Editor’s Note
Dear Readers,
We are delighted to present this latest issue of Flash!: A Journal of Very Short Fiction. This issue includes stories from a few regular contributors, but we are happy to feature several stories from new authors as well.
The stories printed here are about big feelings. Some are earnest snapshots of young love like Matthew Bardowell’s “Details.” Other stories explore the darker side of romance, shading into horror. Big feelings can exalt us with joy, but they can also consume like the flames in Lashae Brown’s “The Tulip Story.” Love can disconcert us as often as it delights. It can subvert our expectations as does Helen Griffin’s “The Maiden in the Tower.” Big feelings can also turn on a dime, moving from despair to the smallest ember of hope, as we see in Megan McCrary’s “Divine Light.”
Consider another metaphor for big feelings. They can deluge us. Flood us with emotion. Waves of emotion surge as we contemplate outlandish and dire scenarios, and to this end Bobby Upchurch returns with more of his wry brand of sciencefiction. His tongue-in-cheek style is sure to delight readers in “Worst Possible Scenario,” a story about the stupidity of time travel. The theme of big feelings culminates in Mason Arledge’s story, “Tomorrow,” which reads like a love letter to life and living in the moment.
We invite you now to ride the wave of these big feelings with us. Let’s see where we wash up afterwards, shall we?
Matthew Bardowell & Mason Arledge
St. Louis, MO
March 2024
4
Details
It was a summer day, but that really doesn’t narrow things down in South Florida. It could have been any day, and this all happened a long time ago. They were on the grounds of a college campus. The sky was probably blue. The palm trees probably swayed in the breeze. There were probably lizards running around everywhere, and nobody batted an eye. Just another day in South Florida. And they could have been any college couple, but they weren’t. They were themselves. And they were in love.
They held hands as they walked, in no particular hurry. They were enjoying the day, and they were enjoying being with each other. They smiled. They looked at each other. They smiled some more. They were still a little shy.
They sat down at a blue mesh picnic table next to a sculpture some horror of modern art that college students liked to pretend was sophisticated. They sat across from each other the better to stare into each other’s eyes. They held hands across the table.
“It’s time for me to apply to med schools,” she said.
He said that was great.
She looked like there was more to say.
“When you apply to med schools, you have to apply to a lot of places. It’s very competitive. I need to make sure I’m giving myself the best chance to get in.”
“Yeah, I understand.”
He didn’t understand. For someone who tried so hard to look like he knew something, it was shocking how little he actually did. She had always been more sensible about her future than he was. He just thought things would work out because they always seemed to. Here’s an example. He liked to watch Law & Order from time to time, so he guessed he’d be a lawyer. He wasn’t sure exactly how you got into law school, but those were details he would worry about in the future. In the meantime, he thought he’d increase his chances for admission by purchasing a leather, zip-up portfolio that could hold a legal pad.
“There are lots of med schools in Florida,” he said, “UM, UF, USF, FSU. You’ll definitely get into one of those. You’re super smart.”
This was almost sweet, but mostly it was irritating.
“Maybe, but maybe not. Do you know how many people apply to these places? I may need to apply farther away. Maybe New York. Maybe Ohio. But it’s not just that. I need you to try to understand what it will be like. I’m serious about med school. I want to do it, and if we stay together things might be hard for you. I wanted to talk to you about it because, well, because it would be unfair of me not to make sure you knew. It’ll be a lot late nights, especially during residency. Long weeks.”
She tried to put it in as concrete terms as she could for him. “Sometimes I
5
won’t be home for dinner.”
“Yeah, I get it. It’s fine. I understand.”
She could have said anything. She could have said she wanted to be an astronaut and would need to spend ten months out of the year on the moon, and his response would have been the same.
But wait. She had said something just a little disconcerting. What was it…if we stay together? What did that mean? Now he began to understand what this conversation was really about. Many young people who had grown up in church, as they had, wanted to be with girls who planned to stay home and tend the house. Sometimes the preacher even preached about it, but more often it was just assumed. She was worried that this was what he wanted. Maybe he didn’t even know he wanted it, but it would surface in time. Maybe not for years, but eventually. She was warning him.
The words if we stay together had scared him a little, but breaking up seemed absurd. Especially over something as small as ten months on the moon. Why would they? They loved each other. They were happy together. So what’s with the if? But all this scared him only briefly. Here’s what it came down to. She was asking him to consider his future without her, and that was like considering a equation that just didn’t compute. What’s to consider? It’s just wrong. A waste of serious thought.
“OK, I just wanted to make sure we talked about it. I want to be fair to you,” she repeated.
“We’ll figure it out,” he said.
She smiled.
They knew so little, but as much as anyone ever does. They never knew how close they came to going their separate ways, but it wasn’t really very close. Maybe if they could see just a little farther down the road the moment would have felt more solemn. Some pain was already behind them, and they were old enough to know that more probably lay ahead of them. But that was academic, hypothetical. Possible, but not necessary. And who really knew anyway? Maybe they would be that great fable of young people since time immemorial. Maybe they would be different. And even if they couldn’t see the pain, they also couldn’t see the joy. They couldn’t have known about the little boy always too old for his age , the happy little girl, and the curlyheaded baby that waited in the future. And that was fine. Wonderful details to be worked out later.
They got up and cut across the grass to the sidewalk, chatting about her plans. They had faith. They had hope. And they had love. Maybe the preacher was on to something there. Maybe it was the echo of something eternal. Just then, the sun on their faces, it almost felt like it. So, in the end, they did the only thing people ever do when they glimpse love like that. Hand in hand, they walked toward it.
Matthew Bardowell
6
Worm Face
Tom leaned in to kiss Abby, and she noticed a white pimple on his cheek that hadn't been there a moment ago. She saw it protrude further as Tom's face neared hers, and she started to pull back. Something was alive beneath her boyfriend’s skin. Abby shrieked as a white worm broke free and shot toward her, and she instinctively pushed Tom away by pressing her fingers against his cheek. Tom's skin tore from itself like wet paper where she touched it, and a larger, pulsing, white parasite unfolded from where his jawbone should have been.
Abby retreated her hand and watched in horror. Her boyfriend's skin peeled and dropped to the ground along with countless parasites, untangling themselves in a frenzy without a skin casing to hold them in place. The creatures had filled his whole body, and some still synchronized themselves, maintaining a pearly-white, writhing, human shape. The worm colony lurched at Abby with what used to be Tom's arm, and, screaming, Abby came to her senses and ran for her life.
