 SetuVolume 5; Issue 11; April 2021Setu PDF Archives EditorialPoetry
SpecialSpiritual Trail: Photo AlbumNew Talent: PoetryNew Talent: FictionAuthor of the MonthShort Fiction / FlashSerial novelSetu Initiative: Setu Series of Virtual ReadingsContemporary ConcernsIn Focus: Art and ArtistExclusiveSpecial Edition: Flash Fiction 2021 Guest Editor: Kelli J Gavin |
Showing posts with label Flash Fiction 2021. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Flash Fiction 2021. Show all posts
Setu, April 2021
Guest Editor’s Note: Flash Fiction
Greetings!
It is such an honor to be asked to be the Guest Editor for the April 2021 Flash Fiction Section of Setu. The submissions and quality of work were breathtaking. I adore that each writer in the following Flash Fiction Section shares an intricate and compelling story all within 500 words. They made harsh cuts when necessary and knew what words were needed to intrigue the reader and leave them wanting more. From memories of childhood to chance encounters. Missed opportunities and the exploration of pain and relationships. Creepy tales and tragedy. I invite you to dive in and explore the best of the best Flash Fiction stories presented to you by Setu.
Thank you to each contributing writer for trusting me with your work.
Kelli J Gavin
Setu Guest Editor, April 2021 Flash Fiction Section
Flash Fiction:
Featured Authors
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1. The Waiting Room- by David Bowmore 2. Partners- by John M. Floyd 3.Yadama- by Dawn DeBraal 4. Abandoned- by Steve Carr 5.The Janitor- by Candace Meredith 6. No More Killing- by Jim Bates 7. Swimming To Shore After Failing To Drown Myself- by Keith Hoerner 8. I’m the Editor That Passed On Harry Potter- by Mark Konik 9. The Topography of Pain- by Amrita Valan 10. Silk- by Mehreen Ahmed 11. First of Many- by Timothy Law 12. Teddy Bear, Teddy Bear, Turn Around- by Lynne Phillips 13. Blessings Received? - by Sultana Raza 14. It Ended This Way- by Obinna Chilekezi 15. Jaw Breaker- by Ken Goldman 16. The Answer- by Beate Sigriddaughter 17. Safe- by C.H. Williams *** |
Swimming To Shore After Failing To Drown Myself - by Keith Hoerner (Flash Fiction 2021)
Keith Hoerner (BS, MFA) lives, teaches, and pushes words around in Southern Illinois, USA. He is no stranger to lit mags and will publish his memoir, The Day The Sky Broke Open, with Adelaide Books, New York/Lisbon, in 2021.
Swimming to Shore After Failing to Drown Myself
by Keith Hoerner
I.
Foam sloshes ’round my scuffed black leather wingtips, laps up the ankles of my rumpled dress slacks, turns khaki to the color of murky brown. Onlookers furrow their brows, incredulous I do not see I am in danger of drowning, that if I do not make a move for it, the water will continue to rise until it covers my soon-to-be-bald head. What they do not realize is I have already failed at drowning (and floated a near corpse ashore). Can they not see my sopping clothes; the now sea-weed green tweed jacket; my wrinkled, white translucent skin? This water is returning to the sea. I have survived my Biblical Flood. I am coming up for air, not suffocating. My exploded lungs have been cauterized; I now breathe shallower: but calm and sure.
II.
I look for you, but waves wash you to another shore, an island uncharted, perhaps, to inhibit me from finding you. Did you suffer so? Rather than buoy you up, did my selfishness climb squarely on your shoulders and thrust you downward? Push you under into the electric bosom of a bloom of pulsing jellyfish… until it was you who passed away? Or did your shocking beauty simply meld with theirs, escaping me as I first wondered? My hope is you did get away. My prayer is that you are dry and safe and content. Even if it means I cannot be with you.
III.
I may not be dry, but I am drying out. I have always had a dry sense of humor, a British sense of humor, I like to think. Admittedly, I can be droll. My odd obsession with court jesters remains a curious thing. Was it their tomfoolery or their role in history? I don’t know. Whatever it might be, you used to laugh at me more than the TV. I cannot hear you laughing now. So it begs the question: when did you turn it off? When was it you stopped laughing? Or was it me – in one of my sardonic rants – who thought he had had the last laugh?
IV.
You were always a giver. The problem is I’m a taker, was a taker… for what it’s worth. And givers and takers are a mismatch. I did what takers do; I took all you had to give, emptied all your pockets and filled them with rocks: one for each of my character defects. So you stretched out your arms and tried to swim away, but sank. Yet upon the first swirling rush that separated my grip on you, you dropped my rocks and swam untraceable among the camouflage of coral reefs. So, here I am.
V.
Yes, I stand. I’m not buckled at the knees as before or dead as expected. The lifeline you threw me caught ’round my neck, but it worked. It was the one time when looking in the end of a bottle, I actually saw a ship, and with it the possibility of steerage to a new land… dry land. Its pasted, miniature masts and cotton-twill sails still able to bear my living freight and move me to a healthy destination. You equipped me to survive the flood in the face of self-harm. How can I repay you? By letting you go? By not even thinking to follow you?
VI.
The small ship, pulled out for embarkation, is now crushed to bits beneath my feet. Peer close, and I might even pass for the Giant Polybotes, bane of the God Poseidon, standing on a shipwreck from the battle of Nisyros. A broken bow floats out to the Aegean Sea. An anchor pulls the splintered spine of this ark into the pit of a dark swell. I was supposed to find Terra Firma by Noah’s mandate as one of a pair. I beg you. But I’ll force myself to understand, if I am to go at it alone.
VII.
If it is what you need, I will unabashedly say it aloud, “I no longer drown myself in bottles anymore, thanks to you.” So I will stay clear of the companionway and wish your sails full billows to get you to your place of secret solace. I will not follow you. But I will always think of you. And if you will allow, I will tightly scroll this missive and slip it into this bottle here, then toss it far in the direction I hope will one day reach you.
No More Killing - by Jim Bates (Flash Fiction 2021)
Jim Bates lives in a small town twenty miles west of Minneapolis, Minnesota. His stories and poems have appeared in nearly three-hundred online and print publications. His short story “Aliens” has been nominated by The Zodiac Press for the 2021 Pushcart Prize. His collection of short stories Resilience was published in early 2021 by Bridge House Publishing and Short Stuff, a collection of his flash fiction and drabbles will be published by Chapeltown books in 2021. Periodic Stories, a collection of thirty-one stories based on the periodic table was published by Impspired in early 2021. In addition, Something Better, a dystopian adventure, will be published by Paper Djinn Press in 2021. All of his stories can be found on his blog: www.theviewfromlonglake.wordpress.com.
