The story of the week for November 28 to December 2 is…
Chronometrophobia by Tim Boiteau
The story of the week for November 28 to December 2 is…
Chronometrophobia by Tim Boiteau
Beauty’s in the eye of the beholder. I should know. It’s why I kept a close eye on you.
If thine eye offends thee, pluck it out. We’ve done that too.
So now you’ll be all eyes on me. Literally. Do you see?
No, of course you don’t.
Not anymore.
Steven Holding wrote this story.
The claw of the hammer backed each nail out by its neck. The moaning, shrieking, the stuttering—a bright relief from frowning nails twisted loose and falling underfoot as the narrow-shouldered girl walked from beam, to joist, to stud—undoing every nail her great grandfather had driven. Perhaps now, peace.
Jonathan enjoys playing out of tune solos on his daughter’s ukulele while she demands he stop. He enjoys writing very short fiction and very long fiction.
“Malfunction time,” thought he.
Remembers that clock, tick, tock, tick—maddening and convoluted.
Buttons, switches, gears. Crammed altogether.
“Reverse,” says one.
Depresses it.
Click and—
—and click.
It depresses.
One says, “Reverse.”
Altogether crammed. Gears, switches, buttons.
Convoluted and maddening—tick, tock, tick, clock that remembers.
He thought, “Time malfunction.”
Tim Boiteau lives in Michigan. He is a Writers of the Future winner and author of the forthcoming horror novel Iltday.
Bills swell in drawers. Not-so-friendly emails hum.
Only take-out this Thanksgiving.
News blasts more death. Fracas.
But dusk falls, deep purple and pink, mingling with tender, bare branches and snow.
I step outside, plop into vast whiteness.
Coldness and color whisper welcome. I feel traces of dirt beneath.
Thank you.
Yash Seyedbagheri is a graduate of Colorado State University’s MFA fiction program. His stories “Soon,” “How To Be A Good Episcopalian,” “Tales From A Communion Line,” and “Community Time,” have been nominated for Pushcarts. Yash’s work has been published in SmokeLong Quarterly, The Journal of Compressed Creative Arts, Write City Magazine, and Ariel Chart, among others.
He turned around on the steel barrier, threw his arms wide, leaning back, face to the sky. Lightning flashed and he howled with the violence all about him. Seventeen years old and he was never afraid. Had he toppled into the ocean right then, she would have followed him gladly.
Peter Li-ping is a writer who lives close to the sea. He is less afraid now than when he was seventeen.
They cleared their father’s office in the weeks after, removing textbooks and memorabilia. Surprisingly, no bottles stashed in drawers as they’d found at his home. Instead, slips of paper, strewn across surfaces. Each handwritten with a name and salary, his own included (and smaller): confetti to memorialize his academic obsolescence.
Fiona C. Hankenson lives and works in Philadelphia. She is trained in veterinary science and is widely published in professional journals and texts. Currently, she is exploring her passion for creative writing, informed by her life experiences, while enrolled in the MFA program and Ranier Writing Workshop through Pacific Lutheran University.
Hello, old friend. It’s been a while.
Is something wrong? I see sap tears rolling down your trunk.
It’s the logging, isn’t it? You’ve lost most of your ancestors and family members disappear daily.
We will make them stop. It’s the least we can do, considering all you’ve given us.
Debra Kuzbik lives on Vancouver Island where, in addition to writing, she enjoys painting, photography, gardening, and beach walks.
The book leaves the shop, ready for its new home. Once there, it is nestled with care among other pristine titles.
“Welcome,” says the novel to its left.
The book is confused. “Wait, aren’t I supposed to be read before I’m put on the shelf?”
The shelves ring with laughter.
Rachel Prather (she/her) is a professional and creative writing student at the University of Cincinnati. She is an aspiring author currently working on a nerdy LGBTQ+ YA contemporary novel. Connect with her on IG at @rachelelizabeth.writes.
I met her at the Hummingbird Café.
We smiled, we laughed, our hearts sang, danced and spun about the room.
We shared our stories, our loves, our dreams.
Then her phone rang.
A pause.
Yes.
No.
And then—without warning, without any explanation—she flew away from the Hummingbird Café.
Dave Barrett lives and writes out of Montana. His fiction has appeared most recently in New Reader, Weber Journal and Camas–the Nature of the West. He teaches writing at Missoula College.