Issue #14
My Best Man by John Mancini

I had the ring. All I had to do was stand there and put it on Deb’s finger. But when the day finally came, I knew I wasn’t ready.

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Smart Kid by Arthur Plotnik

Nick Pearson loved his smart house. At his command the smart-fridge checked the ingredients on its shelves and suggested three dinners for this evening.

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The Girl Who Eats Lightbulbs by Helen Rye

The girl who eats lightbulbs, she sits alone in the bus shelter with the red velvet hatbox full of the feathers she’s rescued, the white and the silken, pure from the dirt of sidewalks and showgrounds.

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Horse Walks into the Bar by Joel Streicker

I’d like to say a horse walks into the bar, but it’s really only a guy in a horse costume. Still, it’s not something you see every day, or every night, even on Halloween, which it isn’t.

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Sweet Violets by A.E. Weisgerber

I remember the warm scent of pine needles, white pine, sienna golden and fragrant thick on the ground, that warm wood held in its air the promise of wreaths and garlands and snow.

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Wedding Cake Farm by Francine Witte

Uncle Astor had a wedding cake farm. Aunt Lula was against it at first. Folks don’t want a cake from out of the ground, she said. But Uncle Astor proved her wrong.

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Bog Iron by Shane Larkin

We make stops on the way to our bog plot to look at the little skeletons. Dad tells me about them. Curlews and skylarks in dancing poses. Tiny skulls.

Get Your Authentic Stardust Here by JP Relph

The night the sky cracked, I was sprawled on the hood of my car beside that good-for-nothing boy, naming constellations, ignoring his fingers on my neck.

I’ll Show You Mine If You Show Me Yours by Eliot Li

I tell you I’ve only ever shown it to a girl who I met on a tour bus in Moscow, where I was traveling with my parents. She had bad acne, and she really liked Duran Duran.

Fulfilling by Fiona McKay

Kate is not ‘imagining it’. There are small tufts of pale fluff on her neck, and no, it’s not ‘just a tissue in the washing machine’ as John suggests. There’s nothing drifting off his shirts, nothing clinging to Ella’s favourite black top, Josh’s Minecraft t-shirts. It’s more solid than tissue, just on her clothes. And only she can see it.

Amelia Earhart Knew Seven Latin Words for Fire by Joe Kapitan

Ignis, the flaming wreckage, bubbling rubber, liquified cloth, her skin charred and blistering, acrid smoke, the tiny thunders of survival’s kicks