No More Killing
by Jim Bates
“It’s not fair,” Frank Nelson complained to his brother Steve a few weeks after the funeral. They were having beers at The Swamp, the local watering hole for the northern Minnesota town of Woodtick. The irony of Maggie having been killed by a drunk driver was not lost on them, and his pain was undeniable, “It was not fair at all.”
Frank was a burly man who wore his hair long, had a full beard and dressed in a red flannel shirt and jeans no matter what the weather. He was an independent logger, one of the last in the area, and a macho guy if there ever was one. But tonight, he wrapped his gnarled hands around his bottle of Bud and tried not to cry, “Lord, Steve, I miss her so much.”
Three miles away at their cabin in the woods Frank’s ten-year-old son Neil lay in bed crying. He missed his mom. He missed the way things used to be.
Two months later the father and son were slowly coming to grips with the tragic loss to their family. Neil went to school while Frank cut timber in the forests. Together they shared responsibility for the large vegetable garden Maggie planted before she died.
Neil’s job was to weed, and Frank’s was to “keep the varmints away” as he put it. He used a .22 rifle, dispatching squirrels, chipmunks and the occasional rabbit with abandon. Much to his son’s horror.
“Dad, do you really have to do that?” Neil pleaded, just before his father fired at a rabbit nibbling on some carrot tops. He missed and the rabbit ran off.
“Damn.” Frank lowered the gun and looked his son straight in the eye. “Yeah, I do. It’s your mom’s garden. I owe it to her.”
Neil didn’t want to say anything to anger his father. Experience had proven he had a quick temper, but the longer the killing went on, the more it bothered him.
One day, Neil watched sorrowfully as his father raised his rifle on a rabbit.
The animal froze. Frank locked in on the rabbit’s eyes. He noticed a twinkle in one of them as the little cottontail slowly blinked.
Frank thought then of his beloved wife, gone these past months. He missed her so much. What would she think of him taking his anger and frustration at her death out on poor defenseless creatures? The answer was obvious. She’d hate it.
Frank lowered the gun. Neil stepped up and put his hand on his father’s shoulder, "Dad, are you okay?"
Frank put his hand on his son’s, "I am. But I've had it. No more killing."
"What are you going to do?"
Frank walked to the garage, put the rifle in a vice and picked up a hacksaw. "What's it look like?" He pulled the blade across the barrel and began sawing.
"Good," his son grinned with relief, "I liked that bunny." He hurried to grab his own saw, "I'll help.”
The Janitor - by Candace Meredith (Flash Fiction 2021)
Candace Meredith earned her Bachelor of Science degree in English Creative Writing from Frostburg State University in the spring of 2008. Her works of poetry, photography and fiction have appeared in literary journals Bittersweet, The Backbone Mountain Review, The Broadkill Review, In God’s Hands/ Writers of Grace, A Flash of Dark, Greensilk Journal, Saltfront, Mojave River Press and Review, Scryptic Magazine, Unlikely Stories Mark V and various others. Candace currently resides in Virginia with her son and her daughter, her fianc├й and their three dogs and six cats. She has earned her Master of Science degree in Integrated Marketing and Communications (IMC) from West Virginia University.
The Janitor
by Candace Meredith
They studied at the library together… from outside he could see a janitor sweeping the walk.
“I’ve never seen him before,” he said while looking quizzically beyond the glass.
“Who?” She asked.
“The janitor. Cleaning the sidewalk. Can’t you see him?” He laughed.
“Dude, there’s no one there.”
“What do you mean? He’s right there.”
And when he looked again, she was right – there was no one there. They left the library with a chill in the air. Fall had come early. She relished in the crisp air thinking of the coming holidays. He missed summer and was thinking about his swim meets when he saw him again. He was alone this time, and the janitor was alone as well. They turned to face one another. The janitor was unkempt with disheveled hair, some missing teeth, and he hunched severely.
“You come here.” He said with the wave of his finger. He stood transfixed but his curiosity pushed him forward. He took two steps closer.
“I’ll tell you the secrets of the universe.” The Janitor said and he smiled.
“Who are you?”
“What do I look like?”
“Well…”
“But that’s not important. What’s important is that I pass on this secret.”
And he leaned forward into his left ear and the janitor told him his secret and he gave a nod as if he understood and the janitor patted him on the back and went back to his duties; he swept leaves across the walkway and the students filed outdoors, all around him, with none appearing to take notice.
“Who were you speaking with?” A professor stopped before him and he turned back…
“I saw you talking… or it looked like you were talking ….”
“There was a janitor… he must have worked here…”
The professor looked perplexed, shrugged, and went on his way. When she returned he showed her the pile of leaves he had swept and when he knelt down he found a stone in the shape of a cross fastened to a piece of wood like a pendant and she took it from him, held it to her palm, “It’s very warm,” she said, looking at it strangely.
“God comes to us in all forms.” He said and took the cross between his fingers.
“What?” She asked.
“The secrets of the universe.” And he stood in awe as she shrugged and walked away too.
Abandoned - by Steve Carr (Flash Fiction 2021)
Steve Carr, from Richmond, Virginia, has had over 490 short stories published internationally in print and online magazines, literary journals, reviews and anthologies since June, 2016. He has had seven collections of his short stories, Sand, Rain, Heat, The Tales of Talker Knock and 50 Short Stories: The Very Best of Steve Carr, and LGBTQ: 33 Stories, and The Theory of Existence: 50 Short Stories, published. His paranormal/horror novel Redbird was released in November, 2019. He has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize twice. His Twitter is @carrsteven960. His website is https://www.stevecarr960.com/ He is on Facebook:https://www.facebook.com/steven.carr.35977
Abandoned
by Steve Carr
The upscale restaurant wasn’t very busy. I had slid the engagement ring on Jenny’s finger only minutes before. I did it with as little formality as possible, not getting down on one knee and barely waiting for her to say “yes,” which she did reluctantly, as if I had just asked her to join me in a suicide pact. I then launched into a true story I thought she would find funny. Asking her to marry me and relating the story the same evening, and back-to-back, seemed like a good idea at the time.
“It was a freak snowstorm,” I began. “I went into a club early in the evening when flurries were coming down and by the time I left the club at two in the morning, there was like four feet of snow on the ground. I was very drunk and had forgotten where I parked my 1968 fire engine red Mustang convertible.”
