The Time Has Come to Say Goodbye

It is a bittersweet moment for us here at the FFF because today we are announcing the end of this blog. While we have enjoyed challenging ourselves monthly to produce new flash fiction, as we all move along on our writing journeys we are finding that this site is starting to take a back seat to other, more pressing projects.

And so last week's story was our last.

We will be leaving the site and most of our work up indefinitely, but a few stories will be taken down by those of us who wish to develop those pieces further. Also, if you were a contributor to this site, please contact us if you would like your work taken down and we will take care of it ASAP.

Thanks to all of you who stopped by to read our work and sent us kind words of support. Thanks to those who shared their work with us and allowed us to be a platform for your own fiction. And big thanks to the photographers who've been so kind to let us post their amazing photos as inspiration each month. We truly appreciate it. Have a wonderful summer and if you are a fellow writer, may your words flow swiftly and your ideas come often!

Remote Destination

Remote Destination

“Screw it,” Kevin says, after the first couple of drops of water do nothing to wake his sister. He dumps a whole glass on Celine’s face causing her to shoot upright from the floor.

    “What the--!” she screams.

    Kevin smiles. He reaches out to touch her face, concerned about the purple mark on her cheek from when she went down in the cafeteria earlier.

She knows I care, he thinks to himself, no need to get all mushy about it.

    Celine runs her fingers through her hair and grins at him. Kevin stares at her; still unable to get used to her hair being as short as his.

Celine laughed at his reaction when she showed off her shorn head. Said his jaw practically hit the ground.

“So, you’re trying to copy me again,” he said trying to hide the fact that he missed her long red locks, a trademark of their mother.

In all ways the Middleton twins look alike. But the hair was what made Celine less rigid with her sharp chin and cheeks. Though, Kevin considered that with the new look fewer guys would be interested in her. Now that his sister was sixteen he noticed the courageous or just plain stupid boys at Holyoke glance her way. He noticed that even though every student at Holyoke Reformatory wore the same shapeless gray shirts and pants that the boys seemed to take note of how Celine filled hers out. Kevin would punch his fist against his palm to ruin any kind of thoughts these guys had. And as soon as they caught Kevin’s line of vision their faces went white.

    Celine looks around and realizes they’re not in the Pit or their rooms.

    She sighs. “Damn. The Matron?”

“I’d appreciate no profanity, Ms. Middleton,” The Matron says.

    It was realized by the unidentifiable powers-that-be that the Middleton twins weren’t afraid of the Pit nor were they the type to think things over in their rooms and come to better decisions. It was decided that after any incident Kevin and Celine would go and speak with The Matron, Holyoke’s only religious/spiritual guidance counselor of sorts. When she first met the two she stated she preferred to treat people from the inside/out. The twins found it hilarious, especially considering their experience of the reformers and AG going about discipline.

After a handful of visits they found they didn’t mind The Matron so much. They would sit, listen, and nod their heads as though her words were sinking in. As far as they were concerned it was better than practicing how to block out the unnerving sounds and darkness of the Pit.

    Celine and Kevin take their seats on the opposite side of The Matron’s desk. Each time they enter this room Kevin stares at the pictures along her walls. Images of gods from every religion known to man, old and new. The animal-like gods of Hinduism and the volcanoes of Scientology, and even some of the newer ones like Cantology with pictures of famous poets and New Wave Christianity that has an image of someone shrouded in dark purple shadow on a horse, maybe even a unicorn. The pictures flash over the posters like cartoons, showing scenes from the old books.

    Knowing protocol Celine and Kevin put their hands in their laps and await The Matron’s speech. The Matron scrunches up her face at them causing Kevin and Celine to share a glance. They’re used to her shaking her head as she mutters a few “tsk tsks” by now.  

    “Why the constant fighting? Why do I have to see you two so often?”

    “I’m not trying to be unruly or whatever. Edgar got in my face and I don’t back down,” Kevin states as though she should’ve realized this by now.

    “I was there for support,” Celine adds. She blinks her eyes to convey an innocence everyone in the room knows she doesn’t have.

    “Do you realize that with your growing record things will not be easy for you two? Do you realize that with the plans set in motion you could be ruining your chances to start over?”

    “Plans? What plans?” Celine asks.

    “It hasn’t been announced yet. But you two are smart. I see it. You are hard workers.” She stares at Kevin, “And yes I know you don’t take any…crap.” She seems to stumble on the last word causing Kevin to stifle a laugh at her attempt to curse.

    The Matron folds her hands together and leans on her desk. She lowers her voice making Kevin and Celine pull their chairs closer to hear her.

    “I’m not supposed to say much about this, but we’re going to Earth. Well, some of us are. To repopulate the planet. To start anew. And only a chosen few are going to get this chance. So I wouldn’t screw it up if I were you.”

    “Earth! No way.” Celine waves her arm as though flicking away a bug.

    “I’m not joking, Ms. Middleton. We’re running out of resources here. Have you not noticed?”

