Issue 111 December 2022

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Editorial: December 2022

by Anna Yeatts

December 1, 2022

Our stories this month look at relationships, and in particular, those set in space.

In “Lost and Found at the Center of the Universe” by Bo Balder, intergalactic co-workers/amateur matchmakers attempt to help others find the things they’ve lost and the things they’d like to find… like true love. With enough optimism and acceptance, anything really might be possible.

“It Begins with RAVEN” by Jenn Reese is a reminder that the deepest bonds are often the most unexpected. Spaceships can crash in an instant, but a relationship “happens slowly, one small step at a time.”

Set on a glacier, Alice Towey’s “The Last Cold Place” is a literary look at the ways we create distance in our relationships. The story says it best: “It’s cold … the chill refuses to be ignored. It’s a revelation, a shock, a force; different from any other cold you’ve ever experienced, the way true love is different from a teenage crush.”

Our reprint this month is Gerri Brightwell’s “Rasslab́sia,” a beautifully told story about learning to relax and let go. Originally published in JMWW online, 7 October 2020.

Last, but certainly not least, our flash fiction flashback features “Mirror Skinned” by Kelly Sandoval, originally published in May 2015.

Before I sign off on this editorial, I’d like to acknowledge the relationships that made this year at FFO possible:

To all of our patrons, readers, subscribers, social media followers, and supporters, thank you for financially keeping our doors open. More importantly, your passion for short fiction is contagious and inpsires us to continue publishing stories we hope you’ll love. 

To our authors, thank you for trusting us with your stories. We’re blown away by your talent. It’s an honor working with you.

To the authors who submit stories but haven’t made it into our virtual pages yet, we see you. Don’t be discouraged by the rejection letters. Keep writing. Keep leveling up. Keep submitting. We really are cheering you on from behind the scenes.

To the staff of Flash Fiction Online, thank you for the countless volunteer hours sifting through slush, offering insight, and fighting for the stories you believe in. 

To the FFO editorial team, you hold this whole magazine together with dedication and a whole lot of patience. Thank you for having the discipiline to make sure everyone (including me…) was doing what needed to be done.

 To Cat Sparks, our extraordinarily gifted Art Director, thank you for gracing our covers with your gorgeous artwork. Truly stunning!

And an enormous thank you to Emma Munro. As FFO’s Editor-in-Chief, your gentle leadership and unwavering vision have guided us through it all. 

All right, that’s enough from me. Here’s to 2023 and more great stories. Enjoy!

Anna Yeatts

Editor-in-Chief; Publisher;

Flash Fiction Online

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Lost and Found at the Center of the Universe

by Bo Balder

December 2, 2022

Those who like order and routine need not apply at the Department of the Lost and Found at the Center of the Universe. We vacillate between frantically storing red dwarfs, starships, even mislaid species and months of boredom. We barely survive the first, and fill the latter with the delightful pastime of matchmaking. Our unofficial motto is, “From the Universe, with Love!”

Many beings ask for things that haven’t been found. Yet. Or ever will be. Like the love of their life. However, we do try to help. Always. We give them hope, and also a couple of concrete suggestions. Such as, “Do no accept black holes or any pieces of luggage that might contain black holes”. May they rest in peace.

My colleague’s alarmed squeak rouses me from our tiny break room. “Ilmar! Help!”

Louhi is a good sort and not a being to disturb my few moments of peace, quiet and (badly synthesized) coffee over nothing.

The creature looming over the counter is fuming straight through its Civility suit. Real fumes. Thankfully we always wear atmosphere bulbs inside ours anyway(see above re malodorous) and we won’t die from poisoned air. Other causes of death are still a possibility.

“Where is my <item>!” the being bellows through our translators. “I notified this office several <periods> ago!”

I quickly check the lost item in question. A million cubic meters of the Secret Essence of Youth. Tsk. As if that would be turned in. Even the most honest being would be tempted.

“It’s a rather large item, sir, and we need a 27-unit advance warning to produce it in office. I shall set the retrieval in motion at once.”

They grumble but relent. The fumes die down. I tag the being so it won’t be able to come into our office unannounced again. Basic safety. While tagging, I notice its species, which the Civility suit hides from us. I get a luminous idea.

As soon as they’re gone, Louhi rounds on me. “Ilmar, you idiot. We don’t have that.”

“Louhi,” I say, “this is one of those moments where our little side business is going to do the trick.”

Remember our hobby? We see a lot of unhappy beings pass through our office, and we love to help.

“You’ve seen one of these before?” Louhi displays lilac on their Civility suit, signaling doubt.

“In a way.” I send an item number to their display. It’s a frozen object in Found, Organic Division.