She was holding a glass of expensive red wine to her lips, staring at me wide-eyed over the edge of the glass, like an owl eyeing its unsuspecting prey. We had only known each other for three months and were still learning one another’s non-verbal cues, but I continued on.
“The car was a classic, and I loved it, but it was mostly a heap of junk that cost a lot in upkeep,” I continued. “I wandered around for a short while but never found it. It might have been towed off by the police or stolen. I caught a ride home with a friend and forgot all about it. I didn’t even bother trying to find it after that.” I chuckled lightly, an invitation for her to do so also.
She lowered the glass of wine. “You just abandoned your car that easily?” she said, her words coming out as if she had just taken a bite from a lemon.
“Well, I didn’t really abandon it,” I said, defensively. “I just sorta misplaced it.”
“Has that happened a lot?” she said.
“Has what happened a lot?”
“You just abandoning things that you love?”
I could feel my words being stuttered before speaking them. “It was just a car. You can see the humor in the story, can’t you?”
“No, I can’t,” she said loudly and shrilly. “What kind of sane person just abandons a beloved car?”
“Beloved is a bit of an exaggeration,” I said, answering just as loudly.
The restaurant suddenly became as quiet and chilly as the inside of a refrigerator.
A waiter came to the table. “I ask that you lower your voices,” he said.
Jenny looked at him, and then at me. She took the ring from her finger, stood up and then threw the wine still in her glass in my face and stormed out of the restaurant.
I wiped the wine from my face with a cloth napkin. “We’re still getting to know one another,” I said to the waiter.
Yadama - by Dawn DeBraal (Flash Fiction 2021)
 |
| Dawn DeBraal |
Dawn DeBraal lives in rural Wisconsin with her husband Red, two little rescue dogs, and a stray cat. Dawn has published over 300 stories in many online magazines and anthologies, including Palm-sized press, Spillwords, Mercurial Stories, Potato Soup Journal, Edify Fiction, Zimbell House Publishing, Black Hare Press, Clarendon House, Blood Song Books, Fantasia Divinity, Cafelit, Reanimated Writers, The World of Myth, Dastaan World, Vamp Cat, Runcible Spoon, Siren’s Call, Setu, Kandisha Press, Terror House Magazine, D & T Publishing, Sammie Sands, Iron Horse Publishing, Impspired Magazine, Black Ink Fiction and was the Falling Star Magazine’s 2019 Pushcart nominee.
https://www.amazon.com/Dawn-DeBraal/e/B07STL8DLX
https://www.facebook.com/All-The-Clever-Names-Were-Taken-114783950248991
Yadama
As young girls, my cousin and I used to visit a farm down the road a bit. A German woman and her husband had cows and chickens in the middle of a small unincorporated town.
When we got to Becker's farm, we would hunt for the four-legged chicken, a freak of nature. The chicken, otherwise healthy but had two extra legs that dragged on the ground upside down. It was fascinating.
We were always hungry, she fed us and never minded when we said words like Hell. Dee and I weren't allowed to say things like that at home.
"That chicken looks like hell," we chuckled at our naughtiness. It was always an adventure visiting Mrs. Becker. One time she took us to the old hotel across the street where we discovered an American flag with 48 stars standing in the corner by the front door. She just broke into private property with an old skeleton key!
She and her husband Bill took us to prayer revivals. She never let me sit by the open window in the back seat of the car because I was so small, she knew I'd get sucked out. My cousin was seven weeks older than me, but she was also a foot taller. She was fed better, I think.
Mrs. Becker asked me one time if my father beat me. He was a big burly police officer for the county. I thought she meant did my father spank me, and I told her yes, he did. Oh, she was so upset. That got around the small town. My father asked me why I would say such a thing. I asked him if he was going to beat me? He rolled his eyes and walked away.
One time Mrs. Becker asked a neighbor to cut down some overhanging tree branches. They were blocking her view of the bar, and she could not see the patrons' comings and goings.
She went to church every Sunday but held gossip near and dear to her heart. She always said something that sounded like "Yadama." I don't know what that means, and I don't know to this day.
I hold fond memories of my times on the farm. How the Becker’s put up with two young girls bothering them every week. When I go past the cemetery, I see their large stone, a backdrop against the highway, and remember them fondly.
I married, ending up twenty miles from where I grew up. My present neighbor who was also a police officer saved Mrs. Becker’s son's life with an AED that the police department had installed in the squad car that very day. She was my neighbor growing up, and my new neighbor saved her son’s life forty years later.
It's funny how life moves in circles like gears in a machine working together quietly. Cogs and wheels, circles and timing. Life is full of adventures and miracles like the four-legged chicken.
Yadama!
Partners - by John M. Floyd (Flash Fiction 2021)
John M. Floyd’s work has appeared in more than 300 different publications, including Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine, Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, The Saturday Evening Post, and three editions of The Best American Mystery Stories. A former Air Force captain and IBM systems engineer, John is also an Edgar Award finalist, a four-time Derringer Award winner, a three-time Pushcart Prize nominee, and the author of nine books.
Partners
by John M. Floyd
“New Orleans,” the red-haired man said.
His companion, a tall fellow with a friendly face, turned to look at him from his seat a few feet away. “What?”
“You asked what I was thinking about. I told you. New Orleans.”
“What about it?” The tall man took a pipe from the pocket of his coat. Unable to sleep, both men were sitting on wooden benches in a stone-paved courtyard outside their rooms. A few oaks and elms stood nearby, casting gaunt shadows in the moonlight, and soft music strummed somewhere in the distance. The air was chilly, but that was to be expected: it was early March.
“We should have gone there,” the red-haired man answered. He shifted a little in his seat, wincing in pain as he did so.
His friend glanced up at him, then went back to filling his pipe. “When should we have gone? Tonight?”
“Why not?”
“You wouldn’t want to wait until you’re feeling better?”
“That would’ve made me feel better.”
The tall man regarded him in amused silence for a moment. “We couldn’t leave,” he said, “and you know it. We’ve only been here a little better’n a week. This is business. These folks are more than friends, they’re our partners now.”
The redheaded man sighed. “I know that. I’ve just been daydreaming, that’s all.” He added in a grim voice, “And I think this could be a no-win deal.”
His friend nodded. “I think you’re right.” He lit his pipe with a wooden match, then fanned it out and flipped it away into the darkness. The music in the distance had stopped now, and it was eerily quiet. “But tomorrow there’ll be a crowd of people here, hundreds maybe, and we’re the stars of the show, you and me. We’re the ones everybody’ll be watching.” He paused for a moment, puffing. “If it doesn’t work out, it doesn’t work out,” he said with a shrug. “But we’ve been in risky deals before. I was a congressman once, remember.”
