Issue 89 February 2021

Table of Contents

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It’s Complicated

by Anna Yeatts

June 30, 2014

Family is messy and uncontrollable. Just ask anyone with a child in diapers who’s picked cereal out of her hair. But a smashed wildflower from a chubby fist means more than all the clean houses in the world.

Our stories this month are about messy, complicated relationships that bring more than anticipated.

In “The Coyote Howls” by Mary C. Moore, a young woman flees her old life though some pieces of the past can never be left behind.

From R.M. Graves, “Simulation” is a testament to the power of family even when nothing else is certain.

Finally, we have M. Elizabeth Castle’s “31-E”. A mysterious woman holds the power to grant life or death, but an unforeseen connection sets her plan awry.

Enjoy!

Comments

  1. Leximize says:
    July 1, 2014 at 9:50 pm
    My, those first two paragraphs I thought were part of a short story… And I was looking for more.
  2. Aggie in NC says:
    July 1, 2014 at 11:12 pm
    Ditto. Kudos on the single sentence summaries. Suave sister.
  3. AnnaY says:
    July 2, 2014 at 1:57 pm
    Leximize I’ll get cracking on that for you.

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2020 Flash Fiction Roundup!

by Audrey T. Williams

February 1, 2021

Looking back on 2020, I was focused on two overarching themes: survival (of my loved ones, myself, humanity, all living things, the environment…) and DEI initiatives (diversity, equity, and inclusion). Maybe you were too?

What does this have to do with flash fiction, you ask?

As I looked back on the year to consider how to curate a list of the top 3 flash-related items that caught my attention in 2020, these two themes became apparent in my choices.

A climate change story

This flash piece related to climate change really stuck with me. A week prior to reading this, I’d had a similar idea for a story premise, so maybe what they say about the collective consciousness is true. Write down your story ideas before anyone else does! At any rate, I’m obviously not the only one considering how the seasons will manifest for future generations. 

From Daily Science Fiction, here for your reading pleasure is a quietly disturbing story about weather. May our discernment of the seasons never fail us. 

Snowfall, by Richard Bertram Peterson

The past year saw the publishing industry called on to disrupt the lack of diversity across all genres. Speculative literature was no exception, and saw an increase in calls for submission specific to writers who identify as Black, Indigenous, and people of color (BIPOC). This leads to the next two items on this list.

A contest


HBO teamed up with The Root (a G/O Media brand) and put on a contest based on the HBO show “Lovecraft Country” to seek out thoughtful, creative, and terror-invoking tales under 750 words. The contest invited Black writers to “pick a decade or an important moment in Black American history, and weave a tale of the monsters that litter that time.”

From HBO and G/O Media, here is the winning entry from “For the Love of the Craft” contest:

Sunless Halls, by Donyae Cole 

A collection

A speculative flash fiction collaboration between FIYAH Magazine and Tor.com, co-edited by Brent Lambert and DaVaun Sanders, is exactly what 2020 needed. 

“Each of these stories stands in testament to the power and vitality of Black voices in the face of centuries of institutionalized oppression. Breathe FIYAH features fantastical and science fictional imaginings of Black characters honoring forebears and memories of the past, fighting the legacies that underpin the brutalities of the present, and demanding a future that’s freer than today.”

Go on and check it out:  Breathe FIYAH

A bonus

Maybe you already knew, but ICYMI (like I did), I have to share that 2020 also marks when I found out about an international flash fiction contest held by The Australian Writers’ Centre (AWC) that pays $500 Australian dollars. EVERY. SINGLE. MONTH. 

From AWC’s Furious Fiction page:

On the first weekend of every month, you are invited to put your storytelling skills to the test in the ultimate writer-takes-all short story competition. Armed only with our simple brief, your job is to race the clock to come up with your best 500 words-or-fewer story and be in to win a tasty $500 – every single month.

So there you have it, my top 3 flash-related items for 2020 and a bonus contest to boot. Until next time, keep reading and keep writing!

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The Vanishing Bride

by William Paul Jones

February 5, 2021

This is the Duke’s fifth wedding.  All within the last three months, all to the same woman, Larian den Combasta.  Yes, those Combastas.  Marrying into a wealthy banking family is a smart move for Duke Diere, my boss.  Add in the fact that she’s beautiful, sweet-tempered, and well-read, and the match is a win for everybody.

Now if they could just complete the stupid ceremony without her up and vanishing.

They’re at that part now, the troublesome bit.  They’re holding hands, a brocaded ribbon wrapped around their wrists to bind them together.  The bishop has finished all his chants, filled the air with sweet incense, brought forth the rings, and it’s vowing time.  Larian has such a lovely voice.  She was trained for the opera, you know.  She played the lead in Dal Rosien for His Holiness himself when she was only fourteen; blew the lid off the place.

