Holy Liftoff – By Elaine Medline
Flash Fiction / March 22, 2009

Cynthia swung a screwdriver. “What are you doing with that?” her mother asked her. “Fixing Gemini.” Gemini was the name that Cynthia had given to her new bicycle, a Stingray Deluxe. The girl was thrilled with the glitter banana seat and monkey bars, but had wanted the copper color. All they had in stock was violet. “What’s wrong with Gemini?” Joan asked. “It’s purple, first of all,” her daughter answered. “Plus I don’t like the fenders and chain guard. I ripped them off for liftoff.” “Cynthia, it was your birthday present.” Her son, Thomas, shuffled into the kitchen backward. He asked her what she was doing. “Beating egg whites for a pie,” she said, proudly holding up her new kitchen tool, a wire whisk. “Holy smell, what’s this? Clue me in.” Holy this, holy that. Batman was taking over his little mind. “With the crackers? Cheese.” “Cheese didn’t smell before,” he said, exiting backward. “And it used to be orange.” Joan could hear the serious voice of a newsman on their television in the next room. She didn’t want Thomas or Cynthia to hear it, so she turned it off. The news started getting bad around 1961, and that was…

Favourite Spot – By Heather Grange
Micro Fiction / March 22, 2009

Striding out with the dog by her side in the late afternoon was where Clare wanted to be. She and Mike had always loved this part of the country. In the summer he’d lounge in a soft backed chair, a rug over his knees with a sketch-pad or a book while she wandered off for a couple of hours or, in the winter they’d sit in the car watching the landscape and feeling part of nature. The river had brought them together. They’d met, worked and fallen in love in a hotel which stood on the cliffs. It had been pulled down years ago. They’d explored the coastal paths and meandered along the towpaths and boatyards. The cockle boats were still out at sea, the flames from the refineries still burned yellowish-blue and the old castle ruins still guarded the entrance to the estuary. They’d married in a local church under Norman vaults thirty-eight years before and then moved away and worked abroad. When they retired they’d come back to live nearby. It was when Mike said: “Why don’t you write about it?” But what was there to write about? Clare wasn’t a writer or a poet. It was true…

Lunchtime – By Ian Lamberto
Micro Fiction / March 8, 2009

Surrounded by the foliage of fall, Charlie and Sarah sat on the only bench in the park still made of wood, the only one that still creaked and cracked when used. They liked the sounds, the way the aged pine reminded them of its presence, the warmth that it kept between its decade-old wrinkles. There was something reassuring about it, something gentle, something that helped sweeten the taste of the peanut butter and strawberry jam sandwiches that they shared. It was their lunch hour. It was their tradition. “Nice day today,” said Charlie, as he always did. “That it is,” responded Sarah, as she always did. “Busy in the office.” “The phones won’t stop.” “Wouldn’t be much work if they did.” “Suppose not.” A few moments passed. Birds chirped from above, making their own idle conversation. The trees, ruffled by a cool breeze, released a sampling of golden leaves to the air. And Charlie stared at his half-eaten sandwich resting idly upon its bag. “I’m leaving,” he stated. “Okay, bit early though, isn’t it?” “That’s not what I meant,” Charlie’s leg started to shake. “I’m leaving…tomorrow…for good….” Sarah took a drink of water from her thermos; this new script was…

Reverse Gear – By Richard Grossman
Flash Fiction / March 1, 2009

I didn’t see the purse fall, just heard the sound. A second later we were both on hands and knees. No Saturday night special. No makeup. Not much of anything except a roll of bills. I had her driver’s license. 26 Eastbrook Road. You know where that is? Our eyes locked. Hazel eyes, gold flecks. Something else as well. Yes, I know where that is. She put the bottle of aspirin back on the shelf, looked at me again. Thanks. That was very kind. She turned and half waved. Was there a message in that? I followed her from the store not knowing why. It was easy to keep a hundred yards behind, which was just as well. I had no idea why I was doing this. Twice I almost turned off. Could I knock at 26 Eastbrook, Excuse me, I helped you when your purse fell, I think I love you. Headline: Amorous Lunatic Arrested in Suburbs. A garage double door rose as she approached 26 Eastbrook, one of a series of matching houses optimistically called garrison colonials. The door closed with similar automation as I parked across the street. A passage connected the garage to the main part…