The other man smiled. “I’ve never done anything quite that dumb,” he said.
His companion blew a series of little gray smoke-rings and watched as the wind pulled them apart. “I heard you used to rassle alligators.”
“Alligators,” the red-haired man agreed. “Not politicians.”
“And you once lived in New Orleans,” the tall man said. “You call that good judgment?”
“Don’t kid yourself, David my friend. It’s the greatest town in the world.”
“Great to visit, maybe. But to live in?”
The red-haired man just sighed and looked wistful. “We should have gone there,” he said, shivering in the cool wind.
Suddenly they heard someone coming, walking toward them in the darkness. Both of them reached for their guns.
“Crockett?” a voice called. “Bowie? Colonel Travis needs you. Meeting at the north wall.”
The two friends relaxed, then looked at each other.
“Showtime,” the tall man said.
The Waiting Room - by David Bowmore (Flash Fiction 2021)
David Bowmore was born on a winter’s night during a mighty storm. Forty-five years later he started writing. He has lived here, there and everywhere, but now he lives in Yorkshire with his wonderful wife and a small white poodle. David has worked many jobs in his time. These include being a head chef in a respected restaurant, a personable teacher, and a landscape gardener.
Since 2018, David’s stories have been published in more than fifty anthologies. It is safe to say, he has been surprised by the reception some of his flights of fantasy have received. In 2020, his award-winning book of connected short stories, The Magic of Deben Market, was performed by BookStreamz. It is available to buy from Amazon, as is his best of collection, Tall Tales & Short Fiction – A Multi-Genre Collection.
Visit his Amazon profile www.amazon.co.uk/David-Bowmore or his website www.davidbowmore.co.uk for more information.
The Waiting Room
by David Bowmore
She was elegant, in a way one does not expect to see in these modern times. That would make sense, for she was a lady who must have experienced eighty years. The sound of the zip pulling her much-loved wax jacket closed, announced her entrance into the waiting room.
“I have to come back in three weeks,” she said to the man sitting quietly studying the crossword. Her voice reinforced the opinion forming in the minds of the other patients who looked her way; despite her advanced years, she was a force of nature.
Whereas she was elegant, he was well-fed. He grunted as he stood, rolled his newspaper into a rough tube and wedged it between arm and ample body. His stomach made an awkward barrier his head had to cross, as he leaned forward to kiss her tilting cheek. He may have been younger than her, but the older one becomes, the less important these things are.
“Really, why?” His voice could only be described as theatrical. In another life he may well have been a great actor, for he surely knew the whole world was a stage and the three other people present were his audience.
“Because I haven't been cleaning my teeth properly, dear.”
“BLOODY HELL! Your mouth is full of decayed teeth and my soul of decayed ambitions,” he misquoted, making the little boy sitting next to his mother giggle. The woman shushed her son and the old man winked at him.
“You will have to pay, dear,” she said, when they stood before the reception desk a few minutes later.
“Why? They’re your teeth.”
“Don’t be difficult, dear. I paid last time if you remember. You had X-rays.”
“Did I?”
“Yes.”
“What on?”
“Your teeth.”
“Really, I don't remember.”
“I do.”
“That will be seventy pounds please,” said the receptionist.
“What? I'll have to sell a kidney.” He slid a card into the handheld machine. “Didn’t dentists used to do a bit of surgery in the old days? Perhaps she’ll take part in an exchange? Will you ask her for me?”
The receptionist smiled, but said nothing. It was obvious that she didn’t know what to say beyond the expected responses of the role she had to play.
“Don’t make a fuss, dear.” Then addressing the girl behind the desk, the force of nature said, “I should like to make an appointment for three weeks’ time. Do you think you can manage that?”
The time and date were set, and the appointment card was handed to the woman who slipped it into an ancient crocodile handbag.
As he held the door open for his wife, he said “Life is short, my love, and we are but brief specks of dust in the long years of this lonely planet.
“Let us eat cake!”
No one heard her response as the door clicked into its closed position.
Three weeks later she returned, dressed entirely in black; she carried herself with impeccable dignity and perfect poise.
Elegance personified, even alone.
Safe - by C.H. Williams (Flash Fiction 2021)
C.H. Williams is a full-time mum who writes contemporary fiction novels, short stories, flash pieces, and poetry. She can often be found with a jar of peanut butter in one hand and a bar of dark chocolate in the other, which coincidentally makes it rather difficult to type. Find her on Instagram @Taylor.R.Denali
Safe
by C.H. Williams
I played dead as I lay there dying. I had been on my way to gym class—a class I’ve never been fond of—this time, I wish I had made it there.
He didn’t say anything, he just started shooting. There was no warning or reason given.
Bullets ricocheted off the walls, the lights, the lockers.
I couldn’t remember how many of us were there, but we ran and I stumbled.
One shot rang so loud it hurt my brain; must have been the one that got me. I was already down, panic tripping me as though the emotion itself had tied my shoelaces together. I didn’t know what it felt like to be shot. The shock of it stopped me from experiencing the pain. The dampness which spread as I lay on the ground gave it away. Blood. I could feel the wetness; my jeans were heavy with it.
Tiny mounds of dust had collected under the lockers. A tiny triangle of paper peeked from one of the metal cases. It could be a note from class, a hurried reminder on long division, or the very tip of a lost love letter. 'Will you be my girlfriend?' Circle 'Yes' or 'No'.
As my wound wept, I tried not to. I counted the seconds until they reached a full minute. My left cheek was cold and sticky. Any movement would leave a residue of sweat on the floor.
I counted a full six minutes.
The doors opened again and I prayed it wasn't him.
I lay transfixed on the dust.
"It's okay,” a voice called. "It's safe now.”
Safe is a funny word. You keep your money in a safe. People hide their most treasured possessions in a safe. That's where people keep their guns. But there's no safe for people. No place where we can be stored without threat. There are no safe places anymore.
There must be a huge patch of red now where my blood has soaked through the top of my jeans. I'm dying. Fear keeps me stapled to the floor as the wetness goes cold.
"Charlie," they said my name gently, "Charlie, are you hurt?" Faces disturbed my focus on the dust.
I remained as still as possible as they inspected me.
They must be so worried with the blood, so much blood.
I'm gonna die.