“…through grace and malice,” she’s saying, the traditional vows, “through storm and stillness, I swear to hold myself for you and your house alone.”

And just like that, she’s gone.  Diere is left holding empty air, the fasting ribbon hanging limp around his wrist alone.  Only a slight popping sound signals her disappearance.

The crowd groans, such as it is; the basilica isn’t even a quarter full.  The guests lost most of their enthusiasm after a few false starts.  The only people who showed this time are those who are desperate for favor with the Dieres or Combastas.

“Damn!” the Duke explodes.  He turns to find me standing at the back of the room.  “Michalio…”

I don’t need more order than that; I’m the commodat for a reason.  I salute him and stalk from the room.

It’s a long, hard ride to the mountaintop castle of Quesson Yvoire, sorcerus intrepidus and former flame of – you guessed it – Larian den Combasta.  The way I heard it, Larian saw Quesson use his magic to heal a three-legged dog years ago and fell for him instantly, wooed by a big raw heart.  No one knows why she left him; poor taste in music, maybe?

I find him in the library, sheepishly sipping on a snifter of brandy while Larian stares daggers at him from across the room.  A shout dies on Larian’s lips as the creak of the door announces me. 

“I know, I know,” Quesson demures. “I really thought I had it this time.” Larian rolls her eyes.

“Five times, sorcerer,” I grate.  “You remain un-hanged only because the Duke believes you are wrestling with a troublesome enchantment.  That belief is running out.”

“As is my patience,” Larian adds.  “I have begged my betrothed to spare you for my fond memories, and yet this frustration persists.”

“What am I to do?” Quesson refills his brandy.  “I designed the charm of recall to be unbreakable beyond even the grave.  Its triggers are quite firm as stone, I’m afraid.  Swearing yourself to another being chief among them.”

“I know exactly how great a magician you are, Quesson.”  Larian’s gesture takes in the library: books and scrolls by the hundred, a half-finished manuscript of pulsing glyphs, a trio of crystal orbs that circle slowly overhead, filled with starlight.  “I have seen you end ‘unbreakable’ enchantments before.”

A smirk creeps over his face.  “So you have.  You remember that summer, in the Tiger Hills…”

“I will not reminisce about romance long past while my future husband waits upon the altar.  Have you no sense?”

“Our good times need not linger in the past.”  He looks half a child, his eyes cast sullen to the floor.

Larian glides to Quesson’s chair in one smooth motion, her skirts blustering around her.  “Quesson, look at me,” she kneels.  “I am not some imp that can be leashed to your service with clever potions.”

“Perhaps I only need to find the right potion.”  Quesson’s bitter tone brings a lemon grimace to my face.  “If my magic can bring your body here, who is to say that your heart cannot be conjured as well?”

My hand tightens on the hilt of my sword.  Larian reels back, and for a moment she looks to slap Quesson.  “You would poison my heart with compulsion?  What vileness!  You placed your charm of recall on my brow for my protection, but now my greatest danger is you.”

Quesson recoils, the brandy forgotten in his hand.  “I would never bring you to harm.”

Larian clasps his hand in hers, the fullness of her gentle spirit hammering him into compassion.  “You have ripped me from my home, from my family, threatened the freedom of my own mind.  What am I to feel for you, if not fear?  Let me go, and you may yet love another.  Keep me leashed, and your charms will wither on the vine.”

Quesson stills himself for a moment, then stands, bringing Larian to her feet as well.  One of the glowing crystals overhead descends into his outstretched hand.  I draw my sword, fearful of some treachery, but Larian stills me with a wave.  I hold my charge, my steel still bare.

The room pulses. Phantom birds sing sweetly in the distance.  Man and woman both grasp the power crystal, glowing as Quesson intones in the ancient language of magic.  I’m struck by the tableaux, filled with the memory of the church I left behind; all we need is a priest to complete the image.

There is a sound like a broken bell, and the glow around Larian shatters.  The crystal in their hands is gone, the room dimmer for it.

Larian takes an experimental breath, smiles.  “Thank you, Quesson.”  I’ve never heard anyone sound as genuine.  “I promise, you are not doomed to a life of pining.  You will find another.”

“Another like you?” he asks, bittersweet.

“Such a feat would truly be magic,” she smiles.  “If only you knew a good sorcerer.”

Vixen

by Hannah Whiteoak

February 12, 2021

He brought a vixen to our first date. When he walked into the restaurant she was draped around his shoulders. At first, I thought it a weird fashion statement — fox fur over his black-striped reddish shirt — but then she lifted her head and glared at me.

