Jolanta Polk

“A RECIPE WITH A PINCH” by Jolanta Polk

Submitted to Contest #270

The kitchen is neat; fat-bellied copper pots glisten on hooks, dishes are stacked on a rack, an old-fashioned toaster for refreshing corn tortillas is scrubbed of all residues and shiny, and amidst them all, is she -  the Queen of Lard Cakes, the Princess of Preserving Jars, the Gravy Goddess, Doña Flor. Her apron is stained with the remnants of countless culinary conquests, while her hands tell the tale of years spent crafting exquisite masterpieces. "Chop the onions into small pieces,” she whispers to herself. The white bulb of ...

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“BEST SERVED COLD” by Jolanta Polk

Submitted to Contest #270

(some strong language, death)His jaw almost dropped when he spotted her relaxed at the table, her arm casually draped over the back of the chair like she owned not only the apartment but even the whole building."What ya lookin' at?" she asked, her accent a strange mix of British and Australian, surprising him even more.She looked nothing like the woman he remembered—her blonde hair was freshly shampooed and combed. She was wearing a clean T-shirt with the Van Halen band emblem, and her eyes were bright and focused. It seemed as if ...

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“ Go tell it to the dolphins.” by Jolanta Polk

Submitted to Contest #265

It was my first trip to Brazil. The flight from Rio to Manaus in the little twin-engine Cessna Skylight seemed to last forever, and the constant turbulence made me feel queasy.I flipped through an old in-flight magazine promoting the Sugar Loaf while sipping lukewarm whisky, but my thoughts were drawn to the dossier the newspaper had put together on Manaus Mayor Inacio Oliveira. I was to interview him and find out the truth about his alleged involvement in a corruption scandal.Oliveira, an ambitious businessman and takeover tycoon,...

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“PANDORA'S BOX” by Jolanta Polk

Submitted to Contest #244

I cry so rarely that I sometimes suspect I lack proper lachrymal ducts. Because no matter how miserable I feel, how low my heart sinks, or how far I am knocked sideways, I barely shed a tear. I didn’t cry when my dad was killed in a car accident when I was eight. Or when Matt, my husband of ten years, decided to leave with Alice, his best friend’s wife.But now I realize there is nothing physically wrong with me, and I learned restraint from my grandmother, Anneliese, because crying is not for survivors like us.“Carrying emotions on the sleev...

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“Amber Alert” by Jolanta Polk

Submitted to Contest #242

Two days before Christmas, Roman Kopman, a 48-year-old anthropologist, woke up at seven a.m. like he had done for the past twenty-five years. Just as he was about to shrug out of his boxer shorts on his way to the bathroom, his attention was captured by the voice of a newsreader. "We have an intriguing update on the cigar-shaped interstellar object known as Oumuamua. It seems that this celestial visitor, which made its way into our solar system in mid-December, is showing signs of acceleration. Oumuamua, which reaches speeds of up to 54...

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“ONCE UPON A TIME IN LABARCA” by Jolanta Polk

Submitted to Contest #233

Labarca had never been more than a one-lane hamlet with three dozen houses slouching like dozing hens in a coop. The valley cradling the village was surrounded by hills overgrown by ferns, imported Oregon pines, Australian eucalyptuses, and native espinos—low, prickly bushes speckled with duck-yellow flowers that stole threads from trespassers’ clothing. The place smelled of oblivion, and the winding roads leading there were so little used that thistles, nettles, and dandelion sprouted between the ruts.Labarcans lived on acre plots and their...

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“As I Grow Old, I Remember” by Jolanta Polk

1.     My very first memory - I was three or four.  My mother's girandole earrings (I later learned it was pronounced "jeer-an-dou-lee"), with three green stones dangling at the bottom, the centerpiece slightly lower than the other two. Not Swarovski, but Jablonex, mass-produced behind the Iron Curtain in the neighboring Czech Republic. All year round, Mom kept them locked in a box wrapped in a handkerchief smelling of "Pani Walewska," a fragrance sold in ultramarine bottles for 5 zloty (also the price of ...

