QB
Staff of QB
After the first successful transfer, technicians considered the assortment of partial memories that resisted upload. They were scents disconnected from origin, voices untethered from familiarity, and unrealized dreams from long, long ago.
A lifetime was recorded, reformatted, categorized, and tidily saved for future reference.
But fragments remained.
“Do we delete them?” one asked.
“Absolutely not. They’re all important, right?” another said.
“No—if they were, they’d have been uploaded. That’s just clutter,” a third argued.
They ultimately agreed to keep the data, but to store it locally. It was left to collect digital dust—slowly forgotten like all it contained.
BLAERGT ASSEMBLY
Step 1: Unpack pieces A–H and 1–3245.
Step 2: Step on three loose bolts. Blame your boyfriend.
Step 3: Fit socket A into joiners 17 and 18.
Step 4: Pinch your finger.
Step 5: Ask yourself if you even need this.
Step 6: Start a fight. It’s not about the table anymore.
Step 7: Rush your dog to the vet after he swallows a screw.
Step 8: Break up at the animal ER.
Step 9: Get home with a $3,000 bill. Cry on the floor.
Step 10: Throw out these instructions and start over with whatever’s left.
I want to look perfect when I see her. I disguise my now-thinning hair with curls and hairspray; check my reflection. She won’t notice a difference.
The receptionist at TimeLab smiles sadly. She’s seen me near-daily for twelve years. My request never changes.
She reminds me: Attempted Past Modification will result in a permanent ban.
I’d never risk it.
I step into the TimeBounder. Stale, icy air transforms into sunshine and chlorine.
“Mommy, watch!” Scarlett splashes in the pool. Irresistible, contagious joy.
Later, I’ll find her. Face-down and clammy. The TimeHop will end. It always does.
But, I’ll return. Tomorrow.
Crumbs Vol.001 Winner
a drabble writing contest
It is time to announce the winner of our first semi-monthly drabble writing contest!
We will be announcing April's theme on April 1st and stories will be due by April 30th. We are also making it free to enter for April, so get ready to get drabblin'.
As a reminder, the theme for February was...
And here are the winners:
The shortlist
- Nicole Babb
- Ian Stewart
- Rachel M. Hollis
Editor's pick
- Mike Range
Winner:
- Marissa Mengdi Zhu
We will be publishing their stories over the first five days of April!
“So, did you sell my house?” Craig asked.
“It’s not that easy to sell a haunted house,” Allen grumbled.
“Why can’t you grow some pretty flowers in the windowsill or sweep the floor? There’d be lines for a house with an automatic cleaning function.”
“Evil haunts don’t do that,” Craig shrugged. “I’m a very respectable and dangerous evil haunt.”
“Can’t you move into another house?”
“I can’t.”
“Well...” Allen said wistfully. “There’s still a chance you’ll find someone who likes you. And who will understand that talking to an evil haunt can be more pleasant than talking to most people.”
Natalia Plos is a horror writer. Her stories appeared in Stygian Lepus and Dark Myth Publications.
Native New Yorker. Poet. Writer. Dramatist.
LindaAnn LoSchiavo’s poetry books have won multiple awards.
My feet pound across the permafrost, enraged mammoths thundering behind me. Just ahead shimmers the portal. In a swarm of snowflakes, I leap through this doorway back into my time, stumbling as I land.
The scientist throws a switch, cutting off the Ice Age from his lab. He’s saved me from the herd’s vengeance, but I am no safer with him.
“Did you get it?”
Gasping for breath, I try to warm the frosty air in my lungs. Somehow, I find the energy to nod.
He snaps his fingers, a sound I’ve learned to dread. “Well?”
“Sir, I beg you, don’t do this.” With a shudder, I clutch to my chest the package I brought back. Inside is a blood sample I risked my life to take from a woolly mammoth, one containing a disease endemic to that species. It’s a potential bioweapon, one that could kill millions of people.
“Are you defying me?” His voice is more frigid than the era I just fled.
Tears well up in my eyes. I set the package by a row of test tubes. So many people will die, all coughing up blood, which will be on my hands. My own blood runs cold at the thought.
Nevertheless, I obey the scientist. Only the heart he built that pumps within me enables my blood to run at all. He holds its remote control.
Pamela Love worked as a teacher and in marketing before turning to writing.