He hugged me hello. I leaned away, not keen to get close to those sharp teeth, so it ended up awkward. We sat at the table and the vixen slid into his lap. I almost asked about her, but didn’t want to be rude, so I picked up the menu.

I worried the waiter would tell us to leave, but he smiled sympathetically and put a dish of water by my date’s feet. The vixen ignored it and continued to stare at me, yellow eyes narrowed. I stammered while ordering, my cheeks flushed as red as the wine I gulped.

My date had used a recent picture on his profile, not one from when he was twenty pounds lighter. He was kind enough not to mention the discrepancy on my part. I’d spent nearly an hour squeezing myself into a body shaper and picking out a dress that hid splurgy hip and underarm fat. It was a long-sleeved black velvet affair, probably too formal, so I’d gone light on makeup. That was a mistake, I later reflected, examining my blotchy skin in the Ladies.

He said he liked climbing. I said he must be fit. I wanted to ask what he did with the fox while he climbed. Did she sit at the bottom and watch him ascend? Or did she wrap herself around his neck, digging her claws into his shoulders?

He’d been married once. When he told me this, the vixen leapt onto the table, growled at me, and then licked his face. He stroked her ears and coaxed her back onto his lap, laughing self-consciously. He seemed to want to pretend it hadn’t happened, so I smiled and asked if he was enjoying the fish.

I drank too much and talked too much. I guffawed at my own jokes while he only chuckled. I didn’t argue hard enough when he insisted he’d pay. So I was surprised when he slipped his cool hand into mine at the end of the evening and offered to walk me home.

The vixen padded beside him, pausing to sniff drainpipes and lampposts. What did she make of the city, all those doggy scents and discarded cigarette butts?

We kissed at my door. I would have invited him in, but couldn’t face having to wiggle out of the body shaper while the vixen peered down her long snout.

A few days later, we went bowling. I rolled the first few balls into the gutter, but he held my arm and showed me how to swing. As we high-fived, the vixen scampered down the gutter and grabbed a pin. The staff were surprisingly nice about it.

Later, over ice cream, he told me I was the first person he’d dated since the divorce. The vixen sniffed my vanilla cone and took a cautious lick of the raspberry syrup. It seemed like progress.

During the next three months, he came over a lot. While we watched Netflix under a blanket, the vixen stretched herself across both our laps, although whenever I went to kiss him she’d open one yellow eye. She’d growl if my phone buzzed, so I started leaving it on silent, ignoring friends’ calls.

In my bed, his eyelashes twitched as light fell across the pillow. One of his feet lay on top of mine, reassuringly heavy. As I went to kiss him, footsteps padded up the duvet. The vixen settled into the gap between us, wrapped her tail around herself, and half-closed her eyes. I sighed and rolled over.

Over breakfast, I suggested we go to his some time, but he laughed and said my place was nicer. I persisted. Why wouldn’t he let me into his life? The vixen, who’d been licking pancake syrup from my plate, bristled. Finally, I asked the question I’d been longing to ask for months.

“What’s with the fox?”

She leapt from the table to the windowsill, her tail knocking my plate to the ground. He looked from me to the window she’d scrambled through, as horrified as if he’d found himself naked in public. He stammered an apology, grabbed his coat, and dashed out of the door.

I called him that evening, but he didn’t pick up. When I logged into the dating site, he’d blocked me.

My ears hissed. I started to cry, and that’s when the snake slithered from behind the sofa. I leapt onto a chair to get away.

With magnificent markings of black and reddish-brown, the snake paid no notice to me trying to stamp it with my shoe. Instead, he spiralled up the leg of the chair, blinked his golden eyes at me, and settled himself around my neck.

I tried to pull him off, but he wrapped himself tighter, his scales cool against my overheated skin. For the rest of the day, his weight pressed into my shoulders, making every action ten times more difficult than usual.

When I woke the next morning, the snake was still there. I couldn’t work out how to untangle my arms and legs, so I stayed in bed.

Eventually, I got used to the heaviness. I dragged myself to work, where my office-mates gave sympathetic smiles. I went shopping, covering him with a scarf. I even logged into the dating app.

I took new photos and spent hours trying to crop out the snake before I realised that wouldn’t help. I’d have to take him on dates, where he’d bare his fangs at people who might hurt me. Better to be upfront about it, I thought, running my fingers along the snake’s smooth belly. Maybe I’d find someone who could love me, snake and all.

