Flash! Issue 8

Flash!

A Journal of Very Short Fiction Editors: Mollie Monje, Mercedes Parker, and Matthew Bardowell Cover Art:

Alexa Wideman Flash! is a collection of short stories published by the Department of English at Missouri Baptist University, One College Park Dr., St. Louis, MO 63141.

Submissions: To submit a flash fiction piece, please attach it as either a Word file (.doc or .docx) or a PDF to matthew.bardowell@mobap.edu. Submitted stories must be 50-1000 words in length; however, exceptions can be made at the editors’ discretion. We consider up to three stories from each author.

Please include the following information when submitting a flash fiction piece: author name, school or affiliation, story title, number of works submitted (up to three stories are allowed), word count for each story, and a short biographical statement (50100 words). Multiple stories can be submitted in a single document. Interested students, faculty, and friends of the Department may submit previously unpublished manuscripts to matthew.bardowell@mobap.edu for consideration.

Flash! is published once annually, exclusively online. Our submission deadline is September 1st, and our target publication date is October 1st.

Missouri Baptist University reserves the right to publish accepted submissions in Flash!; upon publication, copyrights revert to the authors. By submitting, authors certify that the work is their own. All submissions are subject to editing for clarity, grammar usage, and Christian propriety. The views expressed in this publication do not necessarily reflect the views of Missouri Baptist University.

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Contents Editors’ Note Mollie Monje & Mercedes Parker

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1. In Another Country John Zheng

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2. Goat John Zheng

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3. The Imposter Lily Karase

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4. The Secret Prince Jackie Stewart

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5. Finding the Perfectly Misplaced Dylan White

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6. The Journey Ashley Hill

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7. Sun, Moon, Mars Elsa Linson

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8. Totality Matthew Bardowell

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9. You Shouldn’t Be Here Alyssa Gray

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10. As Surely as the Sky is Blue Jacob Meyer

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Contributors

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Editors’ Note Dear Readers, We are so excited to present this year’s edition of Flash!: A Journal of Very Short Fiction to you! Here we have entries from fantastic writers coming out of all sides of the spectrum, featuring students, staff, and professors. Not all stories contained in this edition are from our MBU family, and we are delighted to print them here.

This year’s issue contains stories about the familiar in the unfamiliar. There are elements of mystery, fantasy, and even scenes from everyday life: just maybe not yours. Some stories take us out of this world and into the future, like Elsa Linson’s “Sun, Moon, Mars,” while others transport us to the afterlife, as in Ashley Hill’s “The Journey.” Others invite us into the homes and lives of everyday people as they adjust to different ways of life, like “In Another Country” and “The Imposter.”

No matter their setting, these stories allow us to peer into different worlds to examine ourselves and learn things about others. Our lives may seem normal, but to what extent do we take them for granted? How strange would our everyday cultural practices seem to an outsider? By finding things that seem familiar to us in things that may be unfamiliar, we learn that another person’s culture or principles may not be so strange after all.

Now, we welcome you to experience these new worlds and invite you to find the familiar within them. We hope you enjoy them as much as we do!

Mollie Monje, & Mercedes Parker St. Louis, MO December 2024

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In Another Country A newcomer to the new world, Langlang’s mama starts to learn English at thirty-five. One morning after preparing breakfast, she hollers in English, “Son, brakefast ready.” No answer. The boy, who played games online last night, is still in bed. She brushes to his bedroom and whispers into his ear, “Brakefast ready.”

“Brake fast? What’s that?” Langlang mumbles.

“Break first!” her tone is emphatic and pitchy.

“What first?”

“Ea’ first!”

Then she pinches his mouth gently, smirking, “Don’ wha’ wha’ like a Chihuahua. Jum’ out bed and ea’ hot-sour noodles.” After his mother walks back to the kitchen, Langlang rubs his eyes, grunting, “Hot-sour noodles? Never heard of it. I’ll eat cereal.”