7
Lashae Brown
The Tulip Story
I put tulips under all the pillows, and then I set fire to the house. Not just any house. Leslie the ladybug-lover’s house. You know, the woman who lives down the street and has well, used to have all those repulsive, insect-covered tulips in her front yard? That Leslie. I’m not sorry. And if you think I should feel just a little bit sorry, you should have heard what she called me yesterday. I was trying to ask her to get rid of some of the tulips in that ladybug breeding ground she calls a front garden.
Of course, I had to yell so Leslie could hear me from inside her house. I was standing on the street outside to avoid the polka-dotted beasts that I thought might swarm me if I approached the front door. Leslie, the hag she is, responded to my civil bellows with defiance. So we shouted back and forth for a while until a car came around the bend and nearly hit me. I managed to stumble out of the way, right onto Leslie’s first row of tulips.
“Hah!” Leslie screeched, “Serves you right, you leech!” While I frantically waved and swatted those awful spotted beetles off of me.
Leech! She called me a leech! I was furious. I’d nearly died, which, I believe any thinking person such as yourself could agree, was Leslie’s fault. To make matters worse, the maniacal driver rolled down his window and called, “Sorry about your flowers there, Leslie.” I had a thing or two to say to him, which I won’t bore you with here. Once he’d had a significant piece of my mind, the driver looked over my shoulder at Leslie in bewilderment. And she had the audacity to tell him, “Some people just want to watch the world burn.”
“Ain’t that the truth,” said the driver, shaking his head and cruising away. I returned home with a heart for vengeance. After I’d looked up what a leech actually is the nerve of her, comparing me to blood-sucking vermin! I got up early this morning. I brought a shovel, a wheelbarrow, industrial-grade insecticide, and enough salt to scatter over Leslie’s yard twice over. Once I had completed the appropriate deeds, I wheeled her dug-up tulips around back. I raced the sun, which was soon to rise, bringing all the flowers with me through a window.
As I scurried through that ghastly, over-decorated house, I stuffed the muddy, dead-insect-ridden tulips in every unsuspecting cranny. I wondered what truth Leslie and that driver saw about the world burning and thought, if anything should burn, it’s polka-dot couches stacked armrest-to-armrest with ladybug pillows.
Now, before you go I’m sure you’re busy I must tell you this. I came to realize something, standing there, feasting my eyes upon those towering flames as they licked the light of dawn. It wasn’t so much that I had been blind to the truth; it was just that I had seen the truth differently.
Lashae Brown
8
Morning, Lark
Lark lay on her stomach in the dark haze of sleep with her arms nestled under her chest and her face on a soft, balled-up blanket. A voice bubbled across her dormant consciousness and roused her out of oblivion, but she didn’t comprehend what the voice said until it repeated itself.
“Lark” was the utterance. It came from a young guy with a particularly boyish tone.
“Lark?” Lark reiterated, loud and clear, not ready to form a sentence but wanting to know why her friend, Malachi, called to her.
Malachi laughed.
“Did you just say your own name? I’m guessing you’re awake.”
“Yeah,” answered Lark. Her confidence faded as reality set in. She hadn’t talked to Malachi in two years. Also strange, she was fully dressed, including her jacket and shoes. She opened her eyes to find herself on an unfamiliar couch facing large windows with drawn blinds, and through the glass was a fog-filled yard that didn’t offer any answers. Lark sat up to look at Malachi, who stood between her and a dining room. He was taller and had more defined features than Lark remembered.
Malachi asked, “Do you want breakfast or anything?”
Lark studied his dark, thick curls, his thin almond eyes, and his blemished, sable-brown skin. Without a doubt, he was Malachi that freshman that she sometimes chatted with when she was a senior in high school. But this older teen’s smile looked relaxed, no longer wearing anxiety as it had two years ago, despite his expression bearing exhaustion. He did not seem to think that anything was off about this situation. Lark slowly shook her head to decline Malachi’s offer.
She couldn’t recall the events that led to her waking up on this couch in this house, other than a vague scene of losing her friends and running away from some kind of dragon. No, that was a dream, and, with the present situation being equally absurd, Lark considered that she was still asleep and dreaming again. She rose from the couch and surveyed her surroundings with sore limbs and a weighted feeling.
The couch was in a long, thin front room. The dining area behind Malachi led to a kitchen around the corner, and the opposite end of the front room led to a hallway. The house overall sported typical modern colors and smelled of the outdoors, as if people frequently came and left. Voices murmured somewhere past the kitchen. Malachi’s face gradually grew serious as Lark’s eyes wandered.
“Are you okay?” He finally broke the silence between them.
“Nothing,” said Lark. Then she dismissed her odd answer and added, “I mean, yes. Nothing’s wrong.”
9
Everything tangible seemed too vivid to be a dream, but her head remained involuntarily empty.
“Okay.” Malachi prolonged the “O” in his answer to express doubt, but he didn’t press Lark any further. He turned around, leaned past the corner wall that led to the kitchen, and announced, “She’s up. You guys can come use the dining table.”
Four people trickled into the dining area from a room beyond the kitchen. They talked and joked past their tiredness, and they spread out a large, hand-drawn map on the table. Malachi invited Lark to come see it, but a quick hug from behind startled Lark before she could respond.
“We’re so glad you’re awake, honey! Tell me, are you feeling better?” A thin woman with gray hair spoke sweetly. She had come through the hallway behind Lark and was on her way to the dining room. Lark uttered with a false smile that she was fine, and the older woman ushered her to join the others at the table. The group’s generational incongruence, their tattered clothing, a few half-concealed weapons, and odd jewels and trinkets scattered around the makeshift map gave Lark great reason to believe that her imagination crafted this entire situation.
Hard-to-follow talk laced with fantastical names and magical terminology helped Lark understand that they must be playing some sort of tabletop role-playing game. She had participated in such games for a short while in a club in high school. High school and high fantasy must have been her sleeping brain’s muses tonight, what with Malachi making an appearance, the earlier dragon debacle, and now this gaming hodgepodge.
However, the group’s wary glances at Lark made her uncomfortable. She felt for her keys, which, by a fortunate coincidence, were safely lodged in her back pocket. She bid Malachi and the five others goodbye. They seemed confused by her leaving but didn’t stop her.
