Maternal Twins
Photo by Ron Lach on Pexels
by David Margolin
Mother loved the idea of having twins. She called them Billy and Jimmy.
When people asked her if the twins were identical or fraternal, her standard answer was carefully constructed and cryptic, “Two people are never identical—even if they have the same set of chromosomes.”
She never took them out of the house at the same time; she said that it was too dangerous. “What if one of them is seriously injured? It would kill me.” In fact, the three of them were almost a closed loop. Mother home schooled the twins. Other children, handpicked by mother-- via interviews with their parents, the child, and their siblings-- were allowed to visit. At any given time, only one of the twins could have a friend over.
Choosing the twins’ clothing gave Mother great joy.
On some days she laid out identical clothing.
On other days she put out inverse outfits—Billy’s shirt matched Jimmy’s pants and Jimmy’s shirt matched Billy’s pants.
Less commonly she chose clothes for them that were completely unalike, proclaiming, “It’s important for them to have separate identities,” and they did.
Billy was quiet, unassuming, fearful, and laconic.
Jimmy was outgoing, funny, and a fast talker.
Mother doted on Billy and was strict with Jimmy.
As much as their personalities differed, they had one trait in common. Neither of them ever paid attention to the other; each of them behaved as if the other one didn’t exist.
Billy’s most frequent visitor was Kenny. They played more sedate and cerebral board games such as The Game of Life.
Jimmy’s most frequent visitor was George. They played more active games such as Pictionary and Foosball. George’s father was a successful criminal prosecution attorney. Like his father, George was intuitive and aggressively inquisitive, to the point of being invasive.
During one of George’s visits, Mother received a call. She had to leave the house quickly to assist a relative who was being seen in the emergency room. For the first time, George and Jimmy were alone. George immediately started snooping around the house. He found a photo album in Mother’s study.
“Hey Jimmy, I see lots of pictures of you with your mom. I see lots of pictures of Billy with your mom. Why aren’t you and Billy together in any of the pictures?”
Jimmy froze; it was a simple question, why couldn’t he answer it? Jimmy studied the photo album carefully. Up until then he had always seen the pictures of himself and his brother as two separate people--he was Jimmy and Billy was Billy—just as different as typical siblings. Now the distinction was blurred. His pictures and Billy’s pictures looked the same to him—invoking the same sense of selfness, the knowledge that he was looking at himself, not at a twin.
His throat tightened, he teared up, and thoughts began racing through his head: Why aren’t we in any pictures together? Am I Jimmy? Am I Billy? Am I both? I wish Mother were here to set me straight. I always know who I am by the way that she treats me. He felt like his brain had fallen through a trapdoor, like he had been living in a pitch-black room all of his life and someone had switched on blindingly bright lights. Jimmy’s mental state was too chaotic to continue playing, so George called his mom to pick him up.
After George was gone, Jimmy was desperate to regain his separate identity. For the first time in his life, he reached out to Billy, frantically shouting, “Billy, Billy, help!” No one came. Billy couldn’t come. He was too busy being Jimmy.
David enjoys writing comedy as in “Table Manners” (R U Joking?), nostalgia as in “Teabags” (Memoir Magazine), and grim fare as in Brain Raid” and “Lost and Found—and Lost” (Freedom Fiction Journal). He lives in Portland Oregon with his invaluable editor, J.J. Margolin, and posts on https://davidmargolin.substack.com
The Final Version
by Huina Zheng
When Helen’s mother asked to schedule a meeting about her daughter’s essays for U.S. summer program Y, Lan’s heart sank. Requests like this usually meant a hard battle ahead.
When the meeting began, however, the mother did nothing but look down at the printed draft of her daughter’s English essay. She read it aloud line by line, repeating each sentence first in English, then in her own Chinese, the English coming out word by word, stumbling, mispronounced. “This sentence my daughter wrote is really wonderful. So soulful.” Then she compared it with Lan’s revised version, shook her head, and said, “Your version could apply to any student. It has no individuality.”
Lan didn’t explain herself. She listened to the praise, sentences she was trained to revise but could not, and reminded herself: this was what the client wanted.
A new workflow was established. Helen’s mother printed the essays, circled and rewrote them in red pen, photographed the pages, and sent the images to a WeChat group without Helen in it. She didn’t want Helen to know that all the revisions were hers.
From January 2nd to the 4th, Lan received more than a dozen photos every day. Often, the revisions amounted to nothing more than changing but to however.
“You can edit directly in the document. It would be more efficient,” Lan suggested in the group chat.
“I type slowly,” the mother replied.
On the evening of the 4th, the mother proposed another new addition.
“If we add this sentence, it will exceed the character limit,” Lan reminded her.