"Poor boy has wet himself," a voice said somewhere above me. They peeled me off the floor. They wanted me to stand but how could I?
Somehow my legs supported my weight. My muscles tingled as they woke from the crumpled position I had held on the floor.
There was no blood.
The Answer - by Beate Sigriddaughter (Flash Fiction 2021)
Beate Sigriddaughter, www.sigriddaughter.net, lives in Silver City,
New Mexico (Land of Enchantment), where she was poet laureate from 2017-2019.
Her poetry and prose are widely published in literary magazines. Unsolicited
Press published her latest poetry collection Emily in 2020. Other collections are forthcoming in 2021 and 2022.
She posts other women's work on her blog Writing
In A Woman's Voice.
The Answer
by Beate Sigriddaughter Her
feet dangled from the low stone wall. Len looked like a young Hemingway, but
with the full beard of Hemingway's later years. He hugged his left leg which
was drawn up on the wall. His right leg dangled like hers.
A pot of
geraniums stood between them, salmon-colored and pungent. The wind kept playing
with the scent. "Sally planted those," he said. "You might like
them for your balcony. She told me to talk to you. You would know why she left.
I need to understand. I love her so much. I thought she loved me too. It's not
another man, she says. Then why?"
Once
in a while, the wind sent up a spray of mist from the river below. Mary didn't
know what to tell him. She felt important and incompetent. Sally was her best
friend. Mary had been maid of honor at their wedding less than two years ago.
Sally had never complained about Len. Her sudden decision to leave him and move
into an efficiency apartment downtown had surprised Mary too, but she hadn't
given it much thought. There had been no drama and no apparent pain, at least
not on Sally's part. Just a simple decision. Len, meanwhile, seemed to be in
great pain. And he was waiting for an answer.
"I
don't know, Len," Mary finally said. "I simply don't know. Maybe you
were fencing her in. I really don't know."
"But
she said to ask you," he insisted.
Mary
scrunched her forehead. She thought of her own yearning for freedom, for
independence, for making her own way in the world. She wanted to put salve on
Len's obvious wound, but she didn't have any.
"I
really don't know what to tell you," she finally admitted. "I just
don't."
Len
let go of his drawn-up leg and looked down into the frothing water. They sat
side by side for a long time on either side of the pot of geraniums, not
speaking, guarding each other's silence, honoring each other's presence and
confusion. She felt closer to him than she had ever felt before. She wanted to
protect him.
When
night fell, and hunger started asserting itself, and they became aware of the
bicycles and dog walkers and yells of children on the path behind them, they
finally stood and hugged and went their separate ways.
"I
wish I could have helped," she said.
"You
did. You were here."
Thirty
years later he still looked like Hemingway when they met by chance at an
airport, both on their hectic way to somewhere else. This prompted Mary to ask
Sally when they saw each other again: "What did you mean by telling him to
ask me to explain why you left him?"
Jaw Breaker - by Ken Goldman (Flash Fiction 2021)
Ken Goldman, former Philadelphia teacher of English and Film Studies, is an Active member of the Horror Writers Association. He has homes on the Main Line in Pennsylvania and at the Jersey shore. His stories have appeared in over 930 independent press publications in the U.S., Canada, the UK, and Australia with over thirty due for publication in 2021. Since 1993 Ken’s tales have received seven honorable mentions in The Year’s Best Fantasy & Horror. He has written six books : three anthologies of short stories, YOU HAD ME AT ARRGH!! (Sam's Dot Publishers), DONNY DOESN’T LIVE HERE ANYMORE (A/A Productions) and STAR-CROSSED (Vampires 2); and a novella, DESIREE, (Damnation Books). His first novel OF A FEATHER (Horrific Tales Publishing) was released in January 2014. SINKHOLE, his second novel, was published by Bloodshot Books August 2017.
Jaw Breaker
by Ken Goldman“Imagine an imaginary
menagerie manager
imagining managing an imaginary menagerie.”
Speech Therapy Exercise for Norman Oliver, age 26
Melissa, all in pink...
Was any sight more incredible? Seeing his little girl dressed up for his sister’s wedding looking like a walking china doll was enough to make Norman believe that his life had meaning after all. Not long ago that same conviction would have proven a hard sell, but sometimes life turned on a dime and things just straightened themselves out. His speech therapy seemed finally to be paying off. He had pulled that ace straight from the deck like a magic trick, and voila!
“Daddy, Daddy! Look at me! Watch me, Daddy!”
Melissa, giggling as only a six year old can, tossed her ball into the air, spun three times, and caught it just before it hit the ground. Precious moments in Norman’s life had been few and he intended to savor this one.
“Six thick thistle sticks ... six thick thistles stick ...”
Norman repeated the tongue tangler under his breath before he shouted out, “That’s just great, honey.”
‘Great’ seemed an inaccurate term to describe this moment, but he wasn’t ready to risk “Wonderful” just yet. Some words tangled on the journey between his brain and his tongue and he still blew wind with his W’s. But he no longer gurgled his G’s nor locked his lips around his M’s.
Margaret had remained inside. His wife wouldn’t leave dishes in her sink even if she had to clean them while wearing her best dress. Old habits die hard.
“‘Three free thugs set three thugs free’... Hot damn!! Got it! ” Norman said. He was going to nail that congratulatory speech for his sister like a champ.
The garage door opened. Margaret was backing the Camry into the driveway. She rolled the window down and waved to her husband. Lost in his brief reverie it took a moment for the thought to register.
Melissa ... Where ...?
The little girl had stepped behind the fern bush to retrieve her ball and had reappeared upon the blacktop, but Margaret’s wave had momentarily preoccupied the woman from seeing her.
Margaret didn’t see her daughter.
Melissa didn't see the car.
Melissa, all in pink ...
Norman’s mouth struggled forming the words. “W-w-w-w-w-watch ---”It Ended This Way - by Obinna Chilekezi (Flash Fiction 2021)
Obinna Chilekezi lives in Lagos, Nigeria and is an insurance practitioner with a background in librarianship. His poems and stories have appeared in newspapers, journals and anthologies. One of his insurance textbooks won the African Insurance Organisation Book Award in 2016. He has traveled extensively in his West African sub-region and dreams of traveling to other parts of the world.
It Ended This Way
by Obinna Chilekezi
It was not more than an hour until the police arrived, but he was already dead. Stone cold dead from the knife his wife pulled during a fight. Fighting was not unusual for this couple. It had been part of their marriage until this last fight.
