crumbs

In a navy suit tailored for broadcast seriousness, shoulders rigid with ambition and face slick with perspiration, he stands at the podium as a red Breaking News banner crawls across the screen. He opens by acknowledging “concerns” and assuring the public that safety is the top priority. Reporters clamber forward and begin shouting questions: the death toll of the toxic frog plague in West Texas; the Secretary of Domestic Security’s posts depicting the destruction of Latvia; confirmation that the North American Vampire Coven is real. He only replies, “Who’s to say? We’ll keep you informed. Thank you, and God bless.”

Grace Crouthamel is a queer writer from Northern Appalachia, fond of strange stories, living with two dogs, a lizard.

As Always, We’ll Keep You Informed was a finalist in our Annual Drabble contest to capture the year that was 2025 in 100 words.

The crackling snap of shattered wood was troubling, though most of those folks had been dead for decades; beds, tables and beams quietly surrendered to the blaze.

It was the screaming palms that pierced the heartwood. In firestorm winds their long spines arched backward, heads crowned with flaming fronds, each tree a torch passing fire to the next.

But we knobcone pines have dropped our cones. The heat has burst them open,
scattering winged seeds to ride the wind.

We were shaped for fire. Our children will rise from the ash.

Ali McLafferty is a writer and artist who would like to be a tree.

A Knobcone Pine in the Palisades Fire was a finalist in our Annual Drabble contest to capture the year that was 2025 in 100 words.

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!