Arthur discovered time travel quite by accident.
It was surprisingly simple. He reached into his cupboard for a snack, and suddenly, with a WHOOSH, he was across the room, fifteen seconds ago.
“Whoa!” Arthur exclaimed. But he was still hungry, so he went over to the cupboard for a snack.
Madame Zolinska is leaning into the crystal ball.
“…and two mortgages. You and your daughter will be estranged. Sometimes you’ll wonder whatever happened to your dream of being a pediatrician.”
On the other side of the purple tablecloth, the teenager begins to cry.
“You wanted to know,” says Madame Zolinska.
Sage Tyrtle is a professional storyteller. Her stories have been featured on NPR, CBC, and PBS. She is a Moth StorySLAM and GrandSLAM winner. She’s also one of those Americans who swanned around saying, “If this gets any worse, I’M moving to CANADA,” but then she really did. See more at tyrtle.com.
The hemp rope used to hang Joseph Samuel, found guilty of murder in Australia, failed three times. The Almighty had obviously intervened. Samuel’s sentence was commuted to life imprisonment, and it was during his daring prison escape by boat on a stormy night the Almighty saw fit to drown him.
James Gallant’s story collection, La Leona, and Other Guitar stories, winner of the 2019 Schaffner Press prize for music-in-literature, is available from Barnes and Noble and Amazon. Learn more at jamesgallantwriter.com.
She was always immaculately put together—linen suits, manicured nails, hair colour every six weeks—but a heart attack has you in her apartment discovering her unwashed undergarments and a cache of diet pills in a bathroom cabinet.
You can’t just shut that cabinet and walk away now, my friend.
Larissa Thomson is from British Columbia, Canada. She loves to write flash fiction and short stories, but this is her first foray into micro fiction. She is raising two humans and hopefully teaching them the importance of looking beyond the superficial.
Wistful, she sketched long-limbed, elegant ballerinas. Twelve was too old to start dancing.
She learned otherwise at thirty, hand on the barre, feet turned out. Age thirty-two, peachy-pink satin pointe shoes, bloody blisters, bruised toenails, no talent. Rare moments of effortless double pirouettes or soaring leaps were worth the wait.
Mary Kuna lives in Saint John, New Brunswick. Her flash fiction has received second prize in Brilliant Flash Fiction’s Librarians’ Choice Writing Contest and an honorable mention in Queer Sci Fi’s Innovation contest and anthology. She tweets sporadically at @MaryKuna.
Juicy at the core,
Thick fleshy limbs,
Like he liked,
Full of liquid life,
Until the cut,
When he watched it sap away.
Sticky in the gathering earth,
Surrounding her return to roots,
In death buried to be born again.
Rosaleen Lynch, an Irish community worker and writer in the East End of London, pursues stories conversational, literary and performed. Words in Jellyfish Review, EllipsisZine, Fish, Mslexia, The London Reader and other lovely places and can be found on Twitter at @quotes_52 and 52Quotes.blogspot.com.
It’s celebratory and devoid of any guidance on how hard it’s going to be. Life anew. They beam, hand you a baby. Everyone back slaps you. Hugs. Gifts. They never tell you how it will feel to find her on the bedroom floor with a needle jammed in her arm.
Hayden Kamide lives in New York. Probably not the hip part you’re thinking about, but the other part. He believes in the importance of kindness, yet recognizes his own hypocrisy, especially when he sometimes swears at people who cut him off in traffic. But, when it happens, he does feel bad about it… later. Much, much later.
The story of the week for November 16 to 20 is…
Extra Time by David Holloway
Songs for the Light by Noriko Jayasekera
Been a while since we had a double, but I wanted to honour both of these!
The water’s rising; it’s washed away the righteous and the sinners. I’m still here. I’ve bailed, prayed, bailed again. Ahead, there’s a girl huddled on a rooftop. I navigate toward her, lift her into the hissing raft.
It sighs, loudly.
I wave goodbye, clambering onto the slates.
The water’s rising—
Linda McMullen is a wife, mother, diplomat, and homesick Wisconsinite. Her short stories and the occasional poem have appeared in over seventy literary magazines.
He forced her retirement.
She used to love writing. He mocked her stories, told her he paid her to edit, not write drivel.
His words ate her confidence and she stopped writing.
For a while.
Bookkeeping will soon discover a theft. She’s left plenty of writing behind to implicate him.
Sharon Gerger is about to retire. She will not be committing any crimes on her way out the door. Her writing appears here and there, in print and on the internet.