A wave of morning cold stabbed through Lark’s sleeves and bit her ankles as she stepped onto the plain concrete porch. She peered with uncertainty into a cloudy grey blob that should have been a suburban neighborhood. The diluted scent of burnt barbecue floated by, but it could not overpower the silent stillness gripping Lark’s senses. She found her white car parked at a sharp angle in the middle of the yard, and it had awful scrapes across its body. Just before Lark opened the door to get in, she thought she heard a faraway scream, but the sound vanished before it had a fair chance to rise above the houses.
10
Lashae Brown
The Maiden in the Tower
Trails of redblood bloodred. Splatter. Yes ma'am, splatter-splat on the stone. Rapunzel, Rapunzel, climb down your long hair. Downdowndown. I land lightly on the soft grass. I feel shock; evilbad Mother sits still still still. No move, no sir, no move to stop me.
The words turn aroundandaround in my head. I know what I will say. Sir Alaric, please help me! I am wounded! Giggle. But don’t say giggle. No ma’am. Please save me Alaric, for you are a noble knight! Yes ma’am, yes sir, that’s what I will tell Alaric. Yes yes yes.
I make a little fire. A hotbright little fire. So little. So hotbright. Smoke attracts knights like honey attracts ants. Come here, my little antknight. I sit downdown in the clearing for a time, letting the wind pick uppity-up my long hair. Hair hair hair. More hair. Golden hairs whisk back and forth. The little tendrils get stuck in my mouth. Paa-tthhoo. I try to spit it out. Hair, hair, hair. Neverending hair. Huff. I pull sticks and leaves from the strands, arranging them around me in a delicate spiral. I cross my legs like a ladymiss and put my hands to sleep in my lap. Why yes, Alaric, I always sit like this.
Hoofbeat, hoofbeat, hoofy-hoofy hoofbeat. Hoofbeat, hoofbeat, HORSE! I caught a little antknight. I give my cheeks a pinch. Pinch for pink. Pink cheeks. Ready now.
“Hello? Is anyone there? Please help me!”
“Aye, miss!” Alaric is graceful. Alaric is strong. Alaric is graceful strong! And handsome. Gracefulstronghandsome. Yum.
“I’m hurt, Sir Knight! Please help me!” I reign in my voice so it sounds meek.
“Of course, my lady. What is the matter?” Alaric dismounts with a jangle. Jangle-jangle. Alaric has no more horse. Don’t need horsey.
“I-I think I broke my ankle! Oh, what will my mother say? I-I-I won’t be able to work for months!”
“Peace, m’lady! Please don’t cry! I’m sure your mother will not be cross.”
“Thank you, sir. Will you help me to stand?” Yes, he will. Yes yes yes. He is a knight. A gracefulstronghandsome knight. Yes yes yes he will help. Why make words when I know his future words? Oh, well. Words.
“Of course, miss! Here, lean on me. Where do you live, miss? I can escort you home.”
Yes yes yes. Come to my tower. My tower is not far. Not far, but wayupthere. “Oh, only a little ways north. Ow! Oh, Father God, I will be out of work for so long. What am I going to do?” I make baby screams and cry up some tears. Screamscream. Crycry. Do not giggle, Rapunzel. DO NOT GIGGLE.
11
“North? That’s very far from the village. And…” Alaric’s eyes do a darty-dart to the side, “that’s close to where Gothel the Hag lives.”
My bloodpump skips a beat. Does he know? “Gothel the Hag? You haven’t apprehended her yet?”
“No, miss. But, truly,” Alaric makes his voice quiet like a river, “I’m not sure I believe the rumors. A hag? It sounds like a fairy tale to me.”
Behind my smile, my eyes go darkdarkdark. I shudder, trying to forget the feel of Mother’s cold fingers on my skin…
“Rapunzel, please! Please!” Mother screeched, clawing at the hem of my skirt. Her whitewhitecloud eyes gazed up at me pleadingly as I gently detangled her grasping claw-like nails. I made my grip strong, yes very very strong, when she struggled against me.
“Calm yourself, Mother,” I masked my roiling disgust with a sugarsweet smile. “I’ll be back in a few hours.”
“NO! You’ll leave m-m-me forever!” Mother blubbered, thick snot running down her chin. “You’ll l-l-leave and never come back!
I slapped her across the face. The impact echoed around the circleroom. Smack, smack, smack, mack, mack, ack, ack, ack, ck, ck, ck, k… She whimpered and froze in the act of fondling my hem, and I continued my routine with deliberate movements, detaching myself from the badbad leech and leaving her in a bundle on the chill stone.
“HAG!” I called over my shoulder and went downdowndown.
“Miss? Did I frighten you?” Antknight speaks.
I snap back to the present. Walk walk walk. Yes, come. Come to my tower.
“Please, miss, do not fear Gothel.” He gives his long sword a patpat.
Hag hag hag. Mother has nasty black hair. Not blond like me. I am no hag. Blond blond golden blond. Mother is a hag.
“Oh, I don’t fear Gothel.” I pause. “You are very brave. Yes yes yes. So brave. You are a gracefulstronghandsome knight.”
Alaric stops deaddead in his tracks and turns to look down at me.
I look back. “MY gracefulstronghandsome knight. Yum. Mine.”
GIGGLE!
Trails of redblood bloodred. Splatter. Yes ma'am, splatter-splat on the grass. Rapunzel, Rapunzel, climb up your long hair. Upupup. I land lightly on the tower’s floor. I feel shock; evilbad Mother sits still still still. No move, no sir, no move to stop me.
12
Helen Griffin
The Monorail
“Peter?” Marie rubbed the sleep from her eyes.
“Mphm?”
“It’s cold,” Marie said, snuggling under his wooly sleeve.
“Don’t worry, Ree. We’ll be across soon.”
Peter sucked in his breath, shifting his weight to lean on the handrail. Marie pulled Peter down to her level to whisper in his ear, “What if they ask who we are?”
“Easy. We’ll show ‘em these,” Peter said, a sly grin pulling at the corner of his mouth. He reached in the pocket of his long coat and produced two thin leather books.
“George and Anika Harborogh,” Marie nodded, her small mouth set in a serious line. “Is that us now, Peter?”
