God And The Editorial Board – By Larry Centor
Flash Fiction / September 6, 2009

God, in his wispy self, was relaxing in the chair at the head of the large oval table. Overhead, the ceiling was a limitless clear blue sky. Beneath, the floor was a limitless clear blue sky. The occasion was an extraordinary meeting of God and his Celestial Editorial Board. It was extraordinary because it was perhaps once in a millennium that God actually attended a meeting. Seated around God were the senior members of the CEB, those human and existential beings charged with promulgating the divine proclamations of the editor-in-chief. “Got me an idea,” said the disembodied voice at the head of the table. “Lay it out for us, Boss,” said Shmuel Brassicles. “We’ve been sitting here for, oh hell, what year is this anyway?” “It’s about 1,200 BC, Boss,” replied Yussel Cloxicles, “more or less.” “What zone?” “That’s Hellenic time, Boss,” said Yussel Cloxicles. “You know all those stories we tell each other when we’re partying?” “Yeah, yeah, Boss,” said Ephraim Toadicles. “I’m thinking it’s time – Hellenic time – as it were,” God said, then paused and chuckled. “Get it, Hellenic time? Get it?” “Got it, got it, Boss,” said Ephraim Toadicles. “Good! Good!” said God. A couple…

A Breezy Day – by A. L. Cerda
Micro Fiction / September 6, 2009

Her black tights of winter have been traded in for a breezy dress of spring, her furry boots replaced by open-toe sandals. I’m in the midst of a long inhale of my cigarette when I see Bethann walk off her front porch, and I patiently exhale as she walks over. The girlish smile makes her seem younger than her years, which only makes me feel worse for being so much older to begin with. “Hi Clark,” she says shyly, “It’s a nice day today.” “Certainly is,” is my carefully measured reply. “Well, I was wondering if you wanted to, I don’t know, maybe go to the park or something.” She’s nervously fidgeting with the wedding ring on her finger. Bethann’s long divorced, but there the ring sits, a reminder of better days. I’d think it strange if I didn’t do the same thing. Mine is a widower’s albatross, the ghost of my wife haunting me. I doubt Bethann holds out any more hope than I do of a reconciliation. Are we trying to hold on to former lives? Perhaps we’re trying to ward off future lives. “Sure,” I say, drawling the word ‘round my tongue as if it’s an uncertainty….