“How do you check the character count?”
Lan explained step by step.
“Do spaces count too?”
“Yes.”
“Why should spaces be allowed to limit us?”
“Because of the system text box,” Lan typed. “Anything beyond the limit can’t be entered.”
January 5th. Deadline day.
At seven in the morning, a message popped up in the WeChat group: “Here are the revised versions of the three essays.”
There were still no attachments, just the text pasted into the chat. The first thing Lan saw was trying best. She took a breath and pointed it out. “The idiomatic expression is try one’s best.”
“Then change it to try hard,” the mother replied.
Lan continued, “I’m not sure admissions officers would understand confirm the nature,” and asked what she intended to express so the English could be adjusted accordingly.
“No, don’t change it. I’ll adjust it myself,” Helen’s mother said.
Three hours remained until the deadline. Lan glanced at the Chinglish-filled final version. She replied, “Okay.”
Fine, Lan thought. We’ll do it her way. After all, she was the one paying.
Huina Zheng is a writer and college essay coach based in Guangzhou, China. Her work appears in Baltimore Review, Variant Literature, Midway Journal, and other journals. She has received multiple nominations, including for the Pushcart Prize, Best of the Net, Best Small Fictions, and Best Microfiction.
The Sculptor
by William F. Smith
"Ah, Fevrier," Inspector Pierre LaRoche greeted the young detective who had just entered his office at the Police Judiciare on Quai des Orfèvres. "The identity of the victim had been determined?"
"Yes. Antoinette DoBois, model and mistress of the late sculptor Gérard Meurant."
"He designed the facade of the Union Pacifique building in 1920, with the figure of the little nymph about to climb onto the ledge above the ground floor. Now we know why the sculpture appeared so lifelike. Meurant murdered the poor woman, encased her body in plaster, and hid her in plain view of every person in this metropolis. Ingenious! After 105 years, these facts have now come to light only because the building is being demolished to make way for a new luxury hotel."
"Then Meurant committed the perfect crime and got away with it?"
"Yes, he died in 1972 and can't be punished in this world. And he profited by his crime, too. He wasn't very successful until that building became a tourist attraction. Then he recieved hundreds of commissions for life-like statues to adorn buildings." LaRoche suddenly clapped a hand to his forehead and groaned. "Oh, mon Dieu!"
"What's wrong, Inspector?"
"Have Archives compile the records for all unsolved disappearances between 1920 and 1972. I'm very much afraid we will have to examine the contents of every sculpture created by Gérard Meurant, the master plaster caster of Paris."
William F. Smith's stories, humorous verse and photographs have appeared in Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine, Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine, Mike Shane Mystery Magazine and Reader’s Digest. His stories have been included in several anthologies.
Fiscal Constraints
by James C. Clar
Storen, Director of the Institute for Advanced Biological Studies, feared that an already difficult faculty meeting was about to become even more contentious. Around the conference chamber, eyes watched him with predatory alertness.
“Gentlemen,” he began, “we now come to item number five on today’s agenda: an announcement of the board’s decision regarding the practices of vivisection and dissection.”
A ripple of unease shimmered through the room. This was what they had all been awaiting. For weeks the board had deliberated behind closed doors.
Konstan, the chair of the Anatomy Department, began the assault. “Storen, this is such a sham. We all know the decision was made before the board even began its so-called ‘debate’.”
Heads bobbed in agreement.
The director drew in a deep breath, adjusting his tone.
“It goes without saying,” he began, “that given the technology available to us today, physical dissection of lower life-forms – not to mention experimentation on living creatures – has been rendered obsolete.”
There was a brief, brittle silence.
Then Palanquin rose. A zoologist notorious for melodramatic displays, he lifted his hands theatrically before lowering them to the table.
“With all due respect, Director,” he said, “that is simply because you have been out of the lab and the classroom for so long. You have perhaps forgotten how vital hands-on experience is in our fields.”
Storen felt irritation prick along his spine. He swallowed it. He would not be baited, not today.
“Colleagues. I assure you the board considered all arguments. Their decision was neither as predetermined nor as one-sided as you assume.”
Konstan scoffed loudly, but Storen pressed on.
“In the end,” he continued, pausing to make sure every eye was fixed on him, “fiscal constraints overrode all other concerns.”
Storen exhaled, deciding to rip the bandage off with a single tear.
“Given the current state of our economy,” he said, “continued trips to the third planet to obtain specimens have become too expensive.”
There was a stunned beat of silence.
Then the room erupted.
“What?” Konstan was half-standing. “You can’t be serious. The third planet, off limits? We need a continuing supply for longitudinal …” The old anatomist was beside himself. “Does the Planetary Council ...”