He crawls out of bed and moves sleepily to the kitchen, like a clumsy turtle on sand. As soon as he sits at the table, Langlang breaks wind, as loud as the sudden popping of a running lawn mower. His mama frowns, “Mind your manners. Don’ far’ when you ea your breakfart!”

John Zheng

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Goat Wishing to offer more classes to help boost enrollment at the off-campus site, Dr. Kim, the department head of Education, called Dr. Arrogante, who was retired in Arkansas and then hired as the site director in this rural Mississippi college. Her secretary answered the phone, saying Arrogante wasn’t in yet. When Kim asked when she would be in, a gentle whisper—“Tell him I’ll call him later”— tickled his ear. The secretary sounded like a Dictaphone. There was no callback.

The next morning Kim called again. This time no answer. He wondered, rocking in his squeaking chair. When enrollment plunged again at the off-campus site, the director waddled to Academic Affairs, whining she never received support from Education. hurricane gone the weathervane arrow points downward John Zheng

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The Imposter Two weeks ago, I, Aubrey Delanae, signed the papers to withdraw from my dream university. While it all happened only two weeks ago, I had the feeling that no matter how much time would pass, I would always remember every minuscule detail. The memory of it had tainted my mind like the ink from my signature on the withdrawal papers. As soon as I had finished forming the last loop of the “e” in my name, the realization hit me that I would no longer be a student at Yale. At that moment, I knew I should have felt a magnitude of relief, but the only feeling that had risen to the surface was an all-consuming ache in my chest. The mundane act of signing my name signified that I was a failure. After the ink on that “e” had dried, I stared off into the spaces between the words on the page and realized that I was lost. Not the kind of “lost” that happens when you miss a turn while driving, but the kind of “lost” that only happens when a loved one dies. The Aubrey that I had carefully constructed for the past twenty years of my life was dead. I molded myself into the perfect student: straight A’s, countless hours of research, and—most importantly—pretending like it all came naturally to me. The sole thing my identity had rested on was swept away like a flood, leaving only devastation behind.

Now, two weeks later, I thought back to what had led up to that moment.

I knew it was the right choice—the only choice, in fact. No matter how I had tried to convince myself otherwise, I knew way back during freshman year, too. The second my boot made contact with the pavement of my new dorm’s parking lot, dread washed through me; I had just been too weak to admit it to myself then.

For three tragic years, I blinded myself from that reality. Every fiber in my body had been screaming at me to give up the act I so skillfully played because it was just that: an act. A lie. There’s only so much pretending an imposter can do before they’re caught in the clutches of truth and unmasked for the atrocity that they truly are.

And so, two weeks after my unmasking, I now sit in my chair, waiting for a job interview that can only attempt to amalgamate the shattered pieces of myself back together into some version of their former self. I’m fine. Everything’s fine, Aubrey, I repeated to myself. Maybe the more I chant the mantra in my mind, the more it will ring true. But deep down, I know that I need a degree more than I need the air in my lungs.

Lily Karase

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The Secret Prince All the villagers of Hod, a Viking village, were sleeping in their warm beds, all except one. The village was silent and all the roads were clear, but at the very edge of the village was one building that was loud. It was a small blacksmith shop. The furnace was blazing, and there was a man working hard on a broad sword. It was a magnificent sword that was about five feet long. The blacksmith working on the sword tirelessly was a small man for a Viking. Gorm was his name.

Gorm worked all through the night and into the morning. At about dawn he had finished the sword. At about the same time, his first customer walked into the shop.

“Morning Gorm, I heard you were working all night,” the customer said.

“Morning, Arvid. Who told you I was working last night?”

“Oh, no one told me. I heard you hammering away at your project. All the way on the west side of town! You know that your hammering is too loud. I can assure you that everyone heard you.”

“Oh, I do apologize, Arvid. I didn’t mean to be loud. I was only working on my new broad sword,” Gorm said.

“That’s your problem Gorm. You don’t think. And I pray for your sake that that sword was worth it. I didn’t think that any of your weapons were worth it,” Arvid complained. “This is starting to get ridiculous.”