“How did it get there? A sentient being can’t be Found, that’s illegal. Why was it never returned to its home system?”

“Who knows what our predecessors’ morals were like? But look, it’s the same species as our client.”

Louhi coughs. Because we’re civil servants, we can see the tags, but it’s considered uncouth to check on species, gender, age or persuasion. Because why else are we wearing Civility suits? But I just can’t help myself. I’m a curious mammal and I like to know these things. Except about Louhi of course. They are my colleague, that would be rude.

Louhi needs a good ten units to think it over but then they agree that thawing the same species alien would be our best bet of avoiding hassle. As well as not hiring protection, and last but best, creating the potential for happiness in two gentlebeings.

So we request the item from storage two, ten-units before the angry alien comes, and thaw them. They lie motionless, although the thawer indicates they’re within specs for their species. I’m worried. Louhi and I whisper over the private band. “Is it damaged? Traumatized? Is it ethically justified to let them meet the angry one?”

There are no rules for or against letting people of the same species be in our office at the same time. Morally speaking, however, I have my doubts. We mean well, but is that enough?

The door sphincters open with a hiss, admitting our client. They practically bounce over to us. I know nothing about their species’ body language, but my hardwired anthropomorphic pattern-recognition instincts read it as happy anticipation anyway.

The bouncing being halts halfway to our counter. Their appendages swivel and swirl. Their Civility suit displays aberrant bursts of color, well outside the normal range. Should we avert our eyes?

Our detainee rises from their slab and approaches the client. Their colors mirror our client’s, muted at first, but getting stronger by the moment. They move towards each other. I don’t know if they have eyes, but I imagine staring. And heavy breathing, if they have lungs.

Behind the counter, I hold my breath. Louhi stands transfixed as well. Will they or won’t they? Louhi’s appendage grabs mine. I squeeze back. I don’t know what Louhi’s species is (Civility suits, remember, gentlereaderbeings!), but at that moment I feel sure we are unified by anticipation and delight.

The aliens bump fronts. Air purifiers all over the office start bleeping alarms. Pheromones? The client turns on pink shame indicators and bows to the counter. “I relinquish my claim on the Essence!” they exclaim.

The two aliens exit hastily before the air purity police arrive.

Louhi’s hand is still in mine. It’s warm. I get feelings. Is it possible that Louhi is of a species compatible to mine?

In all our matchmaking, we haven’t considered matching ourselves. We turn toward each other. Louhi’s Civility suit is blushing, and I’m sure mine does the same. Shyly, I request their species, gender and persuasion, also known as ‘wooing”. My heart thuds as I wait for their answer.

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It Begins with RAVEN

by Jenn Reese

December 9, 2022

In order to flirt with Raven, I have to leave the engineering hub, trudge through the entire reclamation wing of the spaceship, cross the mess hall, and search the farm dome. If I’m lucky, Raven is picking or pruning or digging in the soil beds and is not off in some secret hidey-hole grabbing a nap or drinking a watery beer with her friend Dover.

Dover, who is officially on Raven’s work team, and therefore constantly in the fields, buzzing around like some farm drone bee.

Today I get lucky and find Raven replanting the tomatoes.

“You want something, Blue?” Raven asks. She calls me “Blue,” which is not my name, nor close to “Tess” in any way, but which I like better than my name, on account of Raven giving it to me.

I mumble something that is half engineering pun, half innuendo, and wholly nonsensical. Wisely, Raven does not acknowledge it.

Dover appears out of nowhere, her hair tucked under her faded ballcap. “Hey! Loved that vid you linked to Raven a few spins ago, the old-school rom-com? I liked your edits. I can’t believe she ends up with the dude in the original. Where’s the fun in that?”

Those edits were not intended for Dover’s eyes. They were for Raven. Only for her.

“What did you think?” I ask Raven.

Raven shrugs. It is the most beautiful expression of disinterest that I’ve ever seen.

RAVEN to RIVEN

No one sees what hits the ship. When you’re cruising at thousands of miles per hour, it doesn’t take much. A rock the size of a football might as well be an iceberg. It can rip through a fortified hull as if it were made of tissue.

It can rip through people, too.

I don’t have the time to go to the farm dome now, not with most of engineering gone. There’s too much to do, and too few of us left to do it. We’ve abandoned our primary scientific mission. If we don’t find a habitable planet soon, there won’t be any more missions, period.

Dover brings me a piece of fruit every morning and a carrot every afternoon. She updates me on Raven, who is still alive, but has been unconscious since the accident.

Raven fared better than the bees when the dome cracked open to the ink of space, but not by much.

I take what Dover brings, and I keep working.