“The name’s George. Who’s Peter? Ree, is that your boyfriend?” Marie squirmed out of the way as Peter reached down to tickle her.
“Stop it P !” Marie’s chest convulsed with a cough.
Peter furrowed his brow. “Ree?”
Moments passed.
“I’m fine.”
In response, Peter sighed and dropped his knapsack on the seat next to her. Marie retrieved her doll from it and straightened its scraggly yarn hair. For a time, Peter and Marie talked of small things, listening to the sleepy whirr-whirr-whirr of the crowded monorail.
“It’s really cold,” Marie said, pouting her lip.
“Here.” Peter pulled off his coat and spread it over her. The coat swallowed Marie, covering her entire body.
Silence.
Whirr-whirr-whirr.
“Peter?” Marie tugged his arm.
“It’s George. Go to sleep.”
“Do you think I have a baby brother or a baby sister?”
Peter’s grumble softened, “I’m not sure you have either. Yet. Your momma was only seven months when she ”
13
Quick as a viper, Marie covered his mouth. “Don’t say it.”
Peter nodded.
“She’s not gone.”
“She’s not gone,” Peter said, nodding in agreement. “Come here, Ree.”
“My name’s Anika. Who’s Ree?”
“Oof!” Peter exhaled as the little girl clambered onto his lap. “Getting a little heavy, are we?”
“I’m going to ignore that. Hmm, I want to braid your hair.”
“R Anika, quit. Ow, don’t pull!” Peter batted her away.
Marie whined, lengthening out her vowels. “What? It’s mes ”
SCREEEECH. Marie and Peter lurched to the right, bumping the shoulder of a disgruntled passenger.
“Shhhh, it's okay.” The woman massaged her temple, bouncing the bundle on her knee. She shot Peter a glance.
Peter ducked his head and lowered his voice, “Give me your hand. We can scoot over this way.”
“Mm-hmm.”
“Oh, God! Marie, your skin’s so hot. Lemme feel your forehead.”
“I tried to tell you! I feel all hot and cold at the same time.” A thoughtful pause. “Mostly cold.”
Marie watched as Peter shot up as if struck by lightning. His head whipped back and forth, scanning the dazed confusion on the other passengers' faces.
“Oh, God,” Peter said.
“Peter?” Marie said, panic creeping into her voice.
“Hold my hand. Don’t let go.”
“Wait! What’s wrong?”
“Keep up!” Peter tugged her slender arm.
Marie’s shoes snapped every time they broke away from the sticky plastic floor. “Peter, stop!” Marie squealed as her foot caught on a raised lip. Marie felt the bright, searing pain of skin rubbed raw. Palms and knees throbbing, Marie made herself small, curling into a ball.
“I miss Momma.” She tasted salty tears.
“I’m sorry, Ree. Please get up.”
“Do you mind getting your child off the floor?” The woman with the bun-
14
dle had eyes like stone. Peter kept his back to her.
“I wanna go home.”
“Please, Ree. We’ll see them again. I promise.”
“Excuse me? Young man? Did you hear her?” A formally-dressed man waved his briefcase in exasperation. This time, Peter turned around, glaring.
He turned back. “Marie, please.” Peter’s dark-circled eyes were mournful and pleading.
“Where are we going?” she said after a long pause.
“Are you deaf?”
Peter whirled on his heel.
“Shut up!”
At his outburst, the placid, if annoyed, monorail stirred like a kicked anthill.
“Is she sick? I’m getting the operator.”
“Sick?”
“Does she have a rash?”
“A rash?”
Cold fear lodged in Marie’s belly. “Okay, Peter. I’ll get up if you tell me what’s going on. Ple ”
“Who has a rash?”
“Is it purple?”
“Mother, does the girl have the plague?”
“The plague?!”
“No, no, not now!”
The stir quickly erupted into chaos.
“Everybody sit!” A man, hair still sleep-rumpled, shouted over the cacophony.
Maybe it was the confident tilt of his chin, or the wild energy caged behind his eyes, or the note of danger that implied an “or else,” but something about the man made everyone obey.
“I don’t have time for this.”
The formally dressed man lowered himself warily into a seat. Even Peter and Marie, mid-crisis, stopped to pay attention.
“I’m a doctor. I can help.”
15
He crept a little bit closer.
“A doctor?” a female voice, shrill with panic, said, “That’s convenient.”
“I’ve got a badge if you must see it.”
His green eyes were cold as he donned sterile gloves. “But if you’re quite through, we have potential plague victims with us on this monorail.”
“Yes, well. C-Continue.”
“What are you going to do?” Marie asked.
“Nothing much. It won’t hurt. You can close your eyes if you’d like.”
“Hey, now,” Peter interrupted.
The green-eyed man spared him a glance out of the corner of his wirerimmed glasses.
“It’s okay, P George.”
The green-eyed man kept up a constant stream of conversation, narrating his various pokes and pods.
“Mm, yes, well,” the man said, calmly slipping his hand into the inner pocket of his coat. He addressed Peter with no inflection in his tone, “She has to die.”
Marie’s heart thudded to a halt. What?
Peter made a guttural noise.
“Yes, yes, protocols and such.”
He removed a slender knife from his coat.
“Peter?”
“No, stop! She’s not sick!”
“Peter?!”
“Run, Ree!”
“Let go! Stop!”
“MARIE, NO! You son of a oof!”
“I’ll dispose of you too if you ahh!”
Marie heard grunts of struggle and pain.
“Pet…er…”
Helen Griffin
16
Worst Possible Scenario
Time travel. . . is stupid. I know what you’re thinking. I’ve read the books. I’ve watched the movies. I’ve seen the shows. I may or may not have even owned some time travel themed apparel. Yet, no matter how incredible it has been made to appear in association with fast talking, snazzy dressing, world altering personalities it’s all a lie. In reality, it’s the worst possible scenario in a list of life crushing scenarios I’ve been compiling. . .since I became a time traveler.
Let me clarify. I know nothing about how this works. I could try to impress you and throw around futuristic sounding jargon because believe me, by now, I’ve heard plenty but it would be as meaningless to me as it would be to you. I don’t have a cool machine, or a wristwatch, or a portal-creating remote control. No, I just have, well, terrible friends. At least, I did. Or, I will. It’s hard to keep track.
Without innate athletic or creative abilities in high school, social circles are fairly limited. If you’re naïve enough to actually apply yourself academically, you’ve basically been locked into one. I was a nerd.