This time around, Ngozi, Ben’s wife of three years, had stumbled on a text message from an unknown number which had read, “Darling, why didn’t you come over as promised? You made me waste the whole day waiting.”
Ngozi did not know that the sender was her husband’s male colleague who was just joking around with Ben. But the joke ended up becoming one that would cost too much.
Mike, Ben’s office buddy and he used to send each other such messages as if they were from the opposite sex, just to tease each other throughout the day.
After reading the message, she smiled strangely and said to herself, “This is the evidence that I have been looking for to show that he is cheating on me. He will pay dearly for playing with my emotions.” She smiled to herself wryly again and walked to meet her husband.
Ben was resting on the couch when Ngozi walked to him with his phone in her left hand.
“Who is this idiot that has the audacity to text you like this?” She demanded.
Ben was not in the mood for a fight today, so he remained silent. This infuriated her even more. Ngozi violently threw the phone, shattering its face. She ran to the kitchen and returned with a newly sharpened kitchen knife.
Initially, Ben had thought that it was the same fight of the past where she would make threats and never carried them out. So he remained unperturbed.
“I asked who is the idiot that sent that message?” She demanded again.
“Woman, please. Please allow me to …” Ngozi did not allow him to finish the sentence when she landed the knife forcefully in his stomach. She repeated this several times and Ben crumpled to the ground.
Blood gushed out like that of a newly slaughtered cow. His shouting attracted the neighbours who had contacted the police.
Everyone knew that Ben and Ngozi had been in a very toxic relationship from the day they got married. Ben’s parents had warned him to exit from the marriage, but he had refused. He had told his parents that although his wife was stubborn, she would change. She did not.
Some of their close neighbours were not surprised that it had ended this way. One of the neighbors had called the couple advising them, “Don’t lose your life trying to save your relationship. Kill the relationship, and save your life. Life goes on.”
But they did not listen.
Blessings Received? - by Sultana Raza (Flash Fiction 2021)
Of Indian origin, Sultana Raza’s poems have appeared in numerous journals, including Columbia Journal, The New Verse News, London Grip, Classical Poetry Society, spillwords, Poetry24, Dissident Voice, and The Peacock Journal. Her fiction has received an Honorable Mention in Glimmer Train Review, and has been published in Coldnoon Journal, Szirine, apertura, Entropy, and ensemble (in French). She has read her fiction/poems in India, Switzerland, France, Luxembourg, England, Ireland, the US, and at CoNZealand.
Sultana Raza has an MA in English Literature. Her creative non-fiction has appeared in Literary Ladies Guides, Literary Yard, countercurrents.org, Litro, impspired, pendemic.ie, Gnarled Oak, Kashmir Times, and A Beautiful Space. Her 100+ articles (on art, theatre, film, and humanitarian issues) have appeared in English and French. An independent scholar, Sultana Raza has presented many papers related to Romanticism (Keats) and Fantasy (Tolkien) in international conferences. https://www.facebook.com/sultana.raza.7
Blessings Received?
by Sultana Raza
Suzie wasn’t sure she’d had a visitation by a veiled lady in blue in restless dreams, full of waves, and sea-side fronds. Had Suzie been sliding down dunes in coastal rains?
Of course, Billy shot down the idea of a miracle in a flash.
Yet, during the yard sale on the beach, Suzie pulled at her forelock three times, kissed the first rounded pebble she saw, and spitting four times around herself for good luck, bought the Temple of Liberty, painted cerulean, with the tiny figure in blue robes like a sole bride, on top of a superstitious cake.
Billy just sniffed at her silly antics.
At least, the water didn’t reach their first floor apartment the next week. And their rusty, old Impala didn’t float away to freedom on the ocean. The boss didn’t fire Suzie, just poor deaf Jake on account of his wife suddenly upping, and leaving his messy apartment.
Everybody in the building had to be rushed to the doctor’s, but luckily Suzie’s family were the only ones who’d refused the free rashers offered by the new super-market.
Billy simply shrugged, and wrote it all down to a handful of mere coincidences.
Suzie rubbed the feet of the unyielding bride three times every morning and evening, even if the statue was placidly content to remain in the same pose, staring at her limited infinity forever with her vacant eyes.
And at least Billy hadn’t shot down her idea yet, of picking curly pink sea-shells for Granny May next May Day. Granny had always said that that brought good luck.
In the end, Suzie found just four curly pink sea-shells for Granny May, but she gave them two to keep for themselves. Sweet Granny May, always looking out for her own, even at eighty-two.
When Suzie discovered about a dozen lottery tickets in Billy’s shirt pocket, she couldn’t help smiling. At least she’d discovered them before washing the shirt.
When the unseasonal mini-tornado spared their street, and took off the top floors of all the buildings on their parallel street, Suzie lit a dozen candles at the local church, and kept the curly pink sea shells soaked in sea water, so they’d keep generating good luck.
This time, Billy didn’t even mock Suzie’s action of putting the curly pink sea-shells at the feet of the cerulean Temple of Liberty, even if the lady at the top couldn’t look down at them. Neither did he complain about not winning the lottery.
In these unsettling times, it was enough the pink sea-shells had helped to ward off bad luck. Good luck would breeze in whenever it was good and ready, as Granny May always said. We just have to keep our minds, hearts, and living space prepared for it.
Teddy Bear, Teddy Bear, Turn Around - by Lynne Phillips (Flash Fiction 2021)
Lynne Phillips’ stories have been
published by Zombie Pirate Publishing, Black Hare Press, Fantasia Divinity
Publishing, Our Wonderful Anthology, and in various online magazines. She
enjoys exploring the craft of writing stories and the challenge it presents.
Her passions are reading, writing and keeping fit. Connect with her on
https://www.facebook.com.lynne phillips.505
Teddy Bear, Teddy Bear, Turn Around
by Lynne Phillips
The caretaker’s gnarled fingers
turned the brass key and pushed the heavy door open.
“The old house has been empty for
decades. Albert left after the unfortunate accident with his wife and son.”
Henry followed him through the door,
staring up at the high entrance and sweeping staircase. “Is that where the
accident happened?”
“Yes, most unfortunate it was. The
boy was climbing on the stair rail and fell. His mother tried to stop him
falling and fell too. Both died the minute they hit the tiles below. Albert was
never the same again. He locked up the place and left us as caretakers. We’ve
done our best to look after it.”
A shiver ran down Henry’s spine. His
mother would say someone walked over his grave. He tried to shake off the
thought; he was lucky to inherit such a grand house.
“You know, you look a lot like your
uncle.” The caretaker’s voice echoed in the entrance hall.
