The last hour of the musky Edinburgh afternoon, she stopped discussing Byron, treaded more slowly, inhaled more deeply.
“Goodbye, Todd.”
I stopped.
She smiled, misty-eyed, as I tucked the flowers behind her ear. “I’ll write to you,” I said.
She nodded, quipped about getting on a time machine, and left.
Chelsea Allen wrote this story as a sequel to her piece The Librarian and the Time Machine, previously published here on 50-Word Stories.
Post-cremation: she says he’s nearby. The evidence? White feathers, heaven sent upon a breezy sigh.
Each appearance signifies an angelic presence, closer than a whispered farewell.
Only I comprehend the truth. Each quill, proof of my cowardice.
Late nights, absurdly plucking birds.
Serving pigeon pie. At least twice a week.
Steven Holding lives in the United Kingdom. Most recently, his work has appeared in the magazine The Stygian Lepus. You can follow his work at .stevenholding.co.uk.
As the guilty verdict was announced, the victim’s mother was filled with a feeling of emptiness as she lost the only thing that had kept her going.
Amidst the cheering crowd, the defence attorney suppressed a smile of relief at his loss, thanking his stars that justice had finally prevailed.
Krithikha is a little bit of everything. A designer and advertiser by trade, Krithikha is interested in books, travel, photography, plants, and anything else that strikes her fancy.
The smoke attacks his lungs as the blue Salvador Dali clock ticks above him. But he continues looking for anything—no, anyone left.
“Anyone here?” he yells to the embers. Burning faces of stuffed animals glare in silence.
He hears the cry and wakes to find himself in bed, yet again.
Alexander Holcomb (he/him) lives in Knoxville, Tennessee with his wife Olivia and has written fiction featured in Wrong Turn Lit, Bright Flash Literary Review, and various other presses. His other work can be found at alexanderholcomb.substack.com.
I found it as a kid–a pine grove in the woods with a gap just big enough to squeeze through; the place where red and orange feathers floated down every Spring like fuzzy rain. There, dozens congregated and gossiped.
It was my secret once.
Now it’s a parking lot.
EO’s not really a tree-hugging hippy, but is nonetheless annoyed when small towns get over-developed. After all, who really needs THREE grocery stores in one location?
I can’t believe my eyes.
In every direction: shopping malls, parking lots, people rushing here and there.
In my mind, I travel back in time.
A little piece of heaven with a front porch and nothing else as far as the eye could see.
Progress, some say.
I think not.
Susan Gale Wickes is a writer from Indiana. She occasionally reminisces about a place that no longer exists.
The story of the week for June 19 to 23 is…
More Than Sleep by Laura Besley
Hot and tired. Just one last shelf; Gran’s kitchen is nearly cleared. I can’t see what’s there, probably more dust.
Reaching, I feel something.
I slowly come down the ladder with an old wooden box. Inside is a skeleton key. On its tag, a note in Gran’s handwriting: Good Luck!
Katrina Rahn loves creative challenges of all kinds.
Your evaluation of our planet is a total fabrication—a hoax based on bad science. Our twilights are even more spectacular, and no one suffers anymore from the cold unless they crank up their A/C—and if you don’t submit a serious bid, we’re going to blow it all up!
Stephen Tilden is retired and strapped in for whatever happens next. This was written as a reply to S Govinjaraj’s Adieu Earth.
No one dared comment on the color of her hair. They knew its wet sheen would eventually darken and crust her scalp. They knew the consequences of that inevitability. It was safer to pretend it had always been that deep crimson—and that her complexion had always been so youthful.
Francesco Levato is a poet, professor, and writer of speculative fiction. More about his work can be found at francescolevato.com.