Little known fact: nerds have a hierarchy. You would think finding yourself with a group of people all at the bottom of the same unclimbable ladder would form some sort of unbreakable bond. It doesn’t. Instead, it results in the “reverse golden rule effect”: a deep desire to do unto others as has been done unto you. Thus, the hierarchy.
At the top are the moderately less unattractive ones gifted with superior science or mathematic understanding that predicts lucrative career opportunities. Next are the wealthy gamers whose actual skills promise nothing in terms of future success but whose houses provide access to the latest in techno-entertainment. The middle slopes from these peaks including those who are simply less intelligent or have less stuff. At the bottom? Me. The 5’ 5” introverted reader with a baby face, basic cable, and no particular science or math related ambitions.
Being on the receiving end of the reverse golden rule effect wasn’t too bad in high school. Mostly incapable of reproducing the more physical attacks we all suffered, the hierarchy subjected me to subtler forms of ridicule: snide height comments, classic sleep-over pranks, cheesy academic puns. Nothing serious.
By our early twenties, my friends had become scientists, or engineers, or stay-at -home-man-children who lived with their overly generous parents. . .and still had the best stuff. I worked at a comic book shop and took community college classes at night.
We were all still friends, and I was still. . . whatever I had always been. However, their tactics became more extreme. To demonstrate a recent breakthrough in hairgrowth technology, a friend rubbed a non-FDA-sanctioned cream on my prepubescent face. I still can’t grow a beard, but my permanent facial discoloration almost looks like
17
five o’clock shadow. A heat-generating body spray was field tested on my underwear drawer; welding-tape was used on my car doors; and after an especially long night out, I woke up in 1959.
I remember feeling the prick on my neck and overhearing, “What if it actually works?” Then, I collapsed. I was still conscious, but it felt as if every cell in my body was bouncing around in the world’s most painful game of pong. I wasn’t sure if heart failure or human combustion would end me first. Then, it just stopped. When I sat up, my friends were gone. So was my world.
Now, I’m no history buff, and I didn’t catch on immediately, but the signs were pretty clear… literally. Across the road in black block letters on a white backdrop surrounded by multicolored incandescents, the movie theater advertised: CHARLTON HESTON IN “BEN-HUR.” Sinatra looked over his shoulder from a billboard to the right, and to the left was an ad for “the ‘59 Fords.”
It was night that first time, so no one really took any notice of my sudden arrival. I was ready to write it off as a vivid dream that likely resulted from too much television and take-out, but it happened again. And when I stopped feeling like I was going to explode, I was in a new time. It was my first encounter with the future. No flying cars or alien beings. Not much excitement. Just people staring into space. I’m not sure how long I actually spent in 1959. Probably no more than 10 minutes. The timing is so inconsistent. But, I know I was in this future for a week. A week, and no one looked away from their personal pockets of air to notice me.
And that’s the pattern. I bounce from time to time without warning or rationale. It’s always the same street, but I never know when it will be or how long I’ll stay. I spent two weeks alone in a pre-colonized America, and two minutes in a time that was marketing height-enhancers. I have been held captive by a carnie who thought my arrival a clever allusion that would catapult his success and hunted down by a wellmeaning mob that interpreted the same event as a powerful work of witchcraft. I’ve been prodded by instruments both coated in rust and glittering with lights. I’ve been cuddled by bears and questioned by Pilgrims. I’ve been laughed at, knocked down, ran from, danced around… I guess pretty much any verb-preposition combination you can conjure. All in vain.
I try to tell my story, but no one ever believes me. Or maybe they do when I start convulsing in front of them and vanish. Of course, then it’s too late to do me any good.
I scrounge for food when I can, but I don’t ever feel too hungry. That might be the one plus side to this whole catastrophe. I don’t think I’m dying any faster. . . at least, not naturally. Then again, this tribe of cannibals doesn’t seem real supportive of that cause at the moment. Like I said, time travel. . . is stupid.
18
List Of Life-Crushing Scenarios
1. Time travel
2. Having intelligent but terrible friends
3. Living with cannibals
END
Bobby Upchurch
19
Desert Poppy
A bead of sweat trickled down my forehead. The desert sun was unforgiving and pierced through the sky with vengeance. I reveled in the heat, unbothered by the oversized t-shirt that hugged my clammy skin. My shoes were missing. The cobblestone scorched the soles of my feet, but it did not quicken my movements. The pain kept me grounded reminded me that I was real.
I absentmindedly walked through the rundown desert town while humming a soft melody. The girl I was looking for should be around here somewhere. I did not have to familiarize myself with the tenants in this small town. Everyone knew each other.
“Alice, have you seen Poppy this afternoon?” I chirped, shielding my eyes from the sun. Alice, with her hair in her mouth, avoided eye contact. She briefly acknowledged my question with a fervent head shake before scurrying down the cobblestone path.
With a sigh, I pivoted towards the café to my right, peering in the window. The sun glared off the glass, making it difficult to investigate inside. I could faintly see Jeremy sitting at the small, quaint table near the front of the store. My burning feet inched towards the glass, and I raised my knuckle, tapping against the window to gain his attention.
“Have you seen Poppy?” I yelled, despite the barrier between us. Jeremy scowled. His drink spilled across the table as he rushed to his feet, and the chair he occupied knocked to the floor. He stormed off.
Shrugging, I meandered through the town in the blistering heat. Someone had to know where Poppy was. My eyes scanned the street, connecting with Miss Jennings. Her head rested atop her knees as she leaned against a tree, enjoying the shade. She was always in a social mood.
“Good afternoon, Miss Jennings!” My steps slowed as I neared the tree, its shade cascading over my body. “You look lovely today. Have you seen Poppy by chance?”
“Poppy?” she questioned, her head snapping up to meet mine. There were two red indents on her forehead from her bony knees. “I must have seen her somewhere. She was in that little, black box…on the wall!”
“No. She’s not in that little, black box, Miss Jennings,” I mumbled, ending the conversation and turning my back to her.
Squinting, I glanced to my left, where an unfamiliar head caught my attention. A new tenant was in town. He blankly stared at one of the buildings, his body inches away from its wooden walls. The wall was blank, leaving him with little to study. He would not aid in my search.