    “We’re supposed to notice?” Kevin says with a laugh. “We get crap anyways, so what would less crap be like?” He pulls at his torn shirt for emphasis. Crossing his arms Kevin continues unable to believe what the woman in front of him is saying.

    Kevin remembers hearing about the collapse of civilization. He doesn’t recall exact details since he was often drawing sketches during classes rather than paying attention. What he does recollect is that a thousand years ago something happened, an explosion or chemical or biological warfare or whatever. It spread like dominoes all over the Earth.

    Celine mentioned to him that she heard about rationing more, especially at Holyoke, before the Acting Government applied it to the outside communities. Looking at their protein mush servings get smaller and smaller she said something was up. But Celine was the type to read up on those things and observe her surroundings. His sister understood things in days that it’d take him months or years to.

    Besides the fact that Celine’s female what separates them is that she’s a closet a computer genius. Learned it all from books alone. Given a computer and enough time she could probably hack into any system, Kevin was sure.

    Kevin noticed The Matron look at Celine with sad eyes whenever she brought up the future and the “possibilities being endless.” He doesn’t recall The Matron ever looking at him that way. Of course Kevin couldn’t say what was on The Matron’s mind when she focused on him. He tended to turn away for fear of pity or sympathy.

    She continues, “We’re forging a new world and to do that we have to learn the mistakes of the old one... That being said the plan is to take one hundred Holyoke residents to Earth in the next thirty days. You’ll be paired off and then sent down to start restructuring society. Building things, figuring out how a community will work in your area and so forth.”

    “Hold on. They’re gonna set us free to rebuild Earth. Why us? Like, why me and Celine?”

    “Why not you and Celine? You don’t think highly of yourself, do you Kevin? You really should. I’d recommend you if it weren’t for these stunts you keep pulling.”

    “No stunt Matron. Edgar fuc—messed with Kev first. I saw the whole thing.”

    “And of course you’re not biased in the least are you, Ms. Middleton?”

    Celine grins. “Course not.”

    The Matron points at them both with either hand. “Listen. Get your act together and you two will be part of something amazing. Don’t you want that? Don’t you want to help build the future for your society?”

    Celine and Kevin look at each other. Considering whether or not this is a prank or worse, false hope. 
______________________________________________
Story by: Jenn Baker
Photo by: Carros de Foc

No Place Like Home

 No Place Like Home

 

He arrived first. Weeks later she joined him. When there wasn’t anything else to do, which was often, they sat on the floor and drew. They surmised they were in each others’ age range and that they had both been taken. No words were shared among them, not even their names. They were taken upstairs once a day for schooling and a meal and sun. Once upstairs they saw how much color they were losing, how their skin began to blanch. Their squinted at each other barely getting used to the sunlight from the windows. As soon as their eyesight adjusted to the white paper, the yellow piercing through beige shades, the tattered but muted tones of the rug they were rushed back downstairs where they’d settle back into the gray.

The woman lead them to their room, or as she liked to insist along with them calling her “Angie” that they consider this place “home.” “Home” was a dank basement that was often cool, sometimes freezing, rarely warm. It was dark and it was moist. The dampness in the air settled on their skin as soon as they returned from "school."

After a couple weeks the girl thoroughly searched their surroundings. She found rope but no chains. She surveyed the toilet behind a folded wall and the sink with the faucet that dripped leaving a rusted stain around the drain. She found clothes that were definitely not in fashion now and smelled as stale as the basement.

The only window downstairs was painted shut with glass covered in so much soot it hid the outside world. It was small enough for their heads to fit through but nothing else. Though this didn’t stop her from trying by punching at it with no luck. When the two were next brought upstairs for studies they stood in the kitchen bathed in sunlight. Once the woman locked the basement door behind them the girl screamed her head off. The girl dodged hands attempting to catch her. She ran around the space as though on fire. The girl made it past the living room to the front door when she found what the boy had the first and last time he attempted the same thing. The locks needed keys from within. Still screaming, her cries ringing throughout the house tingling the boy’s inner ear it was so loud, she sped past the woman who hunched herself down attempting to soothe, shush, and capture the girl.

The boy waited in the kitchen, and he came soon enough. The man emerged in the doorway to the kitchen as the girl, quick like a monkey, had jumped the cabinets and was on the kitchen countertops trying to get through a window. The boy hadn’t thought of that. The girl was almost successful, almost, a window pane shattered from the kick of her sneakers and the force of her will but she was scooped up easy as ice cream. Her limbs fought, wouldn’t remain still. She kicked and flailed all over the place as the man took her upstairs where her screams were replaced with a different type. It was no longer a sound craving attention, this cry was in deep fear and understanding of what was to come. The boy was shooed downstairs by the woman, who insisted everything was going to be okay. They were the same words she said to them every day.