“I’ve been told that before, but I
never met him. He was always travelling abroad.”
“There’s a portrait over there,
check for yourself.”
Henry looked at the stern man whose
eyes stared back.
“I hope I don’t look as scary, but I
can see the similarity.”
“I’ll leave you to look around. The wife has
cleaned everything except the attic. There’s food in the fridge and a generous
wine cellar.”
The old house held many treasures.
Henry explored every room. The attic was locked, and he couldn’t find the key.
He wandered over to the caretaker’s cottage. Maisie, the caretaker’s wife,
wiped her hands on her apron.
“Albert locked it after the accident
and gave me the key. He said evil was locked away, so I never opened it.” She
handed Henry a heavy brass key.
The attic was empty except for a teddy bear
covered with dust.
“I had one like this as a child. I
wonder if this belonged to my cousin.” Henry dusted it off and pulled the cord
in the bear’s tummy.
“Teddy
bear, teddy bear turn around, teddy bear, teddy bear touch the ground........”
The jingle made Henry laugh. “Come
on old chap, you don’t want to be locked away here on your own.”
Henry placed the bear beside his bed
and went to the pub for dinner, coming home late. His head spun.
“I think I drank too much.”
He fumbled around in the dark and
fell onto the bed fully clothed.
“I
saw you push him.” Henry woke with a start.
“I
saw you push them”
The room had an eerie red glow.
Henry realised it was the bear’s eyes.
“Albert,
I saw you push them both down the stairs.”
“No, you’re mistaken. I’m Henry, not
Albert.”
The bear floated towards Henry. “I saw you. He loved me.”
In his drunken stupor, Henry backed away from
the bear’s baleful glare. He stumbled out the door and fell backward down the
stairs, his neck broken.
First of Many - by Timothy Law (Flash Fiction 2021)
Timothy Law is a writer of fantasy, horror, detective fiction, general fiction and everything else that pops into his head. He heralds from a little town in Southern Australia called Murray Bridge. A happily married father of three, family is very important to him. Currently working at the Murray Bridge Library in the role of Library Manager he has dreamed since his early high school years of becoming a full-time author. Working for a library, surrounded by so many wonderful stories it is difficult not to be inspired to write. All he now needs is what every author wishes for, time, a little peace and quiet and of course a willing and understanding publisher. While seeking what seems to be the impossible he somehow finds time for scotch and board games with his brother-in-law, family movie nights and weekends away with his wonderful wife.
First of Many
by Timothy Law
The air was thick with anticipation. The Town Hall was packed with people all holding their breath, waiting as one for the band to begin.
Front Man Daniel strode up to the mic with a cockiness that only he could pull off.
“Make some noise for birthday girl, Stephanie! Eighteen today!”
The class of 2003 gathered in the mosh pit screamed back in reply. Around the edges Aunties, Uncles and other family all clapped and cheered politely, a far more civilized response which was drowned out by the teen army. Stephanie in the middle of the front row, squeezed between her best friends, stared up at Daniel with dreamy eyes. Daniel locked eyes with her and blew a kiss.
“This one’s for you babe!” he cried before counting in the base.
The mosh pit began moving to the thrum, letting the music wash over them. Almost all the boys’ eyes were on the girl of the moment. Sam the drummer had his fixed further back. In fact Sam was so fixated on Stephanie’s older sister Louisa that he almost missed his cue.
Sam’s drums thundered, joining the base player. Daniel then kicked in with the first lyrics of Seven Nation Army by the White Stripes. A crowd pleaser it was only natural the band then followed up with another by that band.
“The hardest button to button!!” screamed Daniel with the whole Town Hall singing along.
When the band got a break Sam noticed Louisa had migrated to the punch bowl.
“Care for a drink?” he asked, scooping up two cups and offering one to the older girl.
“Thanks,” Louisa mouthed before pointing to the doors. “Join me outside?”
The sound system was blaring out Crazy in Love and Stephanie and her friends were having a great time. Happily Sam joined Louisa outside where it was a little quieter.
“A great party, don’t you think?” asked Sam, looking up at the moon.
“Steph’s having a ball,” Louisa agreed. “I’d rather be here with you though.”
“Thought you’d prefer guitarists?” laughed Sam.
Louisa kissed him then, a light brush of her sweet lips first. As the kiss deepened Sam dropped his glass.
“Does that answer your question?” Louisa asked.
“Wow…” was all Sam could reply.
Ten years later Sam considered just how lucky he was. He and Louisa were six years married with a son, Cooper who was three and a daughter, Sophie, who was almost two. A smile crossed his lips as he recalled that first kiss. As he hung his robe and then stepped into the shower he suddenly felt the presence of Louisa behind him.
“Care for some company?” his wife asked. “Your mum just picked up the kids… I’m all yours till we have Steph’s party this arvo.”
Sam pulled the love of his life in after him and shared another magical smooch. “Happy anniversary, honey,” Sam murmured.
It was going to be a perfect morning as Sam and Louisa shared kiss after kiss identical to their first.
Silk - by Mehreen Ahmed (Flash Fiction 2021)
Mehreen Ahmed is widely published and critically acclaimed by Midwest Book Review, The Wild Atlantic Book Club, DD Magazine to name a few. A winner in The Waterloo Short Story Competition, her short stories are Shortlisted in Cogito Literary Magazine Contest, a Finalist in the Fourth Adelaide Literary Award Contest, and winner in Cabinet of Heed stream-of-consciousness challenge. Her works are Three-time nominated for The Best of the Net Awards, nominated for the Pushcart Prize Award, Two-time nominated for Aurealis Awards. Her book is an announced Drunken Druid's Editor's Choice.
Silk
by Mehreen Ahmed
Consistency wasn’t my forte. I watched my parents play chess every day with a tad of scepticism, wondering if they really enjoyed playing the same game. My mother could win hands down. My father lost every time. It upset him. He was a bad loser. Just watching them was monotonous. The same arguments over those moves on the chessboard.
In those days, I wore Naagras. They were royal shoes with a narrow pointy front bow. I went to some really dark places in them. Both boredom and romance took me into forbidden forays, as I sought newness. I really didn’t know what I expected. A nuanced romance that would explode a life of taste and colour. The more I tried, the more disappointment my adventures brought me, flat prairies of no exciting relationships.
One summer’s afternoon, however, I sat reading Tagore’s The Last Poem. His definition of love and marriage eluded me. The essence of true love is fascinating and dangerous. He compared true love with an ocean where the mellow heart must be allowed to immerse occasionally. Marriage, on the other hand, was washed away with sullied water, fetched every day, and used every day.