Sunflowers

by Maura Yzmore

February 19, 2021

<< Danilo tends to tall, yellow flowers. The sky is pink and clear, with two suns, the big Kabir and the small Saghir, smiling upon the land. Danilo has no trouble breathing and takes large, decadent breaths, filling his chest to capacity. His friend Edwin stands next to him, and Danilo can see his own vacuum-suit-clad reflection in the metallic visor of Edwin’s helmet. Edwin chatters away, but Danilo does not hear Edwin’s soft, crackling voice. The sound is distorted, coming though the inside of the helmet, and the words are not anything Danilo understands. >> 

***

Edwin is sick again and Danilo offers to pick up his shift. The air is filled with red particles of dirt and debris, and just walking from the barracks to the factory makes Danilo’s chest burn. He pulls up his once-white shirt, exposing his indented belly and protruding ribs, and he covers his nose and mouth. Everything Danilo sees before him is red. 

Danilo looks up at the sky. It is covered in clouds so thick and gray, Danilo knows they will never clear up. He tries to remember how the sun looks. He fails, but he is certain there is only one sun, not two. He feels relieved, because that means the two suns and the pink skies from his dreams might still exist somewhere. They haven’t been ruined yet, like everything else. Like Danilo’s white shirt. Like Edwin’s lungs. 

***

Edwin’s cough worsens and the factory doctor gives him some tea to brew, some pills to swallow, an inhaler to use when needed, and sends him back home. Danilo is there, too, missing his shift, but the pay cut and the penalty are worth it. Edwin is worth it. 

Danilo asks when Edwin will be better and the doctor looks up at him over the taped-up plastic rim of his glasses. He stares for a long moment with blood-shot eyes, wrinkled bags underneath looking like they’ve collected a lifetime of tears. He stares and never says anything. 

Danilo nods, thanks the doctor, and makes sure he closes the door as softly as he can. 

***

Danilo sells all of Edwin’s measly possessions. He keeps a dog-eared, red-dirt-covered copy of a children’s book about boys growing up in nature, frolicking in creeks, catching fish and rabbits. Danilo wonders how it is that the rabbits did not eat all the crops. 

Danilo wonders if he should sell Edwin’s inhaler. It is almost full and could give someone weeks of relief. But the inhaler is the last thing that touched Edwin’s lips.   

***

<< Danilo tends to tall, yellow flowers. The sky is gray and dim, with two suns, the big Kabir and small Saghir, barely visible through the clouds. Danilo should have no trouble breathing, but his chest feels too heavy to let in air. Danilo sees his own vacuum-suit-clad reflection in the metallic visor of a friend’s helmet. Danilo knows the friend is not Edwin, because Edwin is dead. The friend chatters away, but Danilo misses Edwin’s soft, crackling voice. The sound is distorted, coming though the inside of the helmet, and the words are not anything Danilo understands. >> 

***

Danilo sells Edwin’s copy of the children’s book. He no longer wonders if rabbits would eat all the crops. He has never seen a rabbit because they hadn’t existed in many generations, but he is certain that they deserved to live as much as anyone, and he wishes them all the crops they could possibly eat in rabbit heaven. 

The book sells for more than Danilo could imagine. He finally has enough to buy himself a spot on the shuttle. 

Danilo decides he will never sell Edwin’s inhaler.  

***

Danilo tends to tall, yellow flowers. The sky is pink and bright, with two suns, the big Kabir and the small Saghir, emerging on the horizon. Danilo takes large, decadent breaths, filling his chest with the cool, fragrant air of a new morning. His friend Gael stands next to him. Danilo cannot see his own vacuum-suit-clad reflection in the metallic visor of Gael’s helmet, because Gael does not wear a helmet. Gael was born here, on Nebessa. He chatters away, but Danilo still misses Edwin’s soft, crackling voice. Gael’s sound is distorted, coming though the inside of Danilo’s helmet, and Danilo understands almost all the words now. 

The atmosphere on Nebessa is different than it had been on Earth centuries ago, before the clouds thickened and the red dirt filled the air, different from what human lungs were made to respire. Like most native-born Nebessa, Gael walks about and breathes without a vacuum suit, his DNA altered by in-utero gene therapy. His skin has a purple tint, but his eyes are brown and twinkling, his teeth thick and white, his smile wide and joyous. He is the same age as Danilo and loves working in the fields, tending to the crops. 

 Danilo smiles underneath his visor. Edwin would’ve loved it here. Danilo is an adult, so it will take years for his gene therapy to fully take effect, but Danilo is not going anywhere. 