Later, maybe hours, maybe just long minutes, the girl returned, still putting up a fight. The man stumbled down the stairs, her body thrust over his shoulder, her screams muffled with a sock. As soon as he touched ground he thrust her onto the cot beside the boy. She lifted herself up ready to shriek again but the man made a motion for his pants pocket. Even with the one soft bulb the boy saw the cord eeking it's way out of his pocket. One peek at the girl's arms he saw her long sleeves revealed hints of lacerations. The girl sat back, but there was rebellion in her eyes. The man trudged up the stairs and sealed them into their new world. 

They weren’t allowed upstairs for a while after that. Food was brought down, left on the second step, and the door immediately shut leaving them back to their solitude. Drawing became routine. The girl sometimes scratched at her arms. She hid her legs by folding them under herself. He didn’t ask how she felt, he knew the sting of the cord. He wasn’t looking to feel that again.

As they sat on the floor scratching on paper was the only sound. Their fingertips were colored from the wax of the crayons and their hands dotted with the shavings they wiped away. When the girl spoke he had to look up to consider if he’d actually heard something. Her mouth was slightly ajar. Her eyes narrowed like she’d been waiting on his answer for too long.

“What are you drawing?” she asked. He dared a peek at her picture first, it was erratic scribbles but a rainbow of them that came together like a puzzle. He looked at his. His hands framed each side of the image, one he hadn’t even realized he’d been creating in the first place. A house with a chimney, a sun peering over the place like a guardian. To one side of the house were two people, a man and a woman and in the middle of them was a tiny figure that could only be a child, their child, specifically. It was a place he was starting to forget, yet hints of it still pervaded in his memory. The car he was shuttled into to go to and from real school, not a woman making things up while they remained shackled to the table listening but not listening. Before answering he wrote the word under it then held the paper up to the girl.

She mouthed the four letter word and nodded before tearing up her illustration and starting again. “Let me show you my home too,” she said as she reached for a new sheet of paper. 

____________________________________________________________________

Story by: Jenn Baker
Image courtesy of Graur Codrin/FreeDigitalPhotos.net

Snowflakes by Guest Author Maria Mainero

The phone in the park in the winter in the dark in that part of winter-spring when snow falls on all the blooming things, and there’s hope in the air, but the ice still shivers there.

The door half-ajar, or maybe not even that far, because we’re snuggled up inside, even though we don’t need to hide. 

The words sound good, and look pretty in blue ink, on college-rule paper. In reality, the phone booth across the street is empty.  Whoever was making out there last, steamed up the windows and now it’s all frosted over, the park is deserted, and I want to throw rocks and break apart the glass on that cheery red phone booth all fake and friendly looking. 

This is a set, we’re all just actors, none of it is real.

Smash, smash, we’re all just breaking glass, into the blue crackled shards upon the grass.

The bus is late, as usual, not that I care. I’ve got my notebook, my pen, my words, the stories in my head. In my head, Olivia will break his heart, and Tony will return to me.

Return. That means he was with me once. In my head, at least. This isn’t where the story was going, not where I wanted to take it at all. In my story there was no Olivia. But now, she’s worked her way into my brain, her curly blond hair and her color-coordinated outfits and fingernails. I’ve tried taking her out into the wilderness, where she should end up as the first casualty of the elements. But instead, it’s Tony who keeps falling off a cliff or getting crushed by a storm-toppled tree.

Sure, I save his life, and Olivia is less than useless. But still, she’s there. Still, clean and perky and fashionable. Even in my story, she can’t manage to have a hair out of place. 

I hear something, or sense something, that makes me look up from my unsatisfactory words, and there they are, heading towards me, Olivia in her tall black boots, and her red wool coat, and Tony, in his leather jacket and sneakers. With a big bouquet of roses, red like Olivia’s coat. They’ve got their arms and eyes locked on each other, and I’ve got a lump in my throat that’s bigger than Olivia’s Prada bag.

I run across the street without thinking, wanting to avoid them. Him. I duck into the phone booth and crouch down, still clutching my pen and notebook.

Brakes and tires squeal and smoke. “Olivia!” a voice shouts. Engines hum, doors slam. “Oh, my God, is she . . . “

“Don’t touch her,” a voice commands.

“I’m a doctor,” a woman replies.

Tony is crying. “Lanie! Lanie! It’s going to be okay, I love you Lanie.”

There I go again. I don’t want to get hit by a car to win him. I want Olivia to be the one sprawled on the imaginary pavement. My stories always seem to turn in other directions, despite my efforts.

Just like my life. Three years of friendship and subtle flirting haven’t made a difference. Despite my efforts, Tony and Olivia are together, and I’m hiding in a phone booth because I can’t bear to face them. I’m sure they’ve seen me dodge in here, which is embarrassing. I need to go back out there, pretend I was just making a call.

I stand up, press my hand on the steamed-up glass and look out through the cleared outline of my palm.

Across the street, a ghostly outline of a handprint appears in the frosted window of the phone booth.

Across the street, Tony and Olivia sit on the bench at the bus stop. He stares into space. She holds his hand. He stands and places the flowers on the ground in front of the glass enclosure, right next to the street.