“I am sorry. Please forgive me.”

“I’ll forgive you when you give up on your business,” he snarled. He turned on his heel and stomped out of the shop. Gorm turned back to his work and sighed. He picked up his hammer and threw it as hard as he could across the room.

“Whoa, what has that hammer done to you?” someone asked.

“Rune, I don’t have time for you right now. I am clearly busy,” growled Gorm.

“See, I would have to disagree. You are busy throwing a temper tantrum. I just came by to see if you had finished my jeweled knife,” Rune stated. “You said I could pick it up today.”

“Yes, your knife is finished. I have it right over here.” Gorm scampered across the room. He picked up a sheathed knife with red and white crystals twisted in opposite directions.

“This is beautiful Gorm. It’s magnificent. I’d say your finest yet,” Rune gasped.

“I thought so as well until Brandt commented about how ugly, worthless, and poorly made it was.”

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“Well, it doesn’t matter what they think because I think that it is an amazing piece of work,” Rune announced.

“Thank you, but Arvid came in right before you and said that I should stop.

Maybe he is right. You are my only customer. Everyone here won’t buy any of my work. It’s poorly made. You are the only one who likes what I make.”

“Gorm, I think that they are wrong about you and that the work that you do is great, and it is worth buying.” Rune placed his hand on Gorm’s shoulder. “You are worth it to me.”

“Thank you, Rune.”

“Alright, now that we have that settled, when will I need to come back for my broad sword?”

“In a couple days. I was working on it last night. Would you like to see it?”

“Oh, I would love to, but I want to see it in its finished form. Don’t want to ruin the surprise.”

“Alright then. I’ll see you in a couple days.”

Rune looked back at his new knife. “It truly is beautiful.” Rune walked out admiring his knife. As Gorm watched him walk out he felt a feeling of esteem and encouragement. Rune had never failed to make Gorm feel better about his work.

Gorm also realized that every time that he felt discouraged, Rune seems to come into the shop and encourage him. He also realized that he had no idea where Rune is from. He just knows that he shows up at his shop. That night Gorm decided to find out.

Two days later, after Rune picked up his broadsword Gorm decided to follow him. Gorm walked out of his shop and looked among the crowd to see if he could find Rune. Gorm started to follow Rune about thirty feet behind. He followed him throughout the village, to multiple shops. He followed him all day and wherever he went, he was encouraging and making everyone happy. As Gorm followed Rune, he realized that he was getting closer to the King’s palace. He thought to himself that there was no way that Rune worked for the King. Rune was about to enter the King’s land when Gorm yelled out.

“Rune. Wait.” Rune turned around and smiled at Gorm.

“Hey, what are you up to? Did I forget something?” He asked.

“No, I just wanted to know what you were doing with the King.”

“Oh, he is my father. I’m Prince Rune. Did I never tell you?” He laughed.

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“What? No, you never told me,” Gorm said in disbelief. “If you are the King’s son. Why do you come to my blacksmith shop, and not one of the more talented or experienced ones? Why come to me?”

“Because they are selfish and hateful. Why would I want to support that when I have a humble blacksmith who loves to do what he does.”

“But people say that it’s horrible work,” Gorm protested.

“That doesn’t matter to me. It’s your heart and how hard you work and how you use your heart when you create anything. Everything you make is beautiful. And that is what I want.” Rune said and started to walk toward Gorm, who was crying because he had never heard anyone say such things to him.

“Gorm, don’t listen to what people say to you. They just want to tear you down. Listen to me and trust me. Listen, I’ve talked to my father about your skill, and he’s decided to hire you as our blacksmith. If you’ll accept.”

“I’d love to. I’d be honored.” Gorm wept.

“Then let me take you to the palace. That way you can have a new start.”

“I want to stay and work at my own shop,” Gorm said.

“Perfect! We will supply you with what you need.”

“This is amazing. I’d never dreamt of something like this happening.”

