fiction

The village clock refused to strike thirteen. Every night, Ezra wound it, hoping for a crack in time, a whisper from tomorrow.

Neighbors complained. “It’s just a clock,” they said. But Ezra knew better. He had seen the shadows of moments yet to come, stretching like fingers across his walls.

One evening, a woman in violet shoes appeared at his door. She held a watch that ticked backward. “I’m late,” she said. “Or maybe too early.”

Ezra took it, felt the tick slip under his skin. He wound his clock, listened, and the walls of the room softened into something liquid.

The thirteenth chime arrived—silent, soft as a sigh. Outside, the villagers moved like marionettes, repeating yesterday in reverse. Ezra stepped out.

He felt the wind rearrange his hair, his thoughts, even the order of his memories.

When the woman left, the backward watch vanished. But the village still hummed to the thirteenth chime, and Ezra smiled. Time, after all, had grown curious.

—Etta Wynn

Lt. Bonner knew the starcraft needed repairs and that he – a mere cook – couldn’t fix it. Shortly, the vessel would crash onto the planet below.

He’d have to try the genetic accelerator again, though it hadn’t been reliable. He had emerged from its chamber as a janitor and a florist, among other things, even though he believed he’d set the dials to engineer.

He walked into the booth. After the orange glow ended, he emerged. . . a lobster. The crash was imminent now.

He chuckled a “lobstery” chuckle, thinking about confused future archeologists wondering how crustaceans got into space.

Mike has had over 150 audio plays dramatized, won many awards, and had two short film scripts produced.

Emilia is a bag of glass. She’s a fractured humerus. Snapped ulna. Fingernails peeled from their beds. She tries to piece herself back together, slathers porridge on her broken bits like salve, waits for it to dry. The doctors say it’s useless. Accept the inevitable. The inescapable decomposition of a childhood memory, putrefying on the windowsill until mice gnaw at its pulpy rot. Her husband’s name goes sour in the refrigerator next to the spinach. Her own face goes missing, and her head is all mycelia.

Angel T. Dionne is a surrealist professor. She likes her coffee black and her fish tinned.

Sunglasses, lawn chairs, woolen parkas, and his favorite book. Erik watched Astrid build a snow-castle in the almost balmy Antarctic Polar Desert.

The sun was large in the sky. Too large. All projections said they’d be safe here… for now. The equator; uninhabitable. Antarctica; the new vacation destination. He sipped his tea and reclined his head, finger bookmark in place.

“Look! You can read it now!” Astrid’s voice drew his eyes to the large stone with ancient carving in the ice-melt. “What’s it say, Dad?”

Erik sighed, reopening his book, licking his thumb to turn the page. “Ragnarok, sweetie.”

—Meghan Murphy

I haven't left the house in weeks. The changes occurred gradually. Isolated by my mom's passing, my absentee father, no siblings, and few friends. No one noticed.

My hands shook as I scrawled, “Help me. I'm trapped.” I shoved it into an envelope.

Josh whispered to me at our wedding, "I’ll love you forever." My heart melted, now I'm terrified to my core.

Josh stormed into the living room and yelled, “Tricia, get the fuck over here!”

I cowered behind the couch. Afraid to make the wrong move. Did he know I called?

The doorbell rang, interrupting my thoughts. Josh opened the door. The man handed him the pizza and said it's paid for. As Josh slammed the door and went to set the food down, I saw my opportunity. I slid the envelope under the door and prayed the delivery guy would see it. Did Josh notice?

Josh flung the pie down, then lunged at me. Cornering me, spit flew in my face as he shrieked, “I'm going to kill you!”

He choked me as I desperately tried to squirm away, staring at the door. Would help arrive in time? My heart raced as time ticked away.

We struggled as the door flung open, the delivery guy swung full-force at Josh, who turned. He pivoted as a fist went straight into his temple. Josh slumped to the floor.

I collapsed on the couch, crying, as the man called 911. The police arrested Josh, and I finally felt free again.

Barb DeMoney is a flash fiction writer whose work blends drama, comedy and horror.

I know you love me, even though you can't say it.

The signs were always there: the way you looked at me, the tension in your voice when we spoke.

And I love you. Have since the first moment I saw you, when I knew we had to be together.

Maybe I tried too hard.

Maybe you shouldn't have played hard to get.

Your face is serene as I crawl into bed next to you, savoring what's left of your warmth.

I put the gun in my mouth. It's still warm, too.

At least now we'll be together.

Forever.

—Chris Doty-Dunn