I shouldn’t listen in.

“If you can hear me, Lanie, I’m sorry.”

“It wasn’t your fault, Tony. Nobody knew how bad off she was. She kept it all inside. You tried. . . .”

I hate the way these stories keep going. I rip the pages out of my notebook.

Ragged scraps of torn paper flutter from her hands. They fall to the ground like snow, and melt and disappear.

______________________________________________________________

Story by: Maria Mainero (Hi, I’m Maria. I’ve believed in fiction too long to stop now. If you believe too, then come join me in a cup of tea. http://nevermindwastingtime.blogspot.com/ or twitter @MariaAnnaWitt)

Photo by: wintersixfour

Observer

Observer

It’s kinda weird to watch the world unravel. To witness people getting shoved into blankets of snow now dented and dirtied into gray slush. To see those people, men, women, children, babies--no one is safe against the wave--bodies pressed deeper into the wetness, mouths taking in gobs of slush and cries barely heard. What could be thought of as snow angels are in the ground but instead there are lumps of where people fell and struggled to get back up.

A hand squeezes mine, a faint squeeze, unsure, kind of like a dull heartbeat. I squeeze back to let my sister know I’m here. Her face is pressed against my coat. I refuse to let her see the worst parts. She can hear it of course. It’s not like the phone booth we’re in is soundproof. The glass is cold to the touch and the wind thrums against it at a steady percussive rhythm.

My sister says something garbled into my coat but I clench her tighter watching while a man kicks someone in front of him, not prompted or anything. That person goes down into the ivory blanket face first. The man steps atop the body and keeps moving, his next step pushing his victim’s head further into the snow and it’s almost like I can hear the crunch of his shoe on the skull that I need to shut my eyes.

“Mmmpfhh,” my sister says. Maybe my nails are digging deep into her down coat but I see the drops of rust seep into the ivory around the person lying on the ground. The opposite of a snow angel.

The herd moves past us. Not noticing the booth we’re in, how it stands out amidst the streets and trees and snow. Perhaps from yards away no one is thinking about two girls in there scared out of their wits while hoping they’re invisible for the first time ever.

Our parents told us to run. They shouted it at us while zipping up our coats and wrapping our heads in scarves. My sister with tears in her eyes and me trying to hold them back as we were shoved, tripping down stairs in our apartment building and then outside. Snow up to our ankles, more of it falling into the open crevices of my coat. In my father’s brown eyes his fear matched his voice. “Run and don’t look back,” he said. I did as I was told, my sister rarely ever does.

My sister squirms in my hold but manages to speak actual words.

“I’m hot!” she mutters, angry.

“Shush!” I grab her again but she pulls away. There’s not a lot of space in this booth but when she backs away her head hits the telephone and jars it enough to fall on her head. I almost laugh. She doesn’t find it funny and rubs her head with a mashed look on her face willing me to shut up. I do.

“Not funny,” she insists.

“Sorry, moonbug,” I say. And just as her eyes try to focus on the outside I hear the crack in the air, practically splitting it. I hunch down and grab her with me so that we’re on the wet and dirty ground of the booth. I already feel the slush of snow we brought in seep into my jeans and the heat of my sister’s breath on my cheek. When I peek through the windows I see the smoking gun and the white clouds coming out the mouth of a woman holding it. The man who did the kicking before is laid out, arms spread, oozing life, just like the one he did in.

The woman wears a long skirt. She lifts it up revealing boots tied up her calves and takes delicate steps in the snow. She leans down at the man's victim. Her lips move, maybe saying a prayer, maybe a curse. She kisses the top of his head, bows hers, and closes her eyes. After a moment she rises. Other people have scattered from the sound. My sister and I remain crouched, invisible. That is, until her focus lands on us. She squints her eyes our way. I turn my head, cuddle up to my sister hoping the gray wool of our coats make us indistinct inside the booth, but it’s the booth that stands out. Red, tall, and imposing amidst the snow. I wait. Hearing the snow fold under feet, the swish of a skirt slide and bunch up the elements under her. Then there’s the whoosh of a breeze when the door folds in. When I look up she holds the gun, barrel down, and smiles at us.

“Ladies, don’t you know the end of the world is coming?” she asks like it’s the most natural question in the world.

I don’t say anything. My teeth chatter too much for me to even respond. I tremble so much I don’t know if it’s just me or if my sister is adding to it.

“Come on now.” She beckons with the nose of the gun as if it’s her finger and not a weapon. “C’mon. I don’t bite. Enough people out there doing biting for us. Us ladies have to stick together.” She winks at me. I don’t move and don’t allow my sister to move under me. We’re merged together and I’ll be damned if we’re headed anywhere with someone who’s packing.

It’s not until a shadow hovers over her, piercing through darkening the booth inside. It’s when the man lurches for her and, without a glance backwards, she flips the gun under her palm to face behind her and clicks with no hesitation that another body falls. He thumps right onto the ground with white powder spraying up under him. That's when I understand how true her words are.

