She was a memorist, holding onto the collective experiences of an entire generation.
We all depended on her for our memories—faces in scrapbooks, grandma’s favourite recipes, names of distant relatives.
On the day she died, all she remembered faded away and her family was left with only a void.
Candace Kubinec posts her stories at storydribbles.wordpress.com and her poetry at rhymeswithbug.com.
The centurion realized they were doomed
surrounded by barbarian hordes
Not his choice, being sent to Germania
To die on foreign soil, in this supposed adventure
For the Glory of Rome and Gaius Cornelius Tacitus
He marked the time on his Rolex
The professor was wrong
Time travel… really sucked
Paul Hock wrote this story.
She was an old woman spending summers bent over: planting, weeding, harvesting.
I watched from my window as she used her cane to search for beans and cucumbers.
Now I am the old woman, bent over, sowing seeds saved by her.
I harvest a bit of her with each picking.
Candace Kubinec wrote this story.
Meet me where the setting sun kisses the roof of the lighthouse, I said, that familiar place where we whispered secrets at two in the morning. I needed to be there because I remembered all the things that we had said. She didn’t show up, because she remembered them, too.
L.S. Engler writes from outside of Chicago, though she grew up chasing dragons in Michigan. She is the editor of the World Unknown Review and is currently finishing up a trilogy about zombies called The Slayer Saga.
He had been arrested and brought to the Precinct. In the cell he received a black eye in silence. Outside a crowd bayed for his blood. Inside a guard said, “We’re moving you for your own safety.”
As they entered the basement car-park Jack Ruby stepped forward and shot him.
Michael D Hill is a Londoner who has lived in Dorset for more than half his life. He enjoys reading, writing and breathing.
The ink keeps smearing.
Johann, dinner! Kommst du hier! His wife’s voice, sweet notes on spring breeze.
The ink hides in the whorls of his fingertips.
Just one more try. A finer sheet, smooth but dense.
He leans into the crank. There’s an art to the turn of the handle.
Juliet Hubbell teaches English Literature and Humanities at Arapahoe Community College. Her short story “The Owl” won the 2015 Montana State Fiction Award. Rick Bass called the story “mysterious and powerful.” Her work has appeared before in Hektoen International: Journal of Medical Humanities, Workers Write, JAMA: Journal of American Medical Association, ACM: Another Chicago Magazine, Progenitor, and Midwest Quarterly. Her rendition of a medieval Black Forest fairy tale, “Saarbrucken Witch”, won the 2013 British Fantasy Society’s Short Story Contest. She is an active member of both the Lighthouse Writers and Rocky Mountain Fiction Writers and attends writing and publishing conferences annually, including the Association of Writing Professionals conference.
Sunday afternoons are the worst.
The stillness brings flashbacks of the tv dinner / hard eyes / swirling cig smoke combo. Suffocation.
I keep rolling. Stepping through the trees. Logging miles on the decades between me and that.
When I finish it’s dark and heading into Monday. I’m still here; escaped again.
Petra lives, works, and writes in the Philadelphia area. She is in the process of publishing her first book. Her days are spent selling Real Estate, planning jaw-dropping travel itineraries, and awaiting the birth of her first grandchild. She has (and always will have) a little white dog. The current one is named Bindi.
“I don’t like this alternate universe, Lucy.”
“Why not, Jerry?
“I’m afraid I’ll be bored to death. The only web browsers here are spiders.”
“You want excitement? Did you look closely at the steam-powered train?”
“What about it?”
“Forget cows and buffalo; the locomotive is equipped with a dinosaur catcher!”
John H. Dromey recently had short fiction published in Saturday Night Reader and a novella in Weird Western Yarns Vol. 3.
Just before he’d left the room, he’d commented that he thought he knew her, but couldn’t think where from.
She’d smiled and said that she couldn’t think of anywhere they may have met before.
But now she was scared.
If he worked it out, if he remembered, there’d be trouble.
Mark plays the ukulele, rides a motorcycle, and likes monkeys. He can easily be lured into a trap with the promise of chocolate.
Joe Sykes said the nametag of the dapper old tour guide who’d enlightened us about Applebloom Historical Mansion’s antiquities.
His eyes twinkled toward lively satyrs carved on the headboard. “It’s said Mr. and Mrs. Applebloom enjoyed their respites here.”
Later I notice ballpoint ink on Grandma’s palm:
Dee Maselle writes steamy romance. She makes her home in infinite alternate universes.