Together they turned and walked into the palace. The feeling of joy overcome Gorm, and he felt a feeling of peace to be there in the king’s palace. He had never felt accepted until now, and it was the best feeling in the entire world.

Jackie Stewart

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Finding the Perfectly Misplaced The man looked around in confusion. He hardly remembered how he got to the middle of the bustling square, but he also couldn’t determine why he should feel out of place. Cars zipped by at a perilous speed and distance, or lack thereof, from him. Taking another step back, he felt a great shadow pass over, and turning his head to his right, a large truck continued down the street in the lane he was currently standing. He snapped a glance in the other direction to see yet another car barreling toward him. As he quickly made his way to the sidewalk, the car met his left leg and passed through it. He gasped in surprise, as he was fully prepared for excruciating agony and a forcible collision; instead, he felt absolutely nothing. Less than nothing, actually, almost as if he were unable to feel. Another car made its way down the boulevard, and this time he stood in the middle of the lane watching the car come toward him. The sun glared on the windshield of the vehicle, but he could barely make out the faces of the driver as he intently stared. The truck came closer, closer, closer, until the shadow appeared again with something akin to a brisk autumn breeze passing through the man’s body. After a moment, the truck was pumping a plume of exhaust as it made its way to 5th and Market Streets.

“What is happening?” he thought in bewilderment. Had he gone mad? Was he dead? Was the drink he prepared by the fireplace too stout?

He felt a hand on his right shoulder and turned to face a man whom he had not noticed on the sidewalk moments before, for given the stranger’s stature, he surely would have. The man had no distinguishing features about his face that made him especially noticeable apart from his eyes, but they alone were unmistakable and piercing. They were deep, and old, like they had seen generations upon generations rise and fall, mountains recede and oceans rise, bloodshed and prosperity, war and peace.

Yet, they were encapsulated in the body of a young man no older than thirty. Nothing had been said between the two until the stranger finally spoke in a voice not dissimilar to his own.

“Thomas,” he said, “come.”

Somehow this man knew his name, and Thomas wracked his brain to determine how they were acquainted. He stared hard into the stranger’s face, trying to discern where they had met before. At the office? The coffee shop where he took his lunches? Perhaps he was a pickpocket and had finished glancing at his wallet? The stranger now held out his hand, palm up.

“Come,” he repeated.

Thomas, with an apprehensive glance, placed his hand in the stranger’s. The world around him changed, and looking down, the bustling square fell away. It felt as though he had not moved a single inch, but suddenly he was thousands of feet in the

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air, nearly touching the low-lying clouds above. Thomas couldn’t bear to hold back the question gnawing at his mind any longer.

“Am I dead?” he blurted.

He was met with silence. His eyes never left the stranger, who was looking out across the earth they were hovering above. Some birds made their passage several yards away from them, cawing in tandem. He tried again.

“Who…who are you?”

Again, silence. The sun continued beating down on them, and Thomas looked down again. He tried to move his feet, but they were locked in place, as if entombed in cement. Finally, the stranger answered.

“I am whom you need me to be.”

This was unhelpful. “What do you mean?” he asked. “How am I up here?

Why did the cars pass through my body? Why did no one on the sidewalk seem to notice me?”

The stranger silently spun around in the air and looked Thomas in the eyes, unnerving him. Before, he could see the age of the stranger’s eyes, but now he also saw a profound sadness.

“Look toward the west, Thomas,” he said. “Look upon the waters. Whose are they?”

Thomas saw the crystalline ocean near the horizon, dancing with the reflection of the sun. He thought for a moment before answering.

“It’s no one’s.” he said. “The oceans are for all to have. No single person owns them. Everyone may use them as they please and how they please.”

He looked toward the stranger, whose face betrayed no thoughts. “No, Thomas. Let me ask: this air you breathe, whose is it?”

Thomas paused for a moment, looking at the stranger even more intently. He had no answer in his mind that contradicted what he told the stranger before.

“It’s for all. I’m not sure what you’re asking, truthfully.”