RIVEN to RIVER

The planet isn’t perfect and we have no way to land the ship — It wasn’t designed to land, I keep telling them — but we’re out of options. There’s a big river, at least, and even from space, it’s so blue. Blue, like Raven’s nickname for me. I wonder if I’ll ever hear Raven speak it again.

I share this observation with Dover and out of nowhere, Dover snaps. “Raven called you that because she couldn’t remember your name, Tess. Because your name didn’t matter to her.”

Dover doesn’t visit the next day. I miss my morning apple.

I miss it more than I expect.

RIVER to ROVER

I follow the river, steering the rover towards the mountains we’ve named The Eyebrows of God. Dover is in the passenger seat peeling an orange, the fingers of her new mechanical hand working deftly despite the bumpy ride.

The air is sweet and thick, like we’re breathing through flower petals. After two months, I’m almost used to it.

“Open,” Dover commands, and shoves an orange wedge in my mouth when I comply. It’s one of the last few from the ship, so tart it almost cuts my tongue.

“She’s improving,” Dover says. The medical wing was largely untouched during the crash. A miracle. Raven managed to sleep through the entire nightmare.

“Let’s pick some flowers for her today, just in case,” I say. “It’s going to be a helluva shock if she wakes up to this. Can you imagine? Her whole world changed in an instant.”

But maybe it’s easier when change happens like that, in fiery crashes, in sudden crescendos. There’s no denying the new world when the new world is all that’s left.

“Open,” Dover says. She holds out the last orange slice but is looking towards the horizon. Not at me.

I take the offering, as I always do, and my mouth fills with sharp citrus.

ROVER to DOVER

The flowers are there when Raven opens her eyes, and so are we.

“Blue,” Raven croaks.

I immediately turn to Dover. “See? She does remember my name.”

“That’s not your name,” Dover says with a feigned sigh.

We bring Raven up to speed, as gently as we can, over the course of an hour. Then Dover stands, touches my shoulder, says, “You should stay. Catch up.” She nods towards Raven and starts to leave.

But not everything important happens in an instant. Sometimes it happens slowly, one small step at a time.

As Dover is pulling away, I grab her hand in both of mine, rub my thumb across the back of her wrist. I don’t ever want to let go. “Raven needs her sleep, and… I want to make you dinner.”

Dover’s grin is like the third sun in the sky of our new world. Our new home. She says, “It’s about time.”

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The Last Cold Place

by Alice Towey

December 16, 2022

I stand on a glacier, snow cutting my face like shrapnel, and drill a core deep into the ice. It reminds me of our argument the night before I left: like a blade twisting into my heart, you said.

It’s below freezing and the wind is picking up. The monitor on the drill rig beeps; we’ve reached one kilometer. Now the hard part, unwinding the rig and extracting the sample without shattering it. I press a sequence of buttons, hands clumsy in thick red gloves. Slowly, reverently, I bring the ice up to the surface. Jorgen rushes over to remove the final length of metal, carefully laying it on a waiting tarp. We open the barrel and pull out a beautiful cylinder of 100,000-year-old ice.

I always feel like I should say a prayer at these moments. Maybe beg mercy for Earth’s future, or forgiveness for our trespasses against it. But today, the only prayer I can muster is for you: please let Michael forgive me.

* * *

It’s cold.

I know that’s stating the obvious, but as we ride our snowmobiles back to base, the chill refuses to be ignored. It’s a revelation, a shock, a force; different from any other cold you’ve ever experienced, the way true love is different from a teenage crush.

We unload the samples into a long, open-sided tent. Jorgen scrawls data onto a clipboard while I triple-check the labels; something this old deserves not to be misnamed.

Finally, I walk back to the communal tent, where Marina is monitoring the satellite phone.

“Any messages?” I keep my voice casual.

She shakes her head no.

* * *

It’s hard to sleep at this latitude, where the summer sun never truly sets. I lie in my sleeping bag watching the tent fabric ripple in the low light. You would hate it here, without the stars.

Back home, we take evening walks and you point out the constellations: Orion, Leo, Cassiopeia. Your obsession with the night sky was one of the things that first attracted me to you – we were both studying things vaster than ourselves.

Finally I give up on sleep and squirm free of the sleeping bag. I dress in multiple layers and step outside, clapping my hands together for warmth. My boots crunch on the uneven snow as I walk to the end of our camp. The ice sheet extends to the horizon, perfect and blank, and a low, tepid sun is the only star. 

It’s early evening where you are, the sky just beginning to grow dark. Are you sitting in the backyard, waiting for the constellations to appear so you can name them? It’s a tradition your father taught you, one that you told me you hope to pass on to your own children.

The wind picks up, chilling me through my coat, my jumper, my wool shirt. I turn back to my tent to face the sleepless night alone. 

