She’d tied it — she distinctly remembered — just after breakfast, before the day’s long hours further diluted her consciousness. A failsafe against the drip, drip, drip of declining memory.
But now, staring at the knotted piece of string circumnavigating her ring finger, its purpose had vanished, like breath on a windowpane.
Steven Lemprière also wore a string ring. It was to remind him to write a bio.
The ceiling shakes above us, reminding me of that scene in Aliens when the acid-dripping spawn shower down. We grip our eggnogs and stare up at plaster flaking like fake snow blanketing the California lawn outside, hearing nothing but the weird unhuman voices of our offspring moving closer closer closer.
Kate Horsley’s first novel was shortlisted for the Saltire Award. Her second was published by William Morrow. Both have been optioned for film. Her short fiction has appeared in magazines like The Cincinnati Review, The Citron Review, Fictive Dream, BULL, Paragraph Planet, Blood+Honey, Tiny Molecules, Flash Fiction Online, SEXTET, Ink, Sweat, & Tears, Fish Barrel Review, Cake, and Strix, and placed in competitions including Bath, Bournemouth, Bridport, Oxford and Smokelong. She’s a creative writing lecturer.
…are the glittery comet tails of vanishing connections.
“Busiest year yet.” Crumple.
“Sorry I’ve been out of touch.” Toss.
“Promotions, renovations, travel.” Bin.
“Remember the afternoon light, that time we ditched staff training to hike in the snow?”
One for the mantelpiece. Glowing evidence of a friendship still in orbit.
Joanna Norland is a UK-based playwright, currently collaborating with Shake-Scene theatre company on an adaptation of Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice.
The story of the week for December 1 to 5 is…
Downstairs at the Community Centre by Ellen Townsend
An oil executive lectured at a geology seminar and gifted each student a novelty cup. His speech proclaimed that hydrocarbons were a more valuable resource than water, and that those who object could find a free drinking fountain right outside. Before he finished, the entire audience had turned to plastic.
Dan lives with his wife in the New Jersey Pine Barrens. He finds fulfillment in writing stories both short and long.
The salsa class had bass music thumping, floor vibrating, dancers spinning, skirts swirling, and sweat glistening, but upstairs, in the committee meeting, it was austere. Where clock ticks were amplified, the treasurer led, the chairperson’s seat empty.
Downstairs, Lorraine mopped her brow. The wrong room. An epiphany, daring something new.
Ellen Townsend is an art teacher and writer. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Flash Fiction Magazine, Friday Flash Fiction, 50-Word Stories and others.
We loved playing with the dolls Mother had personalized with our names, Anna and Constance, stitched on the skirts after the doctor told her he heard multiple heart beats.
When Mother passed, Anna and I were going through her belongings when Anna held up a third doll. “Who’s Beatrice?”
Mike Shields is a writer, speaker, observer and reasonably good listener.
They announced: “The world ends on Thursday.”
In denial, we raged against shadowed figures with secret agendas.
Angry streets battered abandoned stone monoliths of authority.
Bargains offered to our gods and devils; contracts returned unsigned.
Depression discarded our fairies and magical endings.
With fate accepted, in peace, our stars faded.
Mike Keyser has survived myriad dystopian futures from the safe distance of speculative fiction.
The leaves have fallen—the holidays approach. This once joyous season threatens to overwhelm your fragile soul. Too soon to let go, or welcome the magic comfort of time, the broken heart searches blindly for a new self—a new dream. Have faith. The future is just outside, waiting quietly.
Carol Huebsch Reeves embraces the freedom and creativity of Flash Fiction. Most of her stories speak to life’s joys and challenges. Her work is often found in Flash Fiction Magazine and 50 Word Stories. Her memoir, “All the Little Miracles,” was published in 2022.
It’s not empty out there. This nowhere road is cluttered with bones. A toppled pile for every star burning in the black sky.
Shed your skin during the long walk of dying. Thoughts will churn into flashing colors.
Drop your bones in a clatter and float alone toward those stars.
JR Walsh is the Online Editor at The Citron Review. He teaches creative writing at SUNY Oswego. Find his writing on itsjrwalsh.com.