The stranger replied, “You are correct that its purpose is for all. But who owns it? The oceans may be for all, as well, but the people surely do not own them. These things may be used by the beings they are intended for, but to whom does the air and the water call ‘Master?’ Who owns the stones of this Earth, Thomas?”

Thomas was silent. “I….I don’t know,” he finally muttered.

“I don’t believe this is accurate, Thomas,” the stranger said. “Are you not an image-bearer? Are you not of the likeness of He ?”

At the stranger’s words, Thomas looked up in confusion from the ground.

Image-bearer? The image of whom?

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As if he was aware of Thomas’ thoughts but determined not to plainly give an answer, the stranger said, “He who sent me to you, dear Thomas, is whose image you possess. Let’s again consider the waters. Were they truly found, as if something that was lost? In finding them, did the men who first cast sight on them claim them as their own? Perhaps in their own minds, but the rite of ownership did not transfer to them. No, the waters were not lost, and they were not theirs. Lands undiscovered in the far reaches of the globe are no more lost than the lands you know beneath your feet currently. They are merely, shall I say, perfectly misplaced. Misplaced for that specific time and occasion when they shall be used for their purpose and fulfill their design. The one whose image you bear has no more lost you than he has these waters, these stones. Do you understand, Thomas?”

Thomas was more bewildered than ever. “No,” he said simply. “I’m afraid I don’t.”

“Look upon the moon, Thomas,” the stranger said. “See how it begins to take form in the growing dusk?”

Thomas looked at the small crescent in the sky appearing in the east. His eyes were almost immediately drawn to a glimmering star of light red beside the moon, one that he had never noticed before, as he had spent many nights in the burgeoning summer admiring the lunar specter.

“That star you see beside the moon, Thomas,” the stranger said, “is one that will remind you of this encounter. Look out your window and see this star to be reminded of whom you shall eventually see. By dawn, the star will be gone, never to be seen as the earth endures. But for you, this star shall gleam to the glory of He.” Thomas now saw a glint of joy in the stranger’s eyes.

“Oh, how glorious is He, Thomas!” he exclaimed. “I do hope you come to see.

He has placed the star in the sky specifically for you, His creation. Will you remember Him? Will you call upon Him? My dear Thomas, it is He who owns the waters, He who controls the earth, and He who guides the air. They are His, and you are His. No more than He has forgotten about the men and creatures buried beneath the footprint of the earth has He forgotten about you, His child. You are not lost, you are not inconsequential, you are not misplaced. As He hears your cries for help, so also he hears the roar of the oceans and the pleadings of the rocks. The same air He guides into your lungs is the same air He commands with indelible control.”

Thomas felt a sting of guilt in his mind. Whomever this stranger was, he was addressing the state of Thomas’ mind before he sat in the chair by his fireplace and presumably fell asleep. The angst, the self-loathing and the tumult of internal scarring was raging in him before he came to this place. The loneliness of destruction reigned in his life, and he felt this stranger was offering a resolution of a kind. But what? Who was this person he spoke of? Surely, he wasn’t referring to some sort of god, was he?

He needed something more definitive, more concrete.

“Who is He?” Thomas asked.

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“He Is,” was the only reply.

At once, Thomas woke with a start in front of his fireplace, the glass in his hand falling to the floor and rolling across the wood. Taking in his surroundings, he looked toward the window and got up from his chair, knocking the revolver off his lap onto the floor beside the glass. Unlatching the window, the breeze forced itself into the room, rustling the papers behind him. Looking to east, the light of the red star reflected in his eyes.

