Blog Archives

Clock Watching, by Allison Symes

31/7/2025

Editor's Choice

‘The boss will see red at your clock watching, Rose.’

‘Who got this year’s productivity bonus, Westleigh?’

‘Yes, but that spell you’re developing is tricky. Reduced attention won’t help.’

‘I’ll use the spell next week. You owe me if it works, else I’ll treat you.’

‘I’ve wanted to eat at The Poisoned Ivy for ages. You’re not fobbing this fairy off with chips like before.’

***

‘Told you, Rose.’

‘Okay. The spell shouldn’t have expired at midnight. Next week for that meal?’

‘Tuesday would be fine, thanks. That Cinderella is a decent sprinter, one high heel and all, isn’t she?’

2025, by Roberta Beach Jacobson

30/7/2025

Sheila once enjoyed freedom without worry. One day things started feeling shadowy, uncertain, even dangerous. News articles made her flinch with anxiety. Which reports were real, which exaggerated? None of her friends could make much sense of the new reality either.

Some days Sheila feared opening her social media, because such shocking allegations flew back and forth. Nobody owned up to anything, so who were the guilty parties, the bad guys? Sheila felt shaken to her American core.

Everything around her seemed to be falling apart, yet Sheila vowed to stay afloat, no matter the odds.

Hometown, by Fredrik Siwmark Carlsson

30/7/2025

There’s something wrong with my hometown. The houses I once played in are now homes to strangers. The cashiers at the supermarket have been replaced by unfamiliar faces. The children playing football in the meadow laugh like we did, but they are not us. Even the trees have changed—the birch is new, and the leaves are, too.

I’m reluctant to look toward the Baltic Sea. I know the water molecules are different from the ones we dipped our adolescent bodies into, but I’m scared to confront the truth.

I don’t belong here anymore.

Anxious, by J.S. O’Keefe

30/7/2025

“GAD,” said Kevin, the day after he’d seen a psychotherapist. “Generalized anxiety disorder.”

“Get out!” I exclaimed. “Anxiety? You eat well but never overeat, seldom drink alcohol, don’t do drugs, and sleep okay. Just about the most carefree happy-go-lucky guy I know. Chances are, you’re the manifestation of perfectly balanced life.”

“Well, the brain doctor also diagnosed me with panic and separation disorder, restless leg syndrome, OCD, social mutism, PTSD, agoraphobia and a few more. Seems all those ills lead to…”

That moment I decided I’d heard enough and took off like a jackrabbit.

A Summer Trip, by Rebekah Lawrence

30/7/2025

The sole of her sandal caught on the uneven gravel track and rolled under her foot.

I knew as soon as she looked down, she had made a mistake.

The flexible sole rebounded, propelling her body, already top-heavy due to that foolhardy downward glance, forward at speed.

I watched her futile efforts to catch her lower half up to the top before she fell.

After a hard landing, the gravel worked like rollers below her. A surprise luge run sans sledge.

At the finish, no medal; only bruises and bleeding.

But she checked her clothes for rips, not her wounds.

The Truth Teller, by Guy Fletcher

30/7/2025

Sylvia stepped out of the cafe seat and stared into the mirror, noticing a woman who resembled her, yet appeared much older and sadder.

Sylvia used to turn heads: men and women lusted after her body but no more. Now she feels inconsequential, invisible.

The mirror is a truth teller. It didn't disguise the melancholic eyes or the wrinkles framing them. She dyed her hair but traces of grey were showing like weeds in a once beautiful garden.

"You look as though you've seen a ghost," stated a young woman.

"No, just glanced inside my soul," Sylvia mournfully replied.

I See You, by Don Tassone

30/7/2025

She walked along the trail, as she did most mornings. Two men jogged toward her. She guessed they were about her son’s age. As they passed, they didn’t look at her or say anything.

An hour later, she was in her office with her first client.

“I feel invisible,” her client said.

“How so?”

“I mean I used to turn men’s heads.”

“And now?”

“They don’t even notice me.”

She was about to offer some advice. But mindful of her own experience that morning, she leaned in, laid her hand on her client’s arm and simply said, “I see you.”

The Revisionist History, by Sankar Chatterjee

30/7/2025

John Oliver, exploring Savannah, Georgia, a charming historic city, built by the slaves’ labor, located the city’s famous arts district. But it was cordoned off by yellow police tapes.

Inside a political meeting of an extreme far right group was taking place. Speakers were denouncing the presence of non-whites in the US. John heard “Even Blacks were all immigrants here.”

He moved to the old market area. A brick-stage still stood from where the newly-arrived slaves were used to be auctioned off. A metal replica of one such auction still existed.

John murmured “No wonder, a dictator rose to power.”

Alone Together, by Steven Lemprière

30/7/2025

Her once lithe frame, now a shrunken sarcophagus laden with heartbreak, bears witness to the life it once embodied. Discarded soiled panties chronicle an event ciphered in blood-red dots, a Morse-coded epitaph she’ll carry with her to her grave.