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“Bon Appetit” by Jolanta Polk

Submitted to Contest #228

Death, crime, The black limousine with tinted windows and custom-made license plates pulled up in front of “L’hippocampe d’argent” in the heart of Paris. Its passenger, Jean Luc Toussaint, an overweight man with unusually short legs, wobbled out onto the ice-covered street, fighting for breath like a trout caught in a net. The fairy lights on the Christmas tree outside the restaurant's entrance flooded his face in greens, reds, and yellows, giving the impression that he was about to collapse in front of the festive crowd on their way to th...

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“A not-so-run-of-the-mill hero ” by Jolanta Polk

Submitted to Contest #224

At 7 p.m. on the dot, Herbert Brown, age thirty-eight, a surveillance officer at NoIntrusion Inc., opens the door to the control room and settles down for the night shift. Although the title sounds imposing, Hebert will only press buttons, watch fifty monitors, and try to stay awake for the next twelve hours. Because, frankly, the job is mind-numbing.  Since he started three months ago, no would-be intruder has tripped off a single alarm in any of the Montecito, Santa Barbara mansions he is tasked with watching. The combination of sp...

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“THE MIGHTY HOPES THAT MAKE US MEN” by Jolanta Polk

Submitted to Contest #223

I enter the rehearsal room, sensing something meaningful will happen to me today, and immediately spot her vixen face, green eyes, and corn-colored hair. She has a unique look about her. Maybe it's the way she nibbles on her bottom lip when she smiles. She is new to the band and must have joined while I was in Nicaragua last month. For the first time in eighteen years... When I see her surname on the list, my heart skips a beat. Sophie Candelle… Rioting emotions obstruct the passage of words in my throat. I brace myself and continu...

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“THE WRITING CLASS” by Jolanta Polk

Submitted to Contest #222

There were three of us in the little cafe squeezed between a dime store and a launderette in Little Italy. We had the place to ourselves; it was too late for the night-time boozers who dropped in to hose down their stomachs irritated by the excessive intake of Manhattans and too early for the mid-day pastrami-on-rye guzzlers from nearby offices. If anybody wondered why a would-be writer, born, bred, and baptized in the Dublin Liberties, was more frequently than not seen in the company of two octogenarians born, bred, and bar-mitzvahed in pre...

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“BIRDS OF PARADISE” by Jolanta Polk

Submitted to Contest #218

The unusual sound came from the toolshed just as dusk began to blur Bilburry Hall's contours. Something resembling wings flapping against bushes or dozens of creatures attempting to flee the constraints of the wooden structure. Even though it was more of a feeling than an actual noise, Tom Davies, the gardener, couldn't resist investigating further. He approached the structure with caution, his heart beating with apprehension.Of late, he noticed strange things happening in the garden. Things that, on their own, could...

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“THE WOMAN FROM A BOTERO PAINTING” by Jolanta Polk

The Woman from a Botero Painting  Harriet headed to the seventh floor as soon as she entered the building. The class was in full swing, with three couples dancing, exuding sensuality, and divining each other’s every move. At the other end of the room, she spotted a group of men standing beside a slim woman in a dress split on one side right up to the hip. Harriet thought it was Jenny Green, the teacher. They were laughing and talking, but not too loudly, because she could hear the melody from "Scent of a Woman" over the conversation...

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“REGENERATOR” by Jolanta Polk

Submitted to Contest #215

REGENERATOR She was starving. At least, that’s what the human who fed called this gnawing feeling in her gut. She could hear the intense grumbling in her stomach as hunger writhed inside her like a viper. Her salivary glands, triggered by the thought of food, squirted gallons of a viscous liquid, not unlike burnt gasoline, straight into her gullet. It was pure fire. She couldn't remember the last time she had eaten anything. When was that exactly? A year ago? Two? The yearning for food was so intense that it almost tore a hole in her...

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