Dylan White

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The Journey He didn’t remember getting dressed that morning. In fact, he couldn’t remember leaving his bed at all. He wondered why he no longer felt the pain that normally overcame his stiff, aged body as he walked down his hallway to begin his morning routine. That’s when he realized this wasn’t his hallway at all. The floor beneath his bare feet looked like black tile, but it was not cold to the touch as tile should be. His feet were not his, at least not from his recent memory. He lifted his hands and gasped, the sound echoing far into the distance. There were no wrinkles showing on his thin, brittle skin, and the bruising from his fall the night before had completely vanished. His nails were not broken, and the bulging bubbles of arthritis that normally surrounded his knuckles could not be seen. The wedding ring had worn every day for the last sixty years was no longer suctioned tightly to his ring finger. He looked around and thought to himself, “Where am I?” He desperately tried to find a distinguishing landmark to provide any clues as to where he was, but this attempt was in vain. There was nothing to see. He was surrounded by black walls on three sides, walls that reached farther above him than his eyes could see. The hallway in front of him was long and dark. He took one step towards the darkness and noticed the walls seemed to be moving; for these were not walls at all but a thick, smoky substance that was only slightly transparent. He took another step forward, and a small hole began to open in the smoke to his left.

The hole became wider with each step he took toward it, until he was looking at a black-and-white scene unfolding in front of him like an old film. He saw a young man stumbling away from a bonfire while his friends looked at him in alarm. A young woman and another young man quickly ran to him and attempted to grab the keys from his hands. The woman shouted, “You can’t drive right now!” The young man tackled the stumbling one and attempted to restrain him, fighting for the keys.

The scene before him disappeared as the hole closed and the screams faded into soft echoes. He shut his eyes and breathed in deeply, for he knew what happened next. The guilt was as strong now as it was then, and he began to lose himself in his thoughts of dread and regret. Suddenly, another hole opened several feet down the hallway, and he quickly ran to it. The scene was not familiar, but how could it be? He didn’t remember anything from that night anyway. The picture in front him was the same as the ones the policeman put on the table in the interrogation room the day that followed. The car had been demolished in the collision, and he remembered pleading through uncontrollable sobs, “I’m sorry! I don’t know what else to say.

Please, I’ll do anything to fix this!”

“You no longer have that option, Benjamin. The damage is done,” the policeman said as he began to walk away. “She was pregnant, you know?”

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This picture, too, closed and vanished into the wall of smoke and echoed screams. As he began to walk further down the hallway, the black smoke changed to a deep, red-tinted liquid covering every surface. His feet sloshed in a red substance on the ground with each step. He expected he knew what this red substance was, but he did not dare examine it further. Benjamin thought to himself, “If it is, I don’t want to know.”

Suddenly, the sloshing stopped. The red liquid transformed into solid, white glass. The sound of wet feet filled the hallway as he walked clumsily down narrow passage. The walls and the floor glimmered from the light protruding from behind the glass. There were no pictures in this hallway, only voices that whispered throughout.

“I’m so tired of running,” the first voice cried weakly.

“Freedom awaits you. You must only accept it,” encouraged the second voice, in a strong and demanding tone. Benjamin continued to walk on until he reached the end of the corridor where two wooden doors appeared before him. The door to the left had faded and chipped over time. The knob looked to be broken, and the hinges were rusted. The frame was crooked, and there were holes in it as if someone had attempted to punch through it. In contrast, the door on the right was a brilliant white.

There were no flaws in its paint, and a faint, white light appeared to seep through the crack at the bottom. There was no sign this door had ever been used before.

As Benjamin reached for the door to the right, the door to the left began to rattle in its frame. He could feel the desperation seeping through the cracks in the door. Benjamin sensed the door did not like to be ignored, but he reached for the door on the right all the same. As soon as he opened the door, he was overcome by a blinding white light, the other door forgotten. He attempted to shield his eyes and squint to see his way forward, but he was unsuccessful. Benjamin took a step through the door frame and was immediately met with relief from the light.

The scene before him was green and full of life. He could feel fresh blades of grass between his toes and the warmth of sunlight. The green trees and bushes all around carried the most magnificent fruits; however, Benjamin found himself at a loss and could not recall their proper names. He continued to walk forward and saw children playing in fields of flowers while a beautifully clear stream flowed through the garden to his right. He spun around several times to take the entire scene in, for it seemed to go on for ages. Benjamin continued to walk, knowing neither how long nor how far. His feet did not feel sore, and his body felt alive for the first time in decades.