Storen held up a hand. Reluctantly, the voices quieted.
“Yes,” he said. “Their projections show that even one more retrieval mission would exceed our annual operations budget.”
Konstan slammed a palm on the table. “We can’t teach proper anatomy without fresh specimens!”
“We have decades of archived data,” Storen replied.
Konstan snapped. “You can’t replace the tactile understanding of musculature or neural pathways with a hologram!”
“There is no choice.”
No one spoke.
Eventually, Palanquin asked, “What of the specimens we already possess?
Storen sank back into his chair.
“That,” he said, “is to be determined. At our meeting next week, the board has requested that we consider the disposition of our remaining specimens. Especially the bipedal ones.”
Konstan’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Disposition? What do you mean?”
Storen spread his hands. “That’s all I have been told.”
Several of the scientists looked shaken. The thought of releasing the specimens back to their distant blue-white sphere was unthinkable. But the alternative?
“Before we adjourn,” Storen continued, firmly changing the subject, “We need to review the proposed reorganization of the Genetics faculty.
The researchers’ eyes glazed slightly as their neural ports activated.
Storen exhaled. The worst was over. The issue of the specimens was not to remain academic for long. Somewhere below in the Institute’s holding vaults, the board’s irrevocable decision was being carried out. Next week, he’d present the faculty with a fait accompli.
In addition to his contributions to Sudden Flash, work by James C. Clar has appeared in Bright Flash Literary Review, The Yard Crime Blog, 365 Tomorrows, Antipodean SF, The Magazine of Literary Fantasy, The Blotter Magazine, Flash Digest and Freedom Fiction Journal.
The Image in My Window
by Jenny Morelli
There’s an image in my window who does not sink or swim, just sits and hovers, floats and stares, and my cat stares back, undeterred and with a righteousness only cats can pull off.
There’s an image in my window, who remains unfazed, just flickering and fading and flipping from a him to a her to a them, to a when and a where; flip-flip as the sky darkens and lightens into liquid crystals that change with one’s mood or one’s touch, warm to cold, happy to sad, here to there, then to now.
There's an image in my window who sways with the wind, diaphanous as the devil, lugubrious as a lupine’s how; melancholy and masterful, she weaves worlds like webs that stick and cling, fogging the glass into frost that may one day reveal answers.
Who are you? I ask this unknown force shape-shifting in my webbed window.
Her lips move without sound like she’s trapped in some sadness.
She extends her arm and I reach out to pull her free from her eternal eclipse, from her levitating limbo, but instead of grabbing hold, she points to me, then disappears, clearing the window to reveal just me and my lucid loneliness; the distant city inside my mind, the house without a house, those worlds within worlds that spiral into infinity.
Jenny Morelli is a NJ high school English teacher who lives with her husband, cat, and myriad yard pets. She seeks inspiration in everything around her. She’s published in several literary magazines including Red Rose Thorns, Spillwords, Scars tv. This is her fourth poetry chapbook with Bottlecap Press. Check out her website for more: JennyMorelliWrites.com
Forehead
AI-generated image
by Huina Zheng
Lan hated it when people joked about her forehead. Whenever classmates chanted, “Big-forehead Lan, never buys a raincoat. When storms roll in, she just forehead-brella and stays dry!” she would lower her head and hurry away.
All her life she hid behind thick bangs. Even when pimples bloomed from the sweat trapped underneath, she refused to change.
Not until she left for college in another city. At the salon, the stylist, a young, handsome man, washed her hair. She lay back, tense. Warm water ran over her scalp as his fingers gently brushed her bangs aside.
“Oh, wow,” he exclaimed. She squeezed her eyes shut, fists clenched in despair.
“Such a beautiful forehead. Full, elegant, perfectly shaped. Why would you ever hide it?”
For the first time, Lan wept not from shame, but from showing her forehead.
Huina Zheng is a writer and college essay coach based in Guangzhou, China. Her work appears in Baltimore Review, Variant Literature, Midway Journal, and other journals. She has received multiple nominations, including for the Pushcart Prize, Best of the Net, Best Small Fictions, and Best Microfiction.
Beer Whisperer
By Jeff Kennedy
So the bartender sits a half-filled pint on the bar in front of me.
"Tell me what beer this is."
I don't know his name, but I recognize him from a few neighborhood dives. Both arms are covered in anime tattoos maybe a hundred people would recognize. I can name three of them. It's quiet, even for a Wednesday night, so he's gotta be bored.
"Kitchen guys changed the keg but didn't mark the line."
I take a delicate sip of water and then a deep quaff of the unknown beer.
"Kind of a wheat beer with a slightly bitter aftertaste - it's a light pale ale."
A little while later, he puts a full pint down in front of me.
