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…