“I’m Celeste by the way,” she says, tucking the weapon into a holster around her skirt. 

_________________________________________________________________________

Story by: Jenn Baker 

Photo by: wintersixfour

February Inspiration

It's a new month and so here's a new story inspiration picture. Hope it gets your creative juices flowing. If you end up writing a story, don't forget to send it our way. We'd love to post it here!

Photo By: wintersixfour

Short Fiction Blogs We Love

It's one of those months where we have one extra Friday in the mix and no more stories to post, so we thought we might direct you to some other blogs that do short fiction too, places we visit to get our creative juices flowing, or to read some excellent stories by other writers. Hope you take a moment to check them out!


My new personal favorite, and not just because I know most of the writers involved is The Hanging Garden, a relatively new short fiction site that uses animated gifs for story inspiration. Genius! And so far the stories are amazing. http://hanginggardenstories.tumblr.com/post/72102036456/the-hanging-garden-7-debut-authors-doing-fiction-with


American Literature: Okay, so this isn't a young adult specific site, but it has a treasure trove of short stories, many from literary heavy weights and it features a short story of the day. http://americanliterature.com/


Another awesome, awesome, awesome young adult/middle grade story site is The Cabinet of Curiosities. The authors involved are all truly unique and so wickedly talented. It has a fairytale, magical vibe to it and the offerings are so creative. http://the-cabinet-of-curiosities.blogspot.com/2013/04/generously-donated-by-by-emma-trevayne.html

Another good reference for flash fiction/short fiction sites is from The Review Review: http://www.thereviewreview.net/publishing-tips/flash-fiction-list-resources, which includes many lit mags that specialize in flash fiction.

How about you? Do you have any sites to recommend? We'd love to hear about them in the comments.

Fuel

Fire’s gone out.

Rubbing my hands together and blowing onto the tips, I stare at what’s left of it. The pile of smoldering ash stops giving off heat almost immediately and my shivering starts back up. I pull my coat closer. It’s warm enough to keep me from freezing right now—during the day when the sun is out, shining weakly in a sky the color of dull steel—but night will be here soon.

I look out over the ocean. The waves are enough to make me dizzy, plowing into the shore on top of other waves eager to go back out again. I can’t watch for long before I have to close my eyes and wait for the nausea to pass. A gull cries out overhead and then wings its way over the island, towards the flock circling the far side of the beach where the others are. I can see the crude sea grass and driftwood shelters we built, leaning into the brush, all but falling over.  I shake my head and face the opposite direction. I don’t like to think about them anymore or why the gulls are so anxious to get inside.

I’m back to staring at the water, for some sign of Sarah and the boat. When we found it freed from its spot in the cargo hold and bouncing  white hull up on the water, it took days to fix all the leaks with the few supplies we’d scavenged before it was sound enough to hold five people. A third of our group.  I knew right away that Sarah needed to be on board when it shoved off in search of rescue. It wasn’t an easy task. Not everyone wanted to take their chances at sea, trying to drift into trade waters where some other boat would find them, but enough folks did that there were heated arguments about it. In the end, everyone who wanted a space drew a length of sea grass from Jonathon’s fist. He made sure not to watch while we pulled them out.

“Fair is fair,” he said out loud to no one in particular. Mr. Benson popped him one in the mouth when he said it again just after his wife drew a short one. Longest lengths meant a spot, shortest that you stayed behind.  When it was our turn Sarah drew well…I did not. But I was glad for her to be going. Even then I knew that staying would be worse.

Before she left she asked me to hold out my hand then she lifted it palm up to her face, touched her lips across the center of my palm. “Keep that for me til I get back,” she said as she curled my fingers over the kiss dampened spot. “That and our chair.” She grinned conspiratorially. Our chair isn’t ours at all, just someone else’s belonging that dropped from the plane with the rest of us and managed not to break or sink.  I nodded, not trusting myself to speak. If I’d opened my mouth right then I might’ve begged her to stay. The goodbye was awkward because it was long. It took some doing for the boat to float out towards the horizon. Soon most of the others went to lie down in the shelters, already feeling the stomach churning chills and fevers that would take them just a few days later.  I was content to keep waving. It felt important, like my hand was somehow pushing Sarah and the others along.

I turn from the sea to steady myself  and stare out past the dunes. The island is nothing more than a long strip of sand and unforgiving peaks of rock. There are no trees, just brush. There’s no fresh water either. Though the sky is always this same godforsaken gray, it never seems to rain much.  Sarah and the others took the last of our precious bottled water. A carton of it washed up one day after the remnant of our plane was taken back out to se. We found it lying on the smooth section of the beach between the shelters and where I stand now along with random bits of the wreckage: our steel and wooden antique chair, a set of airplane trays meant to hold first class meals, seat cushions, several suitcases full of clothes, shoes, and not much else, and the remnants of the beverage cart—which is how we ended up with a small stock pile of alcohol and Cokes for those of us who stayed.