"They found the kitchen notes. You were spot on."
Based on the ads on the taps, I guess the local brewer. He laughs and shakes his head.
"Spot on again. On the house. You in the industry?"
"Nah. Just too much experience with the product."
Jeff Kennedy, a 2025 Pushcart nominee, is a past Thurber House and Erma Bombeck essay contest winner. Jeff’s short form writing has appeared in publications such as Everscribe Magazine, Bright Flash Literary Review, and Sudden Flash. Read his recent work at www.justanotherdamnblog.com and follow him on Bluesky @jkennedy60.bsky.social
Fool's Gold
by William F. Smith
Jake Hadley eased the straps off his shoulders and lowered his backpack to the ground, glancing at his partner, Paul "Slim" Chance, who had already unburdened himself and was laying out some tools.
The past two days had been difficult, climbimg down the mountain with nearly two hundred pounds of gold between them.
Now they could rest a bit, having reached their destination, a lightly wooded area about two miles from town. It would be foolish to take the gold into town, or even to tell a local that they had found the long-lost Old Prospector's treasure trove. Jake and Slim planned to bury their loot here and return for it at their leisure. However, only one would come back, because in addition to digging a hole for the gold, Jake would dig a second - slightly wider, somewhat deeper, and much longer. This hole would be for Slim, since Jake intended to keep the entire treasure for himself.
He caught Slim with a heavy blow from his shovel, then dug the two holes, into which he rolled Slim and the gold. Digging had been hot and thirsty work. Jake picked up the canteen and let the cool, refreshing water flow into his mouth. Seconds later, he doubled up in agony, screamed, and toppled into the grave on top of Slim, who had poisoned the water.
William F. Smith's stories, humorous verse and photographs have appeared in Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine, Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine, Mike Shane Mystery Magazine and Reader’s Digest. His stories have been included in several anthologies.
Careful What You Bury
AI-generated imageCreative non-fiction
by Marc Littman
To help sell our house, my wife said bury a statue of Saint Joseph, patron saint of real estate, by the For Sale sign. I couldn’t find one so I buried the baby Jesus instead. Nine months later our first child arrived. I didn’t want to move anyway. Thanks, Joe.
Author Marc Littman, a former journalist, now writes creative fiction, plays and screenplays inspired by everyday life and keen observation. Careful What You Bury is a true story
Alien Landscape
by Nina Munteanu
Blika gaped at the wilderness through the tear in her spaceship. She had barely cleared the jagged mountains before penetrating the dense forest canopy. Giant trees had saved her life, but they’d also torn her ship open as it tumbled through like a rock.
The forest throbbed with a racket of hoots and twitters.
“Where have you taken us?” Blika accused her ship.
Blika had been traveling the universe for seven cycles, smoothing disputes, cultivating order, refining tangles. Wishing she could return to a home that no longer existed. A world that had tamed its land and water only to see chaos destroy it all. Now she was lost in the heart of this savage wilderness….. far from the city of the Tamar who had pleaded for her help against their slaughtering invaders.
Blika lept to the soft ground from the dead ship. The air, heavy with moisture, lurked like a forgotten memory. Trees towered over her like columns in a vaulted cathedral. Their thick overstory eclipsed any view.
She found the tallest tree for vantage and grasped its smooth bark ready to climb. Inhaling sharply, she backed away in confusion. The bark had tingled as though touching back! It stirred a sudden deep memory of home. She reached out again. This time there was no throbbing and she wormed her way up. Blika broke through the tree’s crown to a spectacular view. Below the sloping forest lay a pristine lake, flanked by young snow-covered mountains. Azure water sparkled like a bed of saphires, reminding Blika what those like her had given away for progress.
The city she’d glimpsed before the ship took them off-course was no where in sight. She was lost.
She beheld the rugged beauty below her and inhaled a world of exotic fragrance. Blika had forgotten the wild splendour and abundant pristine waters of home—before everything was paved over. This could be such a place. A place where she could breath deeply.
Foresaking her mission for a moment, she closed her eyes and thanked the forest.
We’re pleased you enjoy us.
The multi-timbral voices had come from inside her!
It’s been so long since someone has touched us with their soul…We apologize for destroying your vessel and we hope you will still help us.
“You…destroyed my ship?”
We sent you an urgent message. Regrettably it destroyed your ship’s operating system.
She blinked, still confused.
The city dwellers do not understand us. They wish to build more cities to house their swelling populations and they have started burning and cutting so many of us, notably our sages.
At last she understood. The distress signal had come from this magnificent forest. They were the Tamar, and they were endangered by those intent on building more cities.
She smiled. “I can help you.”
Thank you.