20
My feet sauntered toward the bench I usually occupied in the afternoon. I plopped down, defeated, and allowed myself to stare off into the distance, the outside world fading away. Hours passed or so it felt as I sat there and zoned out, disconnecting from reality. The only thing that brought me back to earth was the perfectly manicured hand that frantically waved in front of my face. I shook away the daze and peeked at the woman in front of me.
“Where did you go this time, Rebecca?” the woman asked, a gentle smile grazing her lips. My eyes traveled to the badge on her chest.
Kate, Registered Nurse.
“I was in the desert. A town. You haven’t seen Poppy, have you?” My voice was quiet and detached.
“No, I am sorry. But I have someone here to see you,” she said, taking the slippers in her hands and sliding them onto my feet. “You shouldn’t come into the courtyard without shoes in the middle of summer, Rebecca. I do not want you to burn your feet.”
It was too late for that. The soles of my feet pulsed with pain, and I knew I would go to bed this evening and discover fresh blisters. A pair of hushed voices caught my attention, and I watched as Jeremy furiously spoke with a man in a white coat.
“Every day she asks me where Poppy is! I am sick of it. She made me spill my…” Jeremy was frantically speaking, his hands moving wildly with his words.
I stopped listening. Nurse Kate wandered over to the bitter exchange, ushering Jeremy back inside the cafeteria while mumbling something about controlling his anger.
The man in the white coat strode over to me, exuding confidence. The smell of his cologne penetrated my nostrils, and I grimaced as he sat beside me on the bench.
“Rebecca, my name is Dr. Larson,” he said, his perfect, white smile on display. There was a file folder in his hands. “Do you have time to chat? I'm here to talk about you. How are you doing?”
He briefly opened the file folder, looking at the contents inside. My name occupied the pages listing my medical history and a record of current medications. Behind the documents, in bold font, the top of a newspaper clipping stuck out which read: MISSING CHILD, AGE EIGHT.
Suddenly, I felt nauseous. The desert town surrounded me again, and I wanted to take shelter in the café. Maybe I could grab some crackers and ease the queasiness in my stomach. Poppy would love some crackers, too. I needed to find her.
I wiggled the slippers off my feet and stood up, making contact with the blazing concrete. The pain was welcoming. A male voice sounded beside me and I
21
jumped, my hand holding my heart. I squinted at the man in the white coat. He looked capable and helpful. He would know where my daughter went.
“Oh, hello! Have you seen Poppy? I need to find Poppy.”
Megan McCrary
22
Divine Light
The door smacked against its frame with a thud, echoing across her empty bedroom. She needed to distance herself from her foster parents and the look of disdain that permanently marked their faces. Their disappointment was unmistakable, which made it difficult to feel at ease beneath their critical gaze and clipped voices in this foreign home.
Yesterday, after receiving the state's monthly allowance, they tolerated her bothersome presence. Today they went back to treating her as if she were a gumridden shoe unpleasant and distasteful.
A twin-size bed was nestled in the corner of the room, adjacent to a wooden dresser that had worn with age. It was missing two drawers, and she had to force open its remaining parts. The wood was chipped and scratched and smelled of mildew a piece of furniture better left in the dump. It saddened her to believe she could relate to inanimate objects. Apart from a few scattered books, a cracked CD case she had stepped on earlier that morning, and a peach-scented candle, the room was empty. She assumed her foster parents would scorn the choice of smell, but she struck a match and lit the candle wick.
The sun settled behind the clouds, and the only light that filtered across her barren, white walls was the yellow-orange glow of her candle. The pungent smell of peaches wafted through the air, and she reminisced about Miss Birdy's peach cobbler. Birdy had been her previous foster parent for two years. She was a kind woman with a gentle heart who was diagnosed with cancer at year one. Though she fought hard, she lost that battle.
Leaning across her dresser, she rested her head in her hands while a draft crept its way along her skin and summoned goosebumps in its wake. She felt the candle’s warmth graze the tip of her nose. The flame danced and swayed; its reflection mirrored across weary eyes.
Life was no friend to her. Friends did not treat each other with such malice. For two years, even with Birdy's diagnosis, she treaded above water. It took a grueling amount of effort, but Birdy helped her acquire the technique it took to remain afloat. Nowadays, it took every ounce of strength she possessed not to drown. At times although she could barely admit it to herself she wondered what it would be like to stop treading, stop fighting, stop breathing. The weight she did not ask to carry would pull her into the depths of oblivion.
At this moment, transfixed on the flame that beckoned her attention, she felt calm. Her head was often home to unwelcoming feelings, and this new presence of stillness empowered her. She plucked each negative, displeasing thought from the
23
house it occupied in her brain and slammed the door shut. The anxious thoughts and perpetual fears that once dwelled inside her mind had been evicted.
Her mind would delight in welcoming pure bliss and contentment, leaving no room for doubt or worry or those crippling thoughts that whispered she was not enough. If she remained captivated by the light, treading above water could become second nature. Maybe life could finally be her friend. She would be steadfast, and in return the weight she bore would dissipate, and happiness would gracefully bloom in its place. She longed for the aroma of Birdy's peach cobbler that sweet scent with a hint of spice that reminded her of untroubled times.
The wood floor creaked beneath someone's weight, and a shadow lurked in her doorway. Within seconds, fear consumed her. She hastily pursed her lips and blew out the flame. Darkness engulfed the room.
Tendrils of smoke reached into the air while its heinous hands trailed into her nose and down her throat. She coughed and sputtered as those greedy fingers infiltrated her lungs. The darkness never traveled alone. It harbored the weight she didn't desire and those anxious thoughts and fears crashed against her shoulders, knocking her to the floor. Pain seared across her knees and ricocheted through her heart where she was reminded that she wasn’t enough.
The darkness mocked at how pitiful she had become, and remnants of the candle’s smoke whispered around her, taunting her.
Useless.
Broken.
Alone.
Stop treading. Stop fighting. Stop breathing.
She cupped her ears, hoping to block out the lies that encompassed her. A soft sob escaped her lips, and hot tears descended her cheeks. The absence of light was damaging.
That stale, ashy scent began to disperse, and the faint smell of peaches lingered about her room. It smelled of hope. Her heart yearned for this feeling, and for a few breaths, she savored this moment of hopeful realization. She was determined to quench those plaguing fears, upset she had succumbed to them so easily. Her hands scrambled to find the matches, and in desperate search of that little box, she knocked one of her books off the dresser.