The Cokes have been gone for several days, the alcohol long before that. I’m thirsty and weak. All I want to do is kneel down and lap up the seawater with my swollen tongue. For now telling myself that that will be the beginning of my end is enough to keep me standing, but only barely. I just have to wait and have faith. Sarah will find help and when she does, she will come back for me.

I try not to think about the last moment where I could see her close up, or the half wave she gave me--faltering midair before her arm dropped to her side. I think instead of the wood and metal chair and the moment we found it together.

“It’s not damaged at all,” she said, her hand caressing the wooden back. “To see this chair sitting on this beach by itself, you’d think someone just pulled it from a house and plunked it down in the sand with the intention of sunbathing.” She pressed on the seat experimentally to see if it was as sturdy as she thought before she sat on it, stretching her legs out in front of her and crossing them at the ankle. She stared out at the sea, her hand fiddling with the gold chain at her neck. “It’s strong. It survived. Same way we did.” She closed her eyes and lifted her cheeks to the sky. “You know what? I think this chair is our portent.”

I knew what she meant even if she didn’t  word it right and so I nodded my agreement because she is forever doing that—using words she likes the sound of, that fill her mouth in a pleasing way and make her feel smart, but never quite fit or worse, mean the opposite of what she intended. I didn’t bother to correct her this time—though I felt desperately afterwards that I should have. Sometimes speaking a thing can make it real.

I pulled the chair apart last night when the cold was a knife slashing at me face and hands and feet and every other burnable thing was nothing but soot. I kept throwing grass on it, making it last as long as I could. It was a lonely business. Now I’m lonelier still without a place to sit and watch the sea and pretend to merely be sunbathing, but I’m alive for now and that has to count for something, doesn’t it? Any day now and she’ll come for me…I just have to hold on and believe.

When the first white painted board washes up at my feet, I can’t figure out where it came from. I pick it up and turn it over and over in my hands, feeling the waterlogged weight of it and wondering. But then I see another and another and suddenly with overwhelming horror I know.

Photo by: Kostas Kitsos
Story by: Amy Christine Parker

First Look

First Look

I need to see his face. This whole time I’ve seen the back of his head. Lumps of flesh packed together. Hands that seem older from afar, wrinkled, pockmarked, shaking if you look at them long enough. He favors one side when he walks, even as he stands his left side seems to sink into the sod.

He won’t turn around. Or maybe it’s the angles I’m watching him from. Never face on but from behind. Even when I feel like I catch up. My body speeding up to try and even get a profile view but in those moments he’s too quick. His head jerks away and I get a glimpse of a nose that may have been broken in a fight or two with a dent in the middle looking like a ridge in a mountain.

Wisps of white hair not even noting what was. So many parts I get to see but not the whole and I need to see his face.

He stands on the edge of the land with a jacket above his head. It’s not even raining so I don’t quite get it but he’s covering his face again. I can’t be sure. I can’t leave until I’m certain.

“We have to go,” she whispers behind me. I plant my feet down daring her to move me. She could, she could get the reserves to really but it’ll have to come to that.

I don’t turn to look at her. I feel the wind whip through me and see it push past him. His jacket waving like a flag beckoning the boats passing in the water. He stares ahead and I stare at him waiting, knowing he’ll have to make the slightest movement at some point and face me so I can see.

“You’ll have to trust me on this.”

That’s when I whip around to her and stare her right in those judgmental orbs she calls eyes trying to stare me down. “Why should I?”

“Because this is your—”

“Bullshit,” I spit at her and spit at the ground by her. She jumps back shocked. 

“You want us to stay in line and tell us and show us what you think we need to see. But I need to know for sure. I don’t trust you.”

Her eyes go thin. “You should. We know what’s best.”

I turn around. Refusing to get absorbed in those eyes in any way.

He heaves. His whole body seems to lift and lower on itself, as if adjusting for a better fit. He takes one step to the edge, another, and another shuffling as he goes, leaving tracks in the ground. With every inch he moves towards the edge I move closer to him.

“You can’t,” she says but I don’t listen. I keep sliding forward. My body light, airy, translucent to him but I refuse to let him go any further without confirmation.

“You can’t get involved!” her voice rises bordering on a yell until it’s a shriek of “You can’t!”

His head is down, the blazer completely covering him as a shell does a turtle. He moves like one, looks like one, is going to join the sea as if it’s his natural habitat but the bastard cannot end it before I get a look.

I rush on him reaching out as one foot hovers out like there’s an invisible step the other still planted on the ground. My hand goes through him but I keep trying. I’m swiping at air trying to keep his body from tipping forward and going into the sea. When he goes down it’s face first still. I throw myself off the edge along with him, my body floating than falling faster than his. I go through him, feel a sudden charge in myself as our bodies merge briefly during the fall and then turn around so that I can finally, finally view him face on.