Blika wasn’t lost after all. She’d finally come home.
Credit: first published in the 2019 ekphrastic flash fiction anthology The Group of Seven Reimagined, edited by Karen Schauber.
Nina Munteanu is a Canadian ecologist, novelist and award-winning short story author of eco-fiction, science fiction and fantasy. She teachws writing at UofT and writesfor various magazines, including essays on science and futurism. Her short work has appeared in Neo-Opsis Science Fiction Magazine, Chiaroscuro, subTerrain, Apex Magazine, Metastellar, and several anthologies. She currently has 10 novels published and several non-fiction books on writing and science. Her book Water Is… (Pixl Press)—a scientific study and personal journey as limnologist, mother, and teacher—was Margaret Atwood’s pick in 2016 in the New York Times ‘The Year in Reading.’ Her award-winning eco-novel, A Diary in the Age of Water by Inanna Publications, is about four generations of women and their relationship to water in a rapidly changing world. Her eco-novel Gaia’s Revolution is currently in production with Dragon Moon Press.
&mbsp;
A Question of the Truth
by James C. Clar
The truth was that as soon as he heard Demorovic had seized power, Mokrzan knew he’d be arrested. In his country, a new broom swept clean, and there was no such thing as “retirement.”
They came for him on January 2nd, at 3:30 A.M., four men – three burly soldiers and a militia colonel he didn’t recognize. Strange, he thought; after thirty years in the capital’s bureaucracy, he knew almost every government functionary by sight. They must have imported these men from another district, fearful that locals would be inclined to treat him with the accustomed deference.
They even let him get dressed. That violation of protocol chilled him more than rough handling might have.
“Should I bring anything?” Mokrzan asked quietly.
“No,” the colonel said. “You won’t need it.”
He wondered if that meant they’d shoot him before sunrise.
Instead, after five and a half hours in a cell, he was taken to a courtroom in the Ministry of Justice. His “trial” started at ten. The huge portrait of the new president glared down over the judge’s bench. But what truly jarred him was seeing his son seated with the state prosecutors.
Their eyes met only once. The young man’s expression seemed to say, you taught me how the system works. You taught me how to survive. Neither spoke. Afterward, they avoided looking at one another.
The evidence came in crisp, damning waves. Transcripts of conversations with officials in several Western nations. Vouchers showing indulgent meals and foreign travel. A prosecutor waved the documents about like an orchestra conductor working his way through a particularly difficult symphony.
“Comrade Mokrzan’s appetites grew as his loyalty shrank,” the man stated matter-of-factly.
They produced surveillance photos of him meeting men suspected of having CIA ties.
Mokrzan said nothing. He could have explained that he’d been acting under orders from the Ministry of State Security, that two of his judges had approved those very missions. To reveal the truth would doom them now, and worse, his son.
At one point a young prosecutor asked coldly, “Do you deny consorting with agents of the West?”
Mokrzan’s voice was nearly a whisper. “I deny nothing. What would be the point?”
Reality in his country had always been malleable, truth a tool wielded by whomever held power. Thousands had perished over the years in shifting interpretations, variable exegesis. Now, inevitably, it was his turn.
At 12:30 P.M., the sentence was delivered: death by firing squad on January 16th at 9:00 A.M. The delay, he knew, was meant for interrogation. Fabricated evidence required a full and fabricated confession.
But days passed. No interrogators came. On March 10th he was trembling with dread. It wasn’t the execution that frightened him, that would be quick. It was the anticipation of torture, the hours or days that would precede it. He slept hardly at all. Meals remained untouched. By the 14th he was feverish. He understood that events seldom conformed to one’s anticipation of them. He thus allowed his mind to run wild, imagining horrors that surpassed even those he had witnessed over the decades.
On the morning of January 15th, at 1:45 A.M., he lay on his bunk, eyes closed but mind racing through a botched interrogation he’d once seen. Keys rattled in the door. He sat up sharply. Two guards entered.
“Time,” one said.
As their hands reached for him, Mokrzan felt his heart surge. He was dead before they could lift him from his bed.
On January 17th, the state newspaper reported succinctly: The traitor, Minister Mokrzan, was executed as scheduled.
The truth had never been in question.
In addition to his contributions to Sudden Flash, work by James C. Clar has appeared in Antipodean SF, Altered Reality Magazine, Freedom Fiction Journal, 365 Tomorrows, Bright Flash Literary Review and MetaStellar Magazine.
Breath With a Broken Schedule
by Judith Taburet
My aunt died in France.
Death broke the schedule.
Suddenly, I don’t have time disappeared, wiped clean like chalk from a board.
My mother crossed the sea from Madagascar. I hadn’t seen her for years—years measured not in days, but in distance in silence, in voice notes saved and never deleted.
