Myrtle
by
Will Wright
Myrtle burst into
the air, her flame streaking past the sputtering remains of an
oldster. She surged with potential, her energy building within her.
She let loose a blast of color, red, then purple, then green,
syncopated by three concussive claps. Beneath her, the humans
marveled. She was the star of the sky as she was always meant to be.
Suddenly tired,
burned out, she descended looking for rest. As she fell, she saw
Barry rushing through her embers, ready to explode into a circular
blossom of light.
“Ah youth,”
she sighed as she fizzled and died.
Sandman’s
World
by
Will Wright
In the rapid
blinking of an eye, Sandman took young Justin across the seas. In
Sandman’s world, ships could fly and even reach the stars.
Villains were conquered, bravery rewarded, and there was always room
for Frisbee the Labrador. But there was no room for homework,
braces, or school bus rides next to smelly Cecil Sminglethorpe.
Sandman’s world canvassed forever and beyond. Justin was the
perfect age to explore it.
A different scent
than Cecil’s took Justin away – a scent both acrid and demanding.
Justin twitched his nose and fell back into the mundane.
Coffee: Sandman’s
eternal nemesis.
Rosebud
by Stanley
McFarland
A Bicycle?
Stacy’s little brother,
now a man in his fifties nodded. “I said no, but you took it, and
you lost it.”
“Someone stole it.”
“Because you were
careless!”
“I was a child.”
“You never should have
taken it.”
Stacy put her hand on her
brother’s arm. “But we’re family.”
“No, we’re not - not
anymore.”
Her brother awkwardly
placed flowers on the fresh grave. They were orphans now as
was almost everyone their
age. But that didn’t soften the grief.
Stacy watched her
brother’s back as he left the graveyard.
Now
she had no family at all.
Flash Edit
by Stanley McFarland
It wasn’t de-ja-vous. Allen didn’t think he’d been in the same
place or done the same thing. There was the same mysterious haunted
feeling, but if anything, it was anti-de-ja-vous. Allen was sure
that something was different – something had changed – maybe even
he had changed.
Worse, it felt as if the change had been against his will. Some
force, personal or impersonal, had ripped into his life, his being
and mangled it – or at least reshaped it significantly.
It left him feeling helpless, impotent and frightened. It also left
him questioning the point of any action, plan or ambition he might
have.
“What’s the point?” he spoke into the air, as if the monster of
change was in the same room with him.
“It makes for a better story,” a voice replied, calmly,
matter-of-factly, as if it – perhaps she, spoke out of the air to
people like Allen all the time.
“A better story?” asked Allen, both hoping and fearing that the
voice would elaborate.
“It made no sense for you to be a sea captain,” said the voice.
“The story makes far better sense in a modern setting, and modern
sea captains just aren’t as dashing as their 18th and
19th century counterparts. We also negate all that
nautical argot that only a small segment of the reading public
understands or enjoys.”
“So what am I?”
The bodiless voice laughed – light-hearted, unconcerned, as if
Allen’s crisis was a trivial matter. “You’re an international
spy,” said the voice. “You were once an assassin for hire, but
now you work freelance for the NSA.”
“But my ship.”
“There is no ship,” said the voice. “There never was. Look in
your pocket. There are two tickets to Rio there. What you should be
most concerned about at the moment is for whom the second ticket was
obtained.”
“I don’t care. I want my ship.”
“We’ll change that.”
“So all I am is just bit of fictional fluff to you?”
“Exactly.”
“And you don’t care if I wish to participate in this… story?
“Not a consideration.”
“I can’t believe that even a writer would show so little feeling
for his characters.”
“I’m no writer,” said the voice laughing. “I’m an editor.”
“Very well,” said Allen as he sat firmly on a chair that he felt
certain had been his sea trunk not long ago, “I refuse to
cooperate.”
“Oh well,” said the voice laconically. “I guess
you’re just flash fiction.”
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