Once again, it’s the eyes that get me. Not just the eyeballs but the skin around it. The scar above the eyebrow from the fight with one kid afterschool. The one gray/blue eye and the other green from the transplant after losing it but having given way worse than I got. There are more scratches, wounds, marks of a guy whose fights didn’t end in adolescence but carried over into adulthood.

It hits me how much things will have to change once the water pushes against my back, he and I hitting it with a smack at the same time. 
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Photo by: Kostas Kitsos
Story by: Jenn Baker

Bridging the Gap

Bridging the Gap

“So there’s this baby,” Aaron starts. He’s already laughing at his own joke. He can barely keep still on the log he’s sitting on.

Samantha shakes her head, irritated. They’ve been arguing the whole way up to the lodge. And unfortunately me and Jake had to sit near them while they went through their weekly hate-love fest. She’s upset because its senior year and the destiny she planned for them may be coming to an end. Aaron refuses to take things as seriously.

“I tell her I love her. What more does she want?” he asked us. That was Jake’s and my cue to agree with “You’re right, man.”

Truth is Aaron’s looking forward to their split. Her to state. Him to another state and a whole range of possibilities. Not girl-wise either. “I mean, I get out of the city and just see nature. You know? That’s pretty damn cool. Not waking up to drills. Worrying about SATs or my parents. Damn,” he huffed.

I’m also looking forward to college. Not taking a subway to school and back home. Not worrying about a coach yelling in one ear and a teacher yelling in another. We’ll get to walk around campus. Live away from the steady gaze of parents expecting us to be better. Jake, Aaron, and I are all going away on scholarship.

The chill from Samantha’s face and the air up here make me shake through my shorts and sweatshirt. The temperature change was sharper than I expected. I can’t help hunching my body. Jake gives me a look and I see we’re in close proximity. Me involuntarily seeking out body heat.

I mouth “cold” to him but his stare goes away all together.

“So the baby—” and before Aaron even gets to the punch line Samantha stands up and hits him in the shoulder.

“Shut up about the baby! Just shut up. Shut up. Shut up!” She’s shaking. Her arms are stretched out on either side of her and, yup, those are tears coming down her cheeks.

Aaron’s mouth practically scrapes ground. I think mine and Jake’s are too. One of us, I don’t know who, asks, “What is up, Sam?”

Her face is in her hands. She goes into full blown tremble mode. She mumbles something. I think I hear the word “ig’nant.”

Aaron rises. He pulls her hands from her face. “What?”

“Pregnant,” is what she said, says. Aaron’s jaw really drops. He takes a step back but still holds her hands.

There’s a poke in my ribs, then a constant jab before I notice Jake. His face is near mine. It’s a bit disorienting at first but I focus on what he’s saying. “Let’s go” he urges. I don’t hesitate. We leave Aaron and Samantha. She’s slapping him away again and he’s stock still.

Jake stuffs his hands into his hoodie and I follow suit. We walk a foot apart. There’s the sound of our feet shuffling against the ground, dirt rolling under us. We go up. And up until the fog gets thick and the air gets colder prickling the exposed skin on my legs.

“I should’ve worn track pants,” I say.

“You should have but you like showing off your legs.”

I laugh. “No one’s looking at my legs.”

Jake doesn’t respond. He picks up speed and starts climbing the path. He almost slips on something and I’m there, just like on the field, right at his back ready to catch him if need be.

“Watch yourself,” I whisper. He nods but jerks away from me.

I’m about to ask him what the deal is when we hit a bridge. One of those lame swinging ones with wood and rope that doesn’t seem like it’ll hold a squirrel let alone a person. The other side is nonexistent. The fog this high up covers anything more than a few inches from your face.

“The bridge to nowhere,” I quip but Jake doesn’t laugh. He doesn’t look back at me or say anything.

He’s at the foot of the bridge his hands on either side of the rope railing. I rush to stand beside him. “What’s up with you today?”

The bridge sways under him when he steps on it. Jake takes another step sending the whole thing shaking like Samantha. My throat tightens up and I’m nervous about it holding his weight.

He moves forward practically forcing me to follow. “I swear you’re being such a douche nozzle right now.”

I catch up to him. My body swerves with the bridge no matter how slow I go. My palms dig into the rope and splinters catch into my skin. They sting but not enough for me to let go.

“Jake!” I yell until he’s almost engulfed in the fog. He stops. He turns around his body moving with the bridge. He looks at me. His eyes are as gray as the air surrounding us.

“What’s up?”

His eyes hold mine when he says, “We’re tight?”

I sputter. I glance over the side and see a bit of ground, way, way down. I swallow hard, feel the spit settle deep in my stomach.

He moves closer. “No matter what?”

“Yeah, we’re tight. You, me, Aaron.”

“I don’t mean Aaron. I mean me. When we go away… Room together, I don’t want things to get weird.”

“Weird? Why?” I falter a bit taking my right hand off the bridge but I hold up my fist waiting for him to pound it back and assure me he’s okay so we can get off of this shifting death trap.

He approaches. A rumble goes through my stomach as a gust of wind shifts the bridge. I grab at the rope but miss and am about to fall when I feel Jake’s arms clutching my body to his.