With the matches secured, she ignited the flame once more. The corner of her room showcased that yellow-orange hue, and those weary eyes traveled to the fallen book. The fine, thin pages were sprawled open, summoning her to peek at the highlighted words on the page.
24
"You, Lord, keep my lamp burning; my God turns my darkness into light."
Beside the highlighted verse, in Birdy's scrawny font, it read: you are not alone.
Her hands hungrily grasped the candle, and without hesitation, she set the wick ablaze. She closed her eyes and breathed, embracing the thought of knowing she would never be alone. The lungs inside her delicate chest expanded, and as she inhaled, peace invaded the home inside her mind. This was not a feeling she would evict. Even though unwelcoming feelings loomed outside the threshold, she knew she did not stand alone inside this residence. The darkness wanted to continue its trickery behind her closed eyes, but the warmth of the flame remained. She did not have to see those wild, dancing flames to feel its presence.
Megan McCrary
25
The Artisan’s Doll
“Break already! Just break.”
How many needles did I have to stab in the doll before it fell apart? Before it went limp? Why wouldn’t it fracture? Why wouldn’t it disintegrate into nothingness? The arms dangled by single threads. A thin piece of fabric attached the neck to the shoulder. One eye dangled loosely, staring sideways. Worst of all, I’d burrowed a hole in the chest of the figurine, searching for the heart. I figured if I punctured it, everything would end. I’d toiled for hours, but finally, I opted for a break. I expected a doll of all things to splinter with ease, but not this one. Something beyond the natural order held it together, and even my precise hands struggled to dismantle it.
Throwing it on the desk, I moved to the couch and leaned back. My eyes drifted upward toward the ceiling. An odd, asymmetrical pattern of bumps rolled across the surface. For a second, I admired them. Anything to take me away from the doll. I could still feel it glaring at me. Then, I closed my eyes and started counting from a thousand by sevens to keep my mind from wandering elsewhere.
“993…986…979…”
Eventually, I fell asleep, and when I awoke, I determined to finish the doll once and for all. Yet, I found the figure sitting up, perfectly healed. No, not perfectly. The scars from the damage I caused still lined the seams and stretched the fabric the button still had its chip but the limbs had reattached to the torso, and the hole in the heart had closed.
The artisan did it again.
“Why?” I said aloud, scanning for him. “Just let it shatter.”
I placed my hands on both sides of the tall desk and dropped my head. I could feel the water start to simmer in the corner of my eyes, burning.
“Just let it shatter.”
The artisan always did this. He couldn’t let the doll disappear. Whenever he saw it broken, he had to sew its tattered pieces back together. I thought he had a disease, a need to heal the torn.
Placing the doll down, I walked around the house but couldn’t find him. He must’ve returned and left in an instant. How long had I been asleep? Time seemed irrelevant to me. I’d removed the clocks months ago.
Sitting back down at the desk, I scooped the doll in my hands. It extended past the reach of my fingers and stretched wide enough to cover both palms. Cream fabric tougher than dense metal formed the body. Black stitching wove in between the seams, and red threads healed the former wounds. Its face flaunted half a smile and half a frown. The doll felt habitual as if I’d carried it with me my whole life, but the
26
closeness extended beyond how it weighed in my hand. It looked familiar, almost as if I recognized the face.
After setting it on the desk, I unfolded my tools and returned to the task. I picked up the knife, lowered it to make an incision, and then stopped. After all these trials, I still hadn’t destroyed it. Scissors couldn’t snip off the limbs. A knife could, but only a special knife with meticulous movement. It’d taken me a month to make even a hole. The artisan had healed it the next day. And the process repeated over again. Once, I even tossed the doll in the fireplace, but he’d extinguished the flames. Could another round of blades really do anything? I figured I would try, and for another two hours, I worked until the knife bent and dulled and then cracked at the spine. It wouldn’t work. I’d made a few marks, but he had sewed it stronger this time. My head turned, and, gazing out through the window, I noticed the waves.
Leaving, I went for a walk down the shoreline. Perhaps I could toss the doll in the water and let it sink to the bottom of the ocean. Yes, that might work. In my hands, it always felt heavy enough to be its own anchor. The water would carry it to the depths, where it would drown in the darkness, never to return. My feet tracked in the sand until I identified a deep enough spot that maintained a strong riptide. I headed back to the house for the doll, prepared to enact my final plan. When I returned, however, I entered to find the artisan sitting at the desk, once again sewing the doll back together, and I felt the strings of my heart tighten, pulling at my ribcage as my voice splintered.
“Why?” I said. “Why do you always insist on fixing that thing? It’s broken, useless, worn, nothing…Why can’t you just let it shatter?”
I walked beside him and touched his wrist, lifting his hand. Scars dotted his fingers from where the needles had pricked him. Time and time again, resurrecting the doll caused him harm and pain. He needed to go. He needed to leave it behind.
My fingers ran along his palms, feeling the scars, sensing their depths, and recoiling at their cause. If I could just leave the doll alone, if I didn’t insist on tearing it apart, then maybe he would be okay. It was my fault. The artisan had made a beautiful doll, and even I could see the potential it had, but no matter what I did, it always broke. I always tore it apart.
“Why don’t you leave?” I said, staring at the floor.
He looked at me, tears slipping down his face. I could sense him standing beside me. He turned me toward him and reached for my cheeks, his hands warm against my cold flesh.
His eyes dripped and their iridescent light gazed deep into my soul as he spoke. “Because you are my child,” he said, “and I love you.”
Mason Arledge
27
Tomorrow
“What are you doing?”
I glanced at my older sister and then back at the paper covered in blue crayon. “I’m making plans for when I see Tomorrow,” I said.
“When are you going to see her?”
“Tomorrow.”
“You’re going to see Tomorrow tomorrow?”
Nodding, I held my paper to show off the crooked bullet points listing our activities. She tilted her head sideways. “Looks fun.”
I smiled. Fun undersold the thrilling day I had devised. First, I’d wake up and eat breakfast. Since it was Saturday, we wouldn’t have school, so Tomorrow and I would ride our bikes to the beach where we’d hold a sand castle competition, roll up our jeans, and then sprint knee-deep into the waves. Once the sun started burning our skin, we’d return home and head inside for a fresh glass of lemonade, lunch, and, if we were lucky, ice cream. The rest of the day would follow suit, full of vibrancy, bliss, and brilliance. I couldn’t dream of a more perfect day.