He was perfectly warm and content.

Suddenly, a shining gold stone on the ground ahead caught his eye. He approached it quickly, and the sunlight bounced off yet another stone. More stones appeared with greater intensity and frequency until they created a definitive path. Benjamin followed this shining path and leaped joyously. His happiness increased as he began to hear singing and instruments playing. The sounds became louder, and the joy Benjamin felt was overwhelming.

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Finally, the path came to an end in the center of what appeared to be a town.

Instead of cabins or small homes, the streets were lined with mansions made of gold, jewels, and marble. The center of the town was filled with what Benjamin could only assume were townspeople as they gathered together and sang in unison. They all looked completely healthy and full of joy; and they, too, were without flaw. They sang and played their instruments with perfect pitch and tune. Benjamin was deeply moved by the scene in front of him and was compelled to join. He made a step forward and then stopped, for he was not sure it would be appropriate to intrude.

As if she read his mind, a young woman stepped out from the crowd of people. She was no longer singing and began to walk towards him. Her brunette hair flowed in the soft wind, framing her face as elegantly. Her bright, blue eyes shone in the sunlight, and her smile was infectious. Benjamin recognized her, but from where, he did not know. As she came closer to him, a little girl ran from the crowd to join the woman. This girl had the same striking blue eyes and beautiful dark hair. Her smile was just as infectious as the woman’s as they extended their hands to Benjamin.

It was at this moment that Benjamin fell to his knees and all air seemed to leave his lungs. It was them. He was at a loss for words, but there were so many things he wished to say. He wanted to apologize and explain how much he had changed after that night long ago. Benjamin opened his mouth to speak but was quickly interrupted.

“There is no need for that,” said the woman. Her voice was calming and melodic. Her hand was still stretched out to him, and her smile never wavered.

“We’ve been waiting a long time for you, mister,” said the girl with a playful grin. She lifted herself onto her tiptoes and indicated for Benjamin to grab her hand once more. With eyes full of tears, Benjamin placed a hand in each of theirs and walked with them. The woman led him towards the crowd of people in the center of the town, and they both began singing once more. Benjamin listened to their song and felt the burden of their deaths lift off his shoulders. He then opened his mouth and joined their song effortlessly. Benjamin’s memories began to fade away, and he no longer felt pain. For the first time, Benjamin felt joy in its truest and purest form.

Ashley Hill

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Sun, Moon, Mars Deimos had nearly blocked out the sun as Cari stepped onto the observation deck. The ordinarily bright white of the floor and handrails were dimmed to a muted gray by the lack of light, though the artificial environment resisted any drop in temperature. Looking out beyond the thick habiglass that encased the city, the entire landscape of Mars had been washed in a purple hue, the lengthening shadows transforming the terrain that had been her home for the past two years. Behind her, the city stretched in a glimmering expanse of smooth plasteel and shiny chrome, the twelve spires that housed each ministry reaching up as if to touch the disappearing sun.

“Attention, citizens of Ares City. The eclipse will reach totality in approximately five minutes. Make your way to the viewing platforms now if you want to witness this historic cosmic event, and please remember to set your hologlasses to ‘UV Screening Filter’ in order to avoid dangerous radiation exposure that could cause permanent damage to vision.”

The announcement—transmitted to each citizen through their holochip implant—ended, and Cari did as the colony’s AI had said. Pulling up the display menu on her hologlasses with a brief glance upward and a silent mental command, she quickly scrolled through the visual modes to select this new setting. The first total solar eclipse humans would ever see from Mars had created a massive stir throughout the settlements on Mars, leading to everything from new hologlasses modes to a commemorative dessert wittily nicknamed the “sun and moon pie” in the dining hall.