She lies awake, restless, beside a somnolent partner, emotionally abandoned, and plagued by a cry for an imagined feed. Haunted by the echo of a long-chosen name, her grandmother’s, she swathes her body in arms as frigid, barren and lifeless as she herself feels. Wiping tears from her eyes, she forces them shut against the anguish and melds into the darkness.

Powerless, by Peter Rehn

30/7/2025

The horizon was filled with red break lights as Raul sat there, gripping the steering wheel.
“Not today,” he muttered, as his date plans evaporated like the exhausts of the rush hour traffic.
It had taken a lot of effort to get her to agree.
He needed to let her know.
He took out his phone. Dead. The charger, left on the desk as he’d rushed out.
“Crap,” he blurted, slumping in his seat.
Then, like a clogged up ketchup bottle releasing its content, traffic started moving.
Raul straightened, pressed the accelerator.
Nothing.
A red warning flashed: Battery charge: 0%.

The Wave, by N.C. Smith

30/7/2025

I love my place, my home, in the forest by the beach. Alas, I wonder if it will still be the same after tonight because we have read the news about the earthquake and the approaching tsunami wave.

One can only hope.

My heart goes out for the guy who is building a home for himself on my street. But he is on the beach side of the road; I am on the hillside of it.

I sincerely hope to see his almost finished home still there when tomorrow morning’s sun hits the beach and the waves.

Quick Obit, by Virginia Ashberry

30/7/2025

“Done”, Joan calls out to the ceiling in the hospital commissary as she snaps her laptop shut,

“O-k-a-y…” the man at the next table drawls with good humoured sarcasm. “I presume you had a deadline?”

“Yep”, Joan replies. “I had to write my dad’s obit. Now, with ChatGPT, and the hospital Wi-Fi, my old-man’s departure has a nice, sincere sounding notice, already sent off to the papers. They only pulled the plug on him twenty minutes ago! Don’t you just love technology!”

“Er…, okay…” the man almost whispers, looking down and away as he picks up his tray and leaves.

Tributes, by Sue Clayton

30/7/2025

The ragamuffin children gazed in wonder at the colourful array of bouquets, sprays and bunches of flowers in the florist’s shop. No way would they ever be able to give their mothers such a tribute of love on Mothers’ Day.

The black hearse departed for the nearby crematorium. Shortly thereafter smoke coiled the dearly departed to the afterlife, whilst broken stems and fallen petals from the tributes of bouquets, sprays and bunches of flowers, littered the chapel driveway.

“Happy Mothers’ Day, Mum,” each child gifted a fistful of colourful blooms, a hard won prize from floral combat.

The Aborted Wedding, by Sivan Pillai

30/7/2025

"The wedding of our only daughter will befit our social standing. Professional event managers will handle arrangements. We'll hire a hall with all the facilities".
That night, I dreamt of hungry children fighting with dogs for the leftover food, being killed by low-flying bombers. People with hardly any flesh carrying similar people to overcrowded hospitals. Those with empty stomachs filling themselves with dirty water and trying to sleep in the open.
And fatty, over-dressed people dancing to the loud music at a glittering wedding venue.
"Find another groom", I sent a message to my potential father-in-law the next morning.

The Line, by Nelly Shulman

30/7/2025

The metal gates scraped against the tarmac, and Helen shuddered at the hated sound. The women in line made a rush at the opening, and the soldiers began to shoot.
Yesterday, they had killed a dozen—not counting those trampled beneath the madding crowd. Helen, who had been teaching in the makeshift school, heard about the deaths at a refugee camp gathering.
Today, the soldiers fired into the air, tossing the packages over the fence. One landed at Helen’s feet, and she rushed to the ground, tearing open the carton, stuffing her mouth with dry rice and tears.

New Kids in Town, by Mary K. Curran

30/7/2025

Legend says the first bears ambled in and found shelter with a guileless group that were happy to feed them instead of calling animal control.

Soon more beasts arrived in town but became a serious danger to the locals. Buildings were burned, cars crushed, banks robbed. Food was scarce. Wolves chased children. Hawks snatched people off the street. Leopards ate faces and hyenas laughed at all the chaos.

The infrastructure imploded. Folks lost their humor and humanity, moved to other countries and left everything to the wild animals who ran off when the fun of destroying the place was over

Folk Remedy, by Angelica Jimenez

30/7/2025

“Salt for luck, garlic for vampires, a rabbit’s leg for more luck, mugwort for witches, and here’s your pot of soup. Put it over a nice warm fire to keep away ghosts,” the apothecary smiles as he hands me the concoction.

I inspect it carefully.

“And where’s the iron?”

“I included clams in the mix. High in iron, you know? Should be fine for fairies.”

I lean in to smell it. Something’s off.
“And why does it have SUGAR?”