Then I heard footsteps. Our neighbour’s son Sunny ambled through the garden. I looked up. He smiled and sat down next to me. We started talking about romance and marriage.
“Are you reading Tagore’s The Last Poem?”
He asked looking at the turned pages.
“Yes,” I answered.
“How are you liking it?”
“I like his views on love and marriage,” I said.
“Hmm, Interesting take, say, do you think Madame Bovary could change?” he asked.
“Seriously? No, I don’t think so. Her boredom was too deep.”
He noted my terse answer. However, I continued unabashed.
I had roped myself in defense of the Madame Bovary types of the world. Suddenly, Sunny looked at me strangely. He pulled me towards him. His lips were pressing hard and hot on mine. I had the strangest vision in his arms. I felt a connection. Something actually clicked.
“I have been there. Done it, many, many times.”
I cried and unlocked myself from his arms.
“With the same person?” he asked.
“No.”
“Aha,” he chuckled.
I started to walk away from him. He followed me. We entered the house together. Our parents chatted on the far side of the verandah. Sunny joined them for a drink. I went to my bedroom and stood by the window. The pomegranate tree was in full bloom. True love didn't exist, I reminded myself. But, I felt something there with Sunny, which I had not felt with any others. Maybe Sunny checkmated me. Maybe, I was in love. One kiss, could this transform me? I braced myself for a fall.
The next day, I texted him asking for a date. He responded promptly. It was in the afternoon again in our garden shed. I pulled up a branch of a mango tree as I walked under its foliage.
A desire swelled in my heart. He carried me and he walked towards the shed.
After about a quarter of an hour, I saw through the tiny shed window, a crow flying in and sitting on the shed of the corrugated iron roof. He dropped a patch of faeces lather on its edge before it flew away with a caw. Sunny and I spent nearly two hours here. I began to feel it, the passion, the romance, and a rash desire for Sunny. Sunny was the one, the only love of my life.
Sunny looked at me and asked,
“What’s up! What’re you thinking?”
“Of you.”
“Really? Do you want to marry me?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Hmm.”
“Hmm? I asked.
“Not sure, if you’re committed enough.”
He lit a cigarette and made a smokey ring as he puffed it out through his pouty lips. The penny dropped for me. Sunny was right. I wasn’t marriage-worthy. This passion would relinquish; I was another Madame Bovary in waiting.
The Topography of Pain - by Amrita Valan (Flash Fiction 2021)
Amrita Valan is a writer from Bangalore, India and has a master's degree in English Literature. Her last job was as a content creator in deductive logic and reasoning in english. She is currently a stay at home mom to two boys. Her work has been published in more than a dozen anthologies and online journals including Spillwords, ImpSpired, Cafe Lit, Cafe Dissensus, Shot Glass Journal and Oddball Magazine, among others.
The Topography of Pain
by Amrita Valan
The valleys and gorges in his chest hurt each day since she left. He befriended the deep ravines of absence, gashes etched by glaciers of abandonment. Bottomless pits serrated hollow scoops of his heart, a daily bloodletting since Avantika’s departure.
Pratyush was a student of commerce in college, where he first met, then was besotted by the flamboyant and flirtatious Avantika. Her thick glossy mane of coppery hair, behind which she hid her almond eyes, her bow shaped lips, her infectious laughter made his blood rush.
They took the same bus back home, so he started purchasing two tickets to sit next to her. If the bus was crowded, she sat while he stood in attendance. If the bus was a packed tin can, he used his body to protect her from collisions with men who ogled her.
Ava grew fond of him while unabashedly sighing over the latest college stud. They were only friends, but surreptitiously he hoped.
The second year of college saw his dream come true. Ava was standing red eyed, tremulous at the bus stop. He was horrified yet gratified, when she rested her head on his shoulders and wept, bitterly narrating a tale of betrayal. She had been dating Sunny for a month. They’d gone to the college fest and the Colonial Cousins concert, thus cementing their public relationship status. Suddenly he started going AWOL. Today, he had brutally informed her he wasn’t serious. There was another girl, and he shouldn’t have gotten this intimate. Sunny was apologetic, but he hated drama. Ava walked away, stone-faced, flames of a setting sun hurting her eyes. Till Pratyush arrived and so did her tears.
Their love affair was tender, merciful, and urgent. Need for intimacy defined their commitment. Ava asked, ‘Are we soul mates?’ Pratyush kept silent. Discussing would tempt fate.
Fate was more callous. On Valentine’s day, it was delivered to Ava, a blue inland letter from America, containing protestations of undying love and abject apologies from Sunny. She started corresponding, applied to the same bunch of American colleges he had the year before his departure. They were both humanities students, Sunny, a year senior, and he guided her efforts. Ava secured admission to his university. Pratyush knew of her American dreams but not of the rising sun who awaited her there.
He hadn’t her academic aptitude and was already working in an accountant’s firm on a modest salary. He let his dream girl go, to fulfil the dreams in her eyes. Resigned to live with the knowledge that they were soulmates, just not meant to be together. Romanticizing a futile love. But Avantika rediscovered her conscience, just before leaving. She confessed how a repentant Sunny and she had made their peace, and how she felt he deserved a second chance. ‘True love’, she said, ‘is fated to be, and we were not fated to be dearest.’ Tears trembled. She made no effort to hide them with her lustrous mane.
Pratyush took her face in his palms, then deliberately dishevelled her brown sheath to veil those almond eyes. Which glowed harder than diamonds for all their tearfulness.
In them, he spied a world foreign to him.
Where skies seemed bluer in photographs she shared on Facebook, and the length of the majestic Rockies, infinite.
Pratyush hid another world in his heart, which captured the absolute topography of his pain.
I’m the Editor That Passed On Harry Potter - by Mark Konik (Flash Fiction 2021)
Mark Konik is a writer from Newcastle, Australia. His plays and short stories have been published and performed in Australia, The UK, The US, UAE, Canada, India and New Zealand. The short film he wrote, A Million Times Before, was produced in San Francisco and was selected for several film festivals in Europe and North America.
I’m the Editor That Passed On Harry Potter
by Mark Konik
I’m the editor that passed on Harry Potter.
That’s how I get introduced at parties, “Meet Edith, she’s the editor that passed on Harry Potter”.
There’s always some jibes. I’ve heard them all. I’ve edited six bestsellers, but people still know me as the editor that passed on Harry Potter.
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