fiction
She recognized me instantly. And she was not happy about it.
“That’s not fair,” she said.
“What isn’t?”
“Showing up in that form.”
“What’s wrong with this form?”
She narrowed her eyes, emphasizing the wrinkles around them. I tilted my head and smiled.
“It’s not a trap,” I assured her.
“I beg to differ. You come to me as a sweet-faced child. But, as soon as I take your hand...”
My laugh caught her off guard. “Where do you think I’m taking you?”
“I’ll not say it.” She averted her gaze.
“You’re going whether you say it or not.”
“Only because you’ll trick me.”
“You have to go somewhere.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re dead. You can’t stay here.”
“Why not?”
“That’s the rule.”
She lifted her chin. “Who made these rules? I’d like to speak to them.”
I reached out a hand. She recoiled before I could touch her. “You are speaking to them,” I said.
A grunt was her only response. I reached into my pocket and retrieved a piece of chalk. She watched as I sketched the hopscotch board. The lines on her face softened. She watched as I fetched a shard of headlight plastic and tossed it. Her white hair darkened into raven waves. She watched as I hopped into the first square. Her stooped body straightened. She glanced at the wreckage, then stepped toward me.
“Can I play?” she whispered, her voice aching with hope.
“Of course,” I said. “We all have to play, sooner or later.”
Nissa Harlow lives in British Columbia, Canada where she writes strange little stories.
Seeking hot date – m4w
Companionship requested for various recreational activities (please don’t bother if you don’t have a dependable store of unfertilized ovum). I enjoy simple things: insects, cold swims, and singing at the moon for hours on end with my many brothers and sisters. By “hot” date, I mean please ensure the location you pick for our date is humid—it’s essential for my sensitive and very human skin. Though I may seem mild mannered, I’m not inexperienced. I’ve been told my tongue is “freakishly” long, which I choose to interpret as a positive. I’m looking for a woman who isn’t afraid to get her hands dirty. I secrete a lot of mucus, and I mean a lot, so if you aren’t into a sticky mess that never comes off of fabric, please feel free to keep scrolling. This is a totally normal thing that my skin does, and I won’t be shamed for it. If you’re interested in meeting up, I’ll be on the side of the road next to the Little Miami River at 11PM, right by the guardrail. No, I don’t have a car. Also, don’t be surprised if I’m wearing like a ton of layers and scarves and really thick sunglasses. Like I mentioned, sensitive skin. Maybe you’ll get a chance to take it all off, if you aren’t afraid of a couple warts.
- Location: Loveland, OH
- it's NOT ok to contact this poster with services or other commercial interests
—H. Marin
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
Taking a deep, hopeful breath, Barnaby exited the humming time machine into the same garage he left not long ago. Damn it. This could be a good sign, but it was unlikely.
His hope vanished when he heard them: His shrewish wife calling for him to stop his tinkering, come outside now, and help her; their two foul-mouthed, bratty kids; and that yippy dog whose goal was to pee in the house at least once a day.
Still?
How could his carefully calculated, happy hours of gleefully messing with the timestream have not changed one iota of his miserable life?
Mike has had over 150 audio plays dramatized, won many awards, and had two short film scripts produced.