crumbs

I meet him in a liquidation store in Lansing, Iowa, a town that lost its bridge to the mainland. Everything in here is leftover, discontinued. He's holding a whisk.

We drive forty minutes for grapefruit and sliced almonds, highway empty, fields still frozen. His hand on the dial, looking for weather.

February is short. It knows.

At the grocery store, the cashier hovers. Re-scans. When I say have a good night her mouth opens around the shape of can I come with you.

Back at the inn, the kitchen smells of radiator heat and someone else's lavender. He spreads batter with a rubber spatula, thinner, thinner. You have to be able to see through it, he says.

Then slides the tray into the oven. Heat exhales.

The cookies come out brittle as first frost. Almond and air. We eat them with grapefruit slices, juice running down wrists, oolong steaming between us.

I bite through and see light. I bite through and there he is, on the other side.

February ends. The bridge stays missing.

But the holes remain. In the batter, in the sieve. In the moon.

I swipe my hand across my plate, collecting bread crumbs. I greedily lick my fingers, drawing a pop from each as they leave my mouth.

Across the table, William’s eyes are wide.

“Oh, so sorry, Miss Manners. Does eating with my hands make me a Neanderthal?”

Defiantly, I grab the entree with my bare hands. “But I’m not the only one with dining etiquette issues, am I?” Twisting, I rend apart the bones of the roast.

“Let’s not forget—until very recently, you would put your elbows on the table.” I chuckle, pointing an ulna at what is left of him.

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.

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!

We are pleased to announce that submissions for our first themed writing contest are now open!

To kick things off, our first theme is quite apt for the name of our semi-monthly contest:

OPEN TO ALL GENRES FOR FEBRUARY'S CONTEST

Emma and I can't wait to see what you come up with!

More details:

Entries cost $1.50 each, with a cap of 150 submissions per period.

Ten stories will be selected for publication in Quotidian Bagatelle magazine and on the web. That's a one in 15 chance of publication! All published pieces will receive payment. Nine drabble writers will receive $5, and one will be crowned champion and receive a whopping $15.