“Have fun,” my sister said after I explained the impressive agenda. She shrugged her bookbag over her shoulder and walked up the steps, stopping before the door. “Oh, and won’t you finally introduce us? I’ve been wanting to meet Tomorrow.”
“Of course.” ***
My feet dangled off the retaining wall, swaying as if pushed by a breeze. I glanced down at my watch. Fifteen minutes past. Tomorrow was late. No matter. She usually was. I’m sure something had stalled her. I thought about riding my bike to her place but didn’t want to miss her in the crossing. Plus, now that I thought about it, she’d never told me where she lived.
After about an hour, my sister strolled outside. “You’re still waiting?” she asked.
I shook my head without looking up.
“I don’t think she’s coming, kid.”
“She’ll come.”
“If you say so,” she tossed her bag over her shoulder and left in the car.
Tomorrow would come. I knew it. She had to. Tomorrow was my best friend. The thought of her made life thrilling. After a few more minutes, I rolled my bike
28
outside, determined to find her. I left a note saying I’d reappear shortly on my door and then pedaled to our usual spot but saw no sign of her. Depleted, I meandered home. I performed a couple of the planned activities alone, and when my sister returned at twilight, she found me sitting on the retaining wall.
“Tomorrow never came?”
I shook my head, sniffling the sorrow. “It’s okay though. We’re going to hang out tomorrow.”
My sister didn’t say anything but nodded as she went inside. The next day, I resumed my perch on the wall, waiting, hoping, and pleading, but Tomorrow never came. Once more, my sister stepped outside to find me dejected. During the next week, Tomorrow skipped out on school, and when the weekend came, I waited as I had the last, drunk on the hope she’d come.
Another week had passed and still no sign of Tomorrow. Dejection, apathy, and paralysis filled my spirit. Tomorrow had promised me so much and delivered so little. Yesterday, Tomorrow left a message suggesting we spend time together. I knew it was folly, yet the hope she would come forced me to resume my post on the wall. Yet, as the sun sauntered across the sky, my smile faded with it.
“Hey kid,” my sister said as she walked down the steps and perched herself on the wall beside me. “Here.” She handed me a mochi cake. I took it and the rice paste started melting into a sticky substance against the heat of my hands. As I bit into it, the sweetness awakened me from my daze.
“Why do you wait out here for her every day?” my sister asked, tasting her own treat. Then, she glanced at me. “Do you love her?”
To distract myself, I took another bite, but it didn’t work. Tomorrow manifested the totality of my dreams. We hardly cried, often laughed, and always enjoyed the thought of each other. Tomorrow was almost perfect.
Without saying a word, I nodded before stifling a sniffle and wiping my eyes with my shirt collar.
“I understand,” my sister said. ***
I didn’t even bother sitting on the retaining wall. What was the point? Hoping she’d come ultimately resulted in an unstable paralysis born of false hope and hollow determination. Instead, I stayed in bed until my sister knocked on my door.
“Hey kid, get up.”
“Why?”
“Let’s do something.”
29
***
“No.”
“It’ll be the best day ever.”
With enough prodding, I woke, dressed, and ate, still rubbing my eyes through it all. She grabbed my hand and guided me down the steps, and we turned left on the sidewalk.
“Where are we going?”
“There’s someone I want you to meet.”
“Why?”
I didn’t want to meet anyone. We walked for about a block before turning toward the door of a house, not unlike our own.
“Whose house is this?” I asked. It looked familiar, although I couldn’t pinpoint whether I’d seen it before.
My sister rang the doorbell, and a little boy about my age answered. A bright smile crossed his face.
“Kid, I’d like you to meet Today.”
He looked a little shabby in a stained Batman t-shirt, glasses two sizes too big, and messy hair sprawling across his forehead. He blinked twice at me, his eyes unwavering, and I realized I’d seen him before, passing in the halls of the school or strolling on the sidewalk near the park. Tomorrow was prettier and dressed better that’s for certain but this kid oozed a presence that intrigued me.
“Hey,” I said. I took two steps forward and stuck out my hand. Today glanced at it, the smile still glued to his face, and he shoved his oversized glasses up the bridge of his nose. Then, he took my hand.
“I think we’re going to be great friends.”
Mason Arledge
30
Contributors
Mason Arledge earned his B.S. in English with a writing concentration and a writing certificate from Missouri Baptist University, where he graduated with highest honors. Along the way, he won awards for his work in academia, creative writing, and editing. He has published blogs, articles, spoken word, poetry, and short stories. He is currently seeking publication for his first novel. Mason is a fitness enthusiast who enjoys adventures, plays piano and guitar, and moonlights as an amateur videographer. He loves dogs, is allergic to cats, likes blackberries, despises banana-flavored candy, survived a long hair phase, and listens to ‘80s music.
Matthew Bardowell is Associate Professor of English at Missouri Baptist University, where he teaches British Literature and serves as faculty sponsor for the Creative Writing Club. In addition to his work in Flash!, Matthew’s short fiction also appears in Cantos: A Literary and Arts Journal.
Lashae Brown is a student at Missouri Baptist University with a major in Early and Elementary Education. Although she never did care for English class itself, she has had a passion for creative writing all her life. She focuses on finding a balance between using fiction as a means of escaping the world, versus as a tool for comprehending, expressing, or even redefining it.
Helen Griffin is an aspiring author and soon-to-be college student. She adores fantasy and science fiction (whether it be darkly mysterious or heroically swashbuckling) and attempts to weave elements of her favorite magical worlds into her works. When she's not furiously writing in her bedroom, she enjoys cooking, crocheting, and playing Dungeons and Dragons.
Megan McCrary graduated from MBU in 2020 with my BSN. While at MBU, Megan was a hurdler/triple jumper on the Track and Field team for four years. Megan continues her passion for running in her free time while coaching for the Blue Knights Track and Field team. Currently, Megan works as a NICU nurse at Mercy Hospital but has always found interest in reading and writing. Megan aspires to write her own book one day.
Bobby Upchurch is a husband, father, high school English teacher, and pastor now living in Southeast Missouri. His parents are international missionaries, so an impactful portion of his life was spent in Eastern Europe. Today, his time is consumed by family, church, and... student essays.
31
