, Al nearly screamed when he saw a floating hand was carrying the lamplight, detached from a visible body. Al looked around him, but the platform now appeared empty besides him, the woman, and the specter.

Reaching down to steal the women’s possessions, he was not fast enough, as the hand angled the lantern to strike him on the shoulder. The man dropped to the floor in utmost fear. When he stood up, he saw the lantern on the floor, and the hand had disappeared. But then he felt the strongest force propelling him from the back. He lost consciousness as his body smacked facedown on the tracks.

Waking from her slumber, Ruby’s head spun as she stood up from the bench. She paced up and down a small section of the platform devoid of travelers, and walked to the edge of the platform out of pure curiosity. Ruby screamed, disbelieving her eyes. There was another body on the tracks, unmoving, his head bent, and his appendages at strange angles.

“Bartlett, 38, dies in tragic railway accident,” she thought and broke down in sobs. She didn’t want to catch the train to Brooklyn. She didn’t want to return to her home with only her records to keep her company. Ruby remembered twirling around the house, listening to her favorite songs, holding her husband’s hand while her other hand rested on his shoulder.

“Who will save me from this despair?” Ruby thought to herself.

Blinking the tears from her eyes, Ruby saw a floating lantern approaching her. She started backing away as she saw in horror that a hand detached from a body carried the lantern. Her eyes and mouth opened wide as an inflating balloon, and she stopped in place watching the spectacle, as she now wondered if she was hallucinating. Ruby heard the clamor of train cars on the track and the shrill train whistle approaching the platform, but her eyes were transfixed on the hand as it set down the lantern.

Now was the night late, and now was the platform very dark. The hand reached out to her, and Ruby took it.

To this day, no one knows the fate of Ruby Bartlett. But a warning to all who take the late trains alone—beware being in the path of the lamplight of the wandering hand.

Flash Fiction by Marquis Bey

He said, ‘The blacker the berry, the sweeter the juice,’ when I went up to the counter to buy my drink—‘The blacker the man, the cheaper the boots,’ I thought when he said that—‘The more colored the flesh, the less crayons in the box,’ I thought again—‘no,’ I refuted, ‘the deeper the struggle, the harder to swallow. Now stick that in your juice box and suck it. 

‘A juice box that carries in it the sweat of a country, the tears of a people, the saliva of a starving race. Find a straw that can pierce the plastic top and you'll unleash a burgeoned history that you'll imbibe with a flourish—still burgeoning. The juice has a murky hue, but it shines. Or is it dull? This juice that's so sweet, this juice that looks so sour, this juice that tastes so—gray.’ 

‘What you waitin’ for,’ he said, ‘you gave me the exact amount, no change for you.’ Where was I? 

‘The composition of gray: one part this, one part that—equal. Bullshit. At least, that’s what I'm told. The taste is a constant reminder of how far and how close. It tastes like watermelon-flavored blandness and chicken flavored blandness and grape blandness and more gray. That’s half blandness. Or is it all bland? See this, this taste is bitter sweet, sweetly bitter 'cause nobody wanna admit that it ain't pure. It ain't as raw and gritty, as strong and well-blended as we preach—you preach—they preach. I'm drinking and drinking and I feel the same shit that I always felt. They said—we said—that if I drank, ooooh man if I drank all of it, that I’d be full. They said—we said—that I’d be whole. But I still feel it.’

‘What you waitin’ for, man?’ 

‘The emptiness. I drank it all and my bladder is still on ‘E’. They lied to me; my people lied to me. No, not my, those people lied. There's no us. Didn't they say 'us'? Didn't they say there's us and there's them? All this juice talk it's like this is a cult. Then everyone drinks the Kool-Aid, and everyone dies! Cult? I thought they were the ones wearing the white robes though. But it was big, man. BIG! I don't know what to think anymore. I think, I think, I—’

“Yo, you got a bathroom?”

Credit: http://www.flash-fiction-world.com/sippin-on-sin-and-juice.html
Author Bio: http://www.flash-fiction-world.com/MarquisbeY.html