The flowers that Danilo tends to are called sunflowers. It is the same kind that used to grow on Earth, and it adapted remarkably well to life on Nebessa, growing taller and stronger on this new world. Danilo reaches up with a gloved hand and touches the petals of the tallest and strongest specimen in the field. No one knows, not even Gael, that Danilo has named the sunflowers after Edwin. One day, Danilo’s hand will be out of the glove, and he will touch the flowers bare, gently, ever so gently, with all the gentleness they deserve. 

Silhouette Against Armageddon

by John Wiswell

February 26, 2021

Someone’s trying to get into my coffin. Their shovel scratches through the dirt above, and clangs against the stones, resonating into my osteoporotic bones. You’d think such an expensive cemetery would have given me six feet of smooth soil, but no, I’ve got rocks up there. I guess it’s too late to lodge a complaint. 

The earth shakes again, throwing me against the thin cushions of this overpriced box until my left foot breaks off and rattles around. A dead man can’t catch a break. Is this the third or the fourth earthquake today? Whichever it is, it starts up the unearthly shrieking again, like the atmosphere is having a panic attack, or it’s the End Times. That’s probably what woke me up. I’ve got my suspicions. 

The shrieking and earthquake don’t stop my graverobber, and that’s definitely a shovel cutting into earth above, along with some labored breathing. My graverobber isn’t even in good shape. I try to plug my ears, but the lobes rotted off long ago. My fingernails aren’t as long as I thought they’d be. I guess they don’t really keep growing. The skin of your fingers just shrinks. It feels so tacky.

If I’d just gotten cremated, at least I wouldn’t go through this. Should’ve stuck to my guns on that one, but Pablo was Catholic and wanted us to rest forever next to each other. Pablo, I opened the coffee shop for you when I knew it was a money pit, and I left Portland for fucking Arizona for you, but what did I get for it? 

You died thirty-three years before me, left me for a third of a century with a business in the red, and when sepsis finally caught me and I got to sleep eternally in your stupid burial plot, I get woken up by the End Times just in time to get graverobbed. Thirty-three years missing your cold hands in my bed. I miss your cold hands, and that rose gold engagement ring you just wouldn’t take off even in winter. I miss all your dumb beauties. 

This sucks worse than being dead.

The shovel scrapes across the aluminum above with the sound of a cat getting a colonoscopy. No pine box down here. I didn’t pay all that money for worms to bother me. I hope he’s ready to fight a pissed off skeleton, and if he’s just vandalizing the gay graves, I’ll kick his ass twice for the price of one.

I try to hold onto the lid, but of course I didn’t buy a model with internal handles. Weird enough having those on my bath tub. Instead I crack my fingernails digging them into the satin lining, winding the fabric around my hands. My pockets are empty; I guess Catholics want you to fight off Satan barehanded. 

“You after my fillings?” I ask at the lid. “Well too bad. They’re resin.”

I left everything to a cashier who couldn’t afford college. I’ve got nothing in here but a cheap suit and a loose foot. Why won’t they leave me alone? Then the heavenly shrieking resumes, like a grand horn blast, and I shudder. This might be worse than vandals.

Above, hands patter around searching for the coffin’s seams, and footsteps thunk overhead, until someone must be standing above my chest. They’re light steps, and for the first time in my life I’m afraid of angels. 

As the lid opens, I can see the clouds overhead are aflame, and an endless wyrm chasing winged figures through the smoldering sky. Dead Catholics are climbing out of their graves and walking unto war. But the man who opened my grave stays put, standing over me, a silhouette against Armageddon. He rests a skeletal hand on the coffin rim, and I yell up at him.

“Are you just recruiting for war? Because if God wanted me, he shouldn’t have taken Pablo.”

“Baby,” says a voice that is too pleased with itself. “I missed your bitching.”

Light falls across the hand on my lid, shining on a rose gold engagement ring. My hands fall useless into my lap as I try to see his face. Pablo slips into my coffin, spooning his bony ass into my side. He says, “You still think it’s a dumb idea we were buried next to each other?” 

“I meant… oh…” I’m not usually so inarticulate. Don’t judge.

He kisses my forehead with a lipless mouth. “That’s what I thought.”

“Shut up for a minute,” I say, hugging him until his rib bones creek, burying what’s left of my nose in his collar. 

The aluminum siding has no give, and we smoosh together like we used to sharing a twin bed in his aunt’s attic. It’s cramped and awful and I forgot how much I needed it. I twine my arms around him, and he links his fingers with mine. No skin and he still has cold hands. I squeeze them, gently as I can, as he shuts the coffin lid over us both, shutting out the clarion calls of Heaven and Hell. The dead have risen, and now two of them can finally rest in peace.

 

Previously published in Fireside, Spring 2018. Reprinted here by permission of the author.

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