How could my face show happiness and sadness at the same time?
Sadness.
Joy.
Sun.
Cloud.
Shadow.
Weight—not lightness.
The sun argued with the clouds. Light spilled anyway. Shadow stayed. Weight existed without gravity. I felt heavy and floating, carried by something larger than myself—solitude wrapped inside enormous solidarity.
Family gathered the way weather does: sudden, inevitable. Hugs came from everywhere—lightning, wind, pressure. Death had done what only love could resist: it forced us into the same room, the same moment, the same breath.
Time was confused in the heart’s country.
Hours bent. Minutes refused to give their names.
Tic. Tac.
Happiness began blowing pink balloons, timidly, as if asking permission. Christmas lurked in the corner, unsure whether to enter. Sadness put on a swimsuit and crossed the sea of tears slowly, refusing to rush. Doubt dressed with care—black shirt, red pants—ready for whatever would happen next.
Hail fell outside.
Sharp.
Brief.
Honest.
When my mother finally stood in front of me, she said, "Sweetheart, how are you?" Her voice was soft. Grief stepped aside. Not gone—just quieter. My face learned something new then: how to breathe with a broken schedule, how to hold joy inside great sadness, how to welcome love even when it arrives carrying death.
Tic.
Toc.
Love.
Judy T is a writer and photographer hailing from Madagascar, now based in France. Drawing from a rich legacy of advocacy, she infuses her art with a sense of purpose. Inspired by her father, an influential writer who courgeously fought against prejudice and racism in their homeland . Judy T channels her creative voice to shed light on women's stories and Malagasy culture. Her work, both in prose and photography, delves into strong experiences, ensuring they are told with unflinching honesty and strength.
Family Trees
by William F. Smith
Jason Stewart watched with interest as the police search team went to work on his neighbor's trees. When they finished. Inspector Norman Goodenough had a confession and the solution to a thirty-year-old mystery. He explained it to Stewart the next afternoon.
"When we pulled out the stumps, we uncovered the remains of the three missimg Baums - husband, wife, and daughter - who disappeared in 1995. The son Henry reported that they had left to visit relatives in Texas, but never arrived. Their disabled car was found in the desert, and it was presumed that they had perished while trying to walk out. Henry always said he planted these trees as a living memorial to his family, but when we showed him the bones, he broke down and confessed that he'd killed his parents and sister at home, buried them, and towed their car to the desert."
Stewart looked past where the trees had been. "That lake is beautiful. First time I've been able to see it from here."
"Come on, Mr. Stewart," Goodenough said. "I know you are the anonymous tipster. You moved in only six months ago, so how did you know the bodies were buried under those trees?"
"I didn't. No one was more surprised than me when you dug them up. Someone told me Henry Baum's parents and sister had mysteriously vanished, so I just invented the story. I had to do something to get rid of those damned ugly trees. They were blocking my view."
William F. Smith's stories, humorous verse and photographs have appeared in Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine, Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine, Mike Shane Mystery Magazine and Reader’s Digest. His stories have been included in several anthologies.
The Birthday Gift
by Huina Zheng
“You waste money,” Old Li said, pointing at the blue-wrapped birthday gift in his son’s hands.
“You spent far more on my education,” Ming replied.
“That’s what parents are supposed to do,” Old Li said, weighing the box with a satisfied smile.
“Then I made sure today’s gift follows the proper path,” Ming said.
Lao Li laughed as he unwrapped it.
“Thanks to your year-round drills, no days off, and the countless belts you broke on my back, I finally got into medical school,” Ming added, his tone as casual as discussing the weather. “You always said studying is the only proper path.”
Old Li’s smile froze.
A brand-new smart study tablet lay on the velvet lining.
“Latest model. Complete parental-monitoring functions,” Ming said, leaning in to power it on. The screen lit up with course lists. “I’ve enrolled you in a senior-college intensive program. Daily check-ins. Weekly exams…”
Old Li stared at the notification flashing: Today’s Required Lesson: Algebra I. His fingers trembled.
“You always said one should learn for life,” Ming said, gently pressing the lock button. “Now it’s my turn to keep you on the proper path.”
━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━
Huina Zheng is a writer and college essay coach based in Guangzhou, China. Her work appears in Baltimore Review, Variant Literature, Midway Journal, and other journals. She has received multiple nominations, including for the Pushcart Prize, Best of the Net, Best Small Fictions, and Best Microfiction.
“You waste money,” Old Li said, pointing at the blue-wrapped birthday gift in his son’s hands.
“You spent far more on my education,” Ming replied.
“That’s what parents are supposed to do,” Old Li said, weighing the box with a satisfied smile.