“For diabetes. Can’t prevent everything. Besides, I’m not a nutritionist. Now, off you go!” he pushes me out of the store.

What It's Come To, by Sherri Bale

30/7/2025

The heat dome hung heavy over the town. Corn sweated its maizey vapor, adding measurably to the humidity. Invasive lantern flies hovered in non-native trees searching for nearby figs and grapes to feast upon. Cicadas looked for a mate, then dropped from the sky to splat on the sidewalk, green eyes turning opaque. Impatient drivers in red hats revved their truck engines and spewed exhaust, gun racks in back rattling.

STOP THE SOLAR FARMS and NO WIND TURBINES HERE banners lined Main Street.

I pounded a “FOR SALE” sign into my lawn and gunned my Tesla EV out of town.

Dog Show, by Scott C. Holstad

30/7/2025

Cam glanced up from his book and noticed a man with seeing eye dog walking briskly down the sidewalk and thought, “Pretty fast for being blind.”

As they reached a red light, they didn’t slow, practically barging into the street.

“Shit,” Cam thought, “they’re going to die! I’m going to see them squashed flat right there.”

As Cam prepared to run after them, the man jerked back on the leash. Cam paused and looked back, realizing 200 feet back was another pair with another 200 feet further behind.

A seeing eye dog training class!

Chuckling, Cam returned to his book.

Souvenirs, by Sarp Sozdinler

30/7/2025

She kept the voicemail long after she stopped listening to it. Not out of sentimentality; just habit. His voice still there, blurry with laughter, asking if she needed anything from the market. It had been the day before the argument. Before he packed everything in silence, except the citrus juicer they bought together in Lisbon.

Now, the kitchen felt quieter. Not empty; just paused. The kind of stillness hotels had after checkout. She drank her coffee from the chipped mug he left behind, the one with the tiny whale. She told herself she liked it better with the handle gone.

Their Biggest Hit, by Ian Willey

30/7/2025

Ethan and Yuri are a highly successful pop duo from Sweden. Ethan plays guitar and writes the songs; Yuri does the vocals. People assume they’ve slept together, but they say they never have.

After one show, the two find they have to share a hotel room. They’re too exhausted to argue.

Yuri gets the bed; Ethan takes the floor. They sleep like stones. When they wake, they’re lying next to each other, sharing a blanket. Neither remembers anything.

Ethan writes a song about the experience, and it goes straight to number one. Fans are like, yeah, like we didn’t know.

Mother's Day, by E. Melanie Watt

30/7/2025

At four years old, Suzie realized she had the best Mom ever. Together they baked and ran through meadows picking flowers. Her hugs smelled like chocolate chip cookies.
“What would Mommy like best for Mother’s Day?” Suzie asked Daddy and Grandma.
When it was time for presents Suzie dragged her bag across the kitchen floor. It was leaking a bit of powdery stuff.
Mom said, “What’s that then?” When she opened the bag, her face scrunched up.
Grandma peaked in the bag and started to laugh. “Suzie got you just what we said you wanted - A bunch of flours!”

Under Water, by Cheryl Dahlstrand

30/7/2025

Denny got out of his truck, searching for his RV. Any RV, for that matter.

There were only empty spaces and debris- the park had been leveled.

A ranger in official uniform approached. “River flash flood last night,” he explained.

“I can’t believe it,” responded Denny. “I been comin’ here for twenty years. Nothin’s ever happened like this. I knowed ever’one. Like one big fishin’ family.”

“I understand,” the ranger sympathized. “Perhaps you could help me out with some names.”

“Names?” Denny shook his head. “I don’t know no names. We was all friends. We just called each other ‘buddy.’”

Life of the Party, by Maverick Hughes

30/7/2025

As the masquerade went on, Elizabeth saw more masked attendees looking at her. Each wore a marble-white mask along with their lavish attire. Their eyes were an unnerving mix of gold, yellow, and orange. Within them sat a desire for something, a growing thirst. Not one of them spoke. All were as silent as corpses in their coffins.

The host of the party stepped forward and raised an empty glass.

“To she who’ll satisfy.”

Red stained claws removed the masquerade masks, showing fanged smiles. The crowd greedily encircled Elizabeth.

“May everyone have a taste before she runs out...”

Adirondack Misadventures, by Nick Di Carlo

30/7/2025

The Adirondacks turn me primitive, foolish, though foolishness isn’t geographical.

Hailey, her friend Debbie and I are at Hailey’s cabin on the lake, enjoying hot days—and nights cool enough for a fire.

Hailey says, “I’m going to bed. You coming?”

“Soon,” I say.

Debbie asks, “Will you stoke the fire? I’m not sleepy yet.”

Placing another log on the hearth, I get a blaze going.

“Please sit with me awhile.”

I’m not sleepy, so I say yes.

In a heartbeat, Debbie and I are sitting too close for too long.

Daybreak. Everyone awakens—transformed. Just how? No one knows.

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