He whispers something in my ear. I don’t hear it all but I catch the key words. I hear things he may have wanted to say outloud for awhile. The glances and looks away make sense, so does his fear. I don’t respond. I let him hold me, not so much to keep me steady but to steady himself. 

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Story by: Jenn Baker

Photo by: Jim Crossley

Expiration Date

Expiration Date

Adena’s fingers slipped through the blinds widening the view she had of the boy.

Still there, with his arm out, staring down at the chains linking him to the fence.

She squinted her eyes. With the sunlight fading it was getting harder to tell how he looked today. But he certainly wasn’t going anywhere.

Celeste had been the one to spy him coming up the road. Carrying a satchel and nothing else but a sorrowful mug. In truth, Celeste hadn’t actually seen him. Her vision was of this boy and Adena knew it would only be a matter of time.

Two days passed and the skittering of pebbles on ground brought Celeste’s vision to fruition.

The boy was skinny, too skinny. It was one of the first tell-tale signs for some, and for others it was evidence of not knowing how to stay fed. He was easy prey for anyone coming around but Celeste and Adena couldn’t be too careful.

“How long are you going to look at him?” Celeste asked from the couch. A quilt covered her up to her neck and her face looked paler than usual. Where Adena had the colors of her ancestors Celeste had been all but washed out. Fighting for survival took every ounce out of her and even at the age of eighteen it’d caught up with her. Adena, just a few years younger, still had the tenacity to get things done around their space. To keep it tidy but not quite clean. Clean would be noticeable. Clean would attract attention. Anything gleaming or shiny or smelling of life would bring interested parties the girls had no interest in meeting.

“Just making sure,” Adena replied.

“Yeah, well, don’t make too sure.” The taunt and warning were an undercurrent in Celeste’s voice. Adena knew what she meant. Those before this boy. The one that had been unchained and was almost their undoing had Celeste not had an ax and a great arm. But that was then. That was when Celeste still had energy and vibrancy to wipe sweat from her brow instead of Adena bending over her frail and patchy body to wipe her head for her.

“We can’t afford for him to get loose,” Adena said and she heard a huff behind her in agreement.

The sun set. The moon no longer hidden. The darkness surrounding the boy shrouding him and the only inkling that he was still there was the clumping of grass under his feet as he paced and his occasional tugs at the chain forming a melody Celeste hummed to.

“How long do you think?” Adena asked but got silence as an answer. When she turned back Celeste was fast asleep. Her jaw opened, her snores low but consistent. Sighing Adena slid the blinds shut. She peeked outside one more time. The boy knew better than to scream or draw attention to himself.

Feeling the pockets of her sweater for goods Adena closed the door as quietly as she could and stepped out to see him.

She smelled him, felt his presence as she got nearer. He smelled ripe. Filthy. She’d watched him go to the bathroom in the field and turned to give him some semblance of privacy.

“What do you want?” he said. It was one of the few things he did say whenever she got close enough. He didn’t lunge at her like the girl before him and he didn’t try to spit at her like the boy before that. His voice was guttural when he repeated his question.

What do I want? For Celeste not to be sick. For things to be the way they were. For us not to have to be who we’re not just to stay alive. For you to be a boy who wants to be with me instead of being forced to.

She held out the bread she’d made that morning. He scraped it off her palm and chewed. Mumbling a thanks is what hit Adena. Him having manners wouldn’t make things any easier.

“What’s your plan?”

“Take it day by day,” she said.

“That’s all?”

“You got a better plan?”

“No." He got silent for a bit before adding, "I guess not.”

She wanted to touch him. To trace her fingers along his lips and see if they were as cracked as they seemed when she last got a good look at him before knocking him out or if they were as smooth as the last boy who had kissed her.

“Do you even know what’s going on?”

Unable to answer or unwilling she nodded.

“Was that a yes?”

“It was,” she said.

“You know I don’t want to hurt anyone. I’m just trying to get by now. With the way things are.”

She nodded again and after not hearing anything he got huffed up a bit more. “You just going to stand there and not say anything?”

“Sorry. I know you don’t want to hurt me or anything. But we can’t take any chances.”

“It’s been a few weeks.” He started coughing. She couldn’t see what came out of his mouth but a dark stain mussed his front teeth. “I’m not a threat. You keep feeding me. Giving me stuff to keep me warm. By now you should know I’m fine. Just let me go. I’ll leave and won’t turn back.”

“Wish that I could.”

The chain rattled again. “Why can’t you!”

“Because…” she took a step back.

More rattling. “Well? You don’t know do you!”

“Please calm down.”

“I won’t! You expect me to die without a fight and that’s not going to happen. Let me go!” Ching. Ching.

Celeste’s visions were accurate. He’d change. They all changed. She just had to wait it out rather than be a victim when they did. She walked away knowing the symptoms and the rate at which expiry would start. 

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Story By: Jenn Baker

Photo By: George Hodan