“Then I made sure today’s gift follows the proper path,” Ming said.
Lao Li laughed as he unwrapped it.
“Thanks to your year-round drills, no days off, and the countless belts you broke on my back, I finally got into medical school,” Ming added, his tone as casual as discussing the weather. “You always said studying is the only proper path.”
Old Li’s smile froze.
A brand-new smart study tablet lay on the velvet lining.
“Latest model. Complete parental-monitoring functions,” Ming said, leaning in to power it on. The screen lit up with course lists. “I’ve enrolled you in a senior-college intensive program. Daily check-ins. Weekly exams…”
Old Li stared at the notification flashing: Today’s Required Lesson: Algebra I. His fingers trembled.
“You always said one should learn for life,” Ming said, gently pressing the lock button. “Now it’s my turn to keep you on the proper path.”
Huina Zheng is a writer and college essay coach based in Guangzhou, China. Her work appears in Baltimore Review, Variant Literature, Midway Journal, and other journals. She has received multiple nominations, including for the Pushcart Prize, Best of the Net, Best Small Fictions, and Best Microfiction.
The Yard Sale
by Robert Runté
The pre-teen nephew was put in charge of the yard sale table, while inside the adults haggled over the better furniture. The nephew had arranged the collection of worthless vases, knick-knacks, and rusty tools on the table, along with the contents of the kitchen drawer. The ancient ivory figurine was probably worth six figures, but the family had dismissed it as some plastic Halloween trinket.
I was more interested in the metal chest the boy was using as a bench.
"How much for that metal case?" I asked, pointing.
"There's no key for it," he told me. "We're gonna break it open later, to see what's inside."
"Oh, I can tell you that," I lied. "He used it to hold a combination of sand, cat litter, and salt. For the driveway each winter."
The boy nodded. "That's why it's so heavy, then."
"I'll give you a twenty for it."
"Why do you want it?"
"It snows on my driveway too," I said, indicating a random door down the block. "I liked your uncle's idea of having a sandbox out by the driveway. And it will remind me of him."
"You were friends?" the boy asked.
"Neighbors," I said. That should be safe. Close enough to be friendly, but not enough to have come up in conversation with family.
The boy shrugged. "Sure. Why not. Everything has to go somewhere." He stood up.
"My car's just there," I said. "If you could help me carry it that far?"
"Why the car? I could carry it to your house, easily enough." He nodded at the house I had indicated earlier.
"Oh, thanks, but winter's still a month or two off. I'll put it in storage until it actually snows."
"Sure."
Together, we manhandled the chest into the trunk.
"Hey," he said as I started towards the driver's door.
I jumped a little, afraid of what he might ask.
"Yes?"
"Aren't you forgetting something?"
I looked back at the table. It was tempting to go back for the ivory, but I couldn't risk it. There was a chance someone would mention it to the family, they would realize its value, try to track it down, find me.
"I don't think so. I just wanted the, uh, sandbox."
"My twenty," the boy said.
I laughed. A little too loud, I suspect, given my nerves. Stiffing the kid would have been unnecessarily memorable, almost as bad as buying the ivory.
I reached into my wallet and pulled out a bill.
"I'm sorry. I'm getting forgetful in my old age.
"It's okay. Uncle was like that, too."
Which reminded me, I'd better get gas before heading out for the woods. Running out would be the sort of careless mistake I'd been making lately. God, what else did I need? A shovel from a hardware store.
As I drove off, the lad gave me a friendly wave.
━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━
Robert Runté is Senior Editor with EssentialEdits.ca and freelances at SFeditor.ca. A former professor, he has won four Aurora Awards for his literary criticism and currently reviews for the Ottawa Review of Books. His own fiction has been published over 130 times, with several reprinted in "best of" collections.
The pre-teen nephew was put in charge of the yard sale table, while inside the adults haggled over the better furniture. The nephew had arranged the collection of worthless vases, knick-knacks, and rusty tools on the table, along with the contents of the kitchen drawer. The ancient ivory figurine was probably worth six figures, but the family had dismissed it as some plastic Halloween trinket.
I was more interested in the metal chest the boy was using as a bench.
"How much for that metal case?" I asked, pointing.
"There's no key for it," he told me. "We're gonna break it open later, to see what's inside."
"Oh, I can tell you that," I lied. "He used it to hold a combination of sand, cat litter, and salt. For the driveway each winter."
The boy nodded. "That's why it's so heavy, then."
"I'll give you a twenty for it."
"Why do you want it?"
"It snows on my driveway too," I said, indicating a random door down the block. "I liked your uncle's idea of having a sandbox out by the driveway. And it will remind me of him."
"You were friends?" the boy asked.