* * *

Today the sky is clear and blue when we set off. I think about you all day, as we ride across the endless white, as we set up the rig, as it refuses to start. Jorgen swears in Norwegian as I flip through the manual.

I know I’m breaking your heart. I could blame the melting ice sheets or the rising levels of atmospheric carbon. But the truth is, I’ve always known: I never wanted to be a mother. There are things I want to give myself to that aren’t compatible with children.

The day before I left, I took a pregnancy test. You paced the living room as I waited for the symbol on the stick to resolve. It was negative, and when I laughed in relief, you misunderstood, thinking that maybe I had changed my mind.

That was our worst night together. If you do decide to leave, I know I should let you go. You deserve the life you’ve dreamed of, a child with your curly brown hair and quiet intensity.

* * *

The rig won’t start, so we head back to base to regroup. Jorgen and Marina argue about spare parts while I borrow the satellite phone. I enter your number, but pause, thumb poised over the square button.

We scientists measure distances in inches, kilometers, lightyears; but the distance between two people is harder to quantify. When I finally call, I can almost feel how far the signal has to travel. “Hello, this is Michael, I can’t get to the phone right now.”

I hang up without leaving a message.

Later that day, I’m entering my field notes into a battered laptop when Marina visits my tent, her shadow long behind her.

“A message,” she hands me a strip of paper, “from Michael.”

My hands are trembling, and not just from the cold. I take a deep breath and open the paper.

I love you. I miss you. I’m sorry.

* * *

I often wonder what will be the last cold place; will there still be ice in Greenland, or in Antarctica, when the rest of the earth is burning? Will people live here? Will they still study the stars?

You once told me that scientists looking for life on other planets study the high deserts and deep-sea vents here on earth. Life finds a way, you said, it’s resilient. I wonder if the same is true for love.

When we get the drill rig working again, we go deep. While Jorgen wraps the ice core in plastic, I drop the paper with your message into the hole. Maybe someday someone will find it. Maybe it’ll still be there in 100,000 years.

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Rasslab́sia

by Gerri Brightwell

December 23, 2022

She’s replacing a panel, hands ungainly in stiff gloves, intent on each twist of metal as she screws it out of its hole. This is how she was trained: to see only the metal glinting in her helmet’s light, to ignore the massive hull of the space station over which she floats, and the infinite space beyond.

At the edge of her vision something intrudes, and she glances up: there’s Krasnov working on the solar array, head slanted down, legs suspended at an impossible angle, but it wasn’t him that caught her eye—behind him earth’s rising up like a colossal balloon. Queasiness stirs in her belly, and she swallows against it. Out here, your sense of your own existence can become unmoored—by your colleague dangling upside down, by your planet hanging overhead.

She should look away, but she doesn’t. Against the desolate monochrome of space, earth’s radiant: the Pacific’s a heart-breaking blue, North America’s decked out in greens and browns. Down there, impossibly far away, her tender husband, their toddling baby girl, their backyard with the swing-set and peonies, and in that instant her body understands: she’s two hundred and fifty miles up. Fear spikes through her and she grabs hold of a truss, as though she might fall, as though she isn’t already falling with the space station in its infinitesimally slow descent around earth.

Through her headset, Krasnov: “Everything A-OK?” His accent makes the words sing.

She says, “Sure, I’m good,” but her voice is tight.

Distance has shrunken him to toy size, his suit bright against the shadow of the array. “You look?”
“It’s quite the sight.”

“Rasslab́sia!”

“Sure, rasslab́sia.” She laughs, and he does too.

When things go wrong—Rasslab́sia! When you freak out—Rasslab́sia! Relax. Chill. Take it easy.

He gives a stiff wave then slips into the array’s shadow. It’s like watching him vanish into a pool of dark water. She looks away and repositions herself over the panel. Six more screws. Only six. She slows her breathing, focusses.

Up here, time’s accelerated. Forty-five minutes after the sun comes blasting over the earth’s rim, it dips away. By the time she looks up again, night is eating its way across west Africa, across a storm coiled over the Atlantic, and the world vanishes.

Soon darkness is pouring over the space station, too. First one module winks out, then the next. Moments later the panel’s gone, and her outstretched arm. Where it was, there’s nothing. She flexes her hand. No resistance of glove against fingers, no sensation of muscles moving under skin. In front of her—nothing. When she turns—nothing, and panic flares up her throat. No gleam from her helmet light, no shimmer from long-dead stars, only this absence of everything that ever was and ever will be. This is what it means for time not to have begun, for the universe not to exist, for panic to be pointless, and how easy it is to let go. Rasslab́sia, Rasslab́sia, Rasslab́sia.

Previously published in JMWW online, 7 October 2020. Reprinted here by permission of the author.

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