"Neighbors," I said. That should be safe. Close enough to be friendly, but not enough to have come up in conversation with family.
The boy shrugged. "Sure. Why not. Everything has to go somewhere." He stood up.
"My car's just there," I said. "If you could help me carry it that far?"
"Why the car? I could carry it to your house, easily enough." He nodded at the house I had indicated earlier.
"Oh, thanks, but winter's still a month or two off. I'll put it in storage until it actually snows."
"Sure."
Together, we manhandled the chest into the trunk.
"Hey," he said as I started towards the driver's door.
I jumped a little, afraid of what he might ask.
"Yes?"
"Aren't you forgetting something?"
I looked back at the table. It was tempting to go back for the ivory, but I couldn't risk it. There was a chance someone would mention it to the family, they would realize its value, try to track it down, find me.
"I don't think so. I just wanted the, uh, sandbox."
"My twenty," the boy said.
I laughed. A little too loud, I suspect, given my nerves. Stiffing the kid would have been unnecessarily memorable, almost as bad as buying the ivory.
I reached into my wallet and pulled out a bill.
"I'm sorry. I'm getting forgetful in my old age.
"It's okay. Uncle was like that, too."
Which reminded me, I'd better get gas before heading out for the woods. Running out would be the sort of careless mistake I'd been making lately. God, what else did I need? A shovel from a hardware store.
As I drove off, the lad gave me a friendly wave.
Robert Runté is Senior Editor with EssentialEdits.ca and freelances at SFeditor.ca. A former professor, he has won four Aurora Awards for his literary criticism and currently reviews for the Ottawa Review of Books. His own fiction has been published over 130 times, with several reprinted in "best of" collections.
The Pogo Stick Boy
by Jenny Morelli
He woke this morning confused, disoriented; crawled from bed, threw on yesterday’s clothes, fresh socks, summer sneakers, and ran out the back door, past his mom.
"Slow down!" she yawned, then "Eat something!" but he didn’t respond, just picked up his pogo stick to hop down the street as his neighbors hollered "Good Day, Sir Pogo Master," amused with this, the only child on the block, and he bounced along the yellow line from one curb to the other, into the neighbor's yard higher, higher, higher; up and over tall trees and low clouds, up and up into space before dropping again, ears popping, stomach plunging, until at last, he reached his street, long shadows revealing dusk had arrived.
He pogoed his return home until forced to stop for the strange man that appeared before him, falling from his toy as he looked up, up, up at the top-hatted fellow, eyes full of awe.
"There you are," the man said, to which the boy replied, "Here I am," to which the man replied, "You missed so much," to which the boy replied "So did you," then the strange man stroked his lopsided, gray-speckled beard.
"How do we fill it in," he asked, "all that lost time between you and me?"
The small boy shrugged, took the man’s hand, and together, they strolled down the street, backward, of course, so they could watch their ends meet in the middle.
━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━
Jenny Morelli is a NJ high school English teacher who lives with her husband, cat, and myriad yard pets. She seeks inspiration in everything and loves to spin fantastically weird tales. She’s published in several print and online literary magazines including Spillwords, Red Rose Thorns, Scars tv, Bottlecap Press and Bookleaf Press for five poetry chapbooks.
He woke this morning confused, disoriented; crawled from bed, threw on yesterday’s clothes, fresh socks, summer sneakers, and ran out the back door, past his mom.
"Slow down!" she yawned, then "Eat something!" but he didn’t respond, just picked up his pogo stick to hop down the street as his neighbors hollered "Good Day, Sir Pogo Master," amused with this, the only child on the block, and he bounced along the yellow line from one curb to the other, into the neighbor's yard higher, higher, higher; up and over tall trees and low clouds, up and up into space before dropping again, ears popping, stomach plunging, until at last, he reached his street, long shadows revealing dusk had arrived.
He pogoed his return home until forced to stop for the strange man that appeared before him, falling from his toy as he looked up, up, up at the top-hatted fellow, eyes full of awe.
"There you are," the man said, to which the boy replied, "Here I am," to which the man replied, "You missed so much," to which the boy replied "So did you," then the strange man stroked his lopsided, gray-speckled beard.
"How do we fill it in," he asked, "all that lost time between you and me?"
The small boy shrugged, took the man’s hand, and together, they strolled down the street, backward, of course, so they could watch their ends meet in the middle.
Jenny Morelli is a NJ high school English teacher who lives with her husband, cat, and myriad yard pets. She seeks inspiration in everything and loves to spin fantastically weird tales. She’s published in several print and online literary magazines including Spillwords, Red Rose Thorns, Scars tv, Bottlecap Press and Bookleaf Press for five poetry chapbooks.
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