As her vision darkened as the filter took effect, she was immediately reminded of the photo in her back pocket—a photo she had looked at so many times she could picture it perfectly, even with her hologlasses turning the world around her to black. It was one of those old-timey paper photographs—the faded date scrawled on the back read “April 8, 2024”, several decades before holo technology rendered printed materials obsolete– and in it three girls stood with their arms around each other, smiling and wearing these ridiculous paper glasses. The girl in the center could have been Cari’s sister, if the photo hadn’t been taken nearly a century before.

Her great-aunt had told her about that day when she herself had witnessed a solar eclipse more times than she could count. When Cari was little and all she wanted to do was read board books about the stars and the solar system, Auntie El used to set her on her lap and tell her just how it looked to see the sun block out the moon while the streetlights went on in the middle of the day, while letting Cari wear the paper eclipse glasses she had once worn. It was those times, those stories, that had given her the drive to go out there, to step beyond Earth and among the stars. That photograph was the reason she was here– one of the first human colonists on Mars. And now, at about the same age her great-aunt had been in 2024, she would witness her own solar eclipse, only this one would be seen from about 200 million miles away from Earth.

“Attention, citizens of Ares City. The eclipse is now reaching totality.”

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At this second announcement, Cari looked up, catching the exact moment Deimos slid to cover the sun completely, a halo of brilliant light appearing around a pure black disc. Three celestial bodies were in perfect alignment, their separate rotations coinciding to produce a few minutes of magic. She couldn’t help making a comparison to her own life, where the careful alignment of three generations brought her here to this exact moment. It was the kind of romantic thinking her great-aunt loved, which was fitting.

As soon as she witnessed that event, that moment where the heavens came together, she understood the sense of utter wonder Auntie El had been telling her about for years. Suddenly, everything just clicked into place, past and present aligning, producing epiphany. Funny how it takes an obstruction to finally see something clearly.

Elsa Linson

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Totality When Professor Thomas L. Vincent went to the quad on the day of the eclipse, he didn’t bring any eclipse glasses. Instead, he brought a notebook, a fountain pen, and, of course, he brought his keen skills of observation. He hoped to see some interesting behaviors he could analyze in the context of the astronomical event that was taking place that day—the rarest of events: a total solar eclipse. He thought a psychology journal might be interested, possibly very interested, in a paper examining the strange phenomena that people sometimes reported during eclipses. His paper would be the perfect marriage of current events with all the latest thoughts on the human psyche. It was publish or perish, he knew, and what journal could resist the allure of a paper like that?

He stood in the middle of the quad, four sidewalks leading to the center point—a planter that looked quite fresh on this early April day. What better vantage point to behold the bold, fresh specimens of humanity that swarmed all around him?

Anyone could do this, he mused, but so many people saw without really observing.

He was Holmes. They were all Watsons.

He observed, for example, behind him and to the left three young men standing on a bench swing, apparently trying to get it to swing over the bar. This could be eclipse related but was more likely something akin to a male dominance ritual, perhaps a mating ritual? He took out his notebook and made a little note. To his right a chant began to rise up over the general murmur of the crowd. He couldn't make out the words, but he knew this was classic mob mentality, benign, probably, but not unremarkable. Another note. A few paces from where he was, he saw two girls with arms locked looking at the sun through their eclipse glasses. He saw them tremble and recognized the experience of being awe-struck at one's own smallness amid the inexorable movements of a vast cosmos. Note, note, note. He waited and made notes as the moment of totality approached. He didn’t know exactly what time that would be, but he judged from the oohs and aahs of the crowd that it was nearly here.

Looking back in front of him he observed a middle-aged man, notably without eclipse glasses, writing in a notebook with a fountain pen. This was odd behavior. He studied him with more interest. The man was wearing a shirt almost identical to the one he himself was wearing—no, not almost identical. Identical. As in exactly the same. The same baggy slacks and scuffed shoes. Professor Vincent now trained his focus on this man in a way he reserved for only the most interesting of specimens.

The man looked down to make another note, and Professor Vincent caught a glimpse of his own profile on the man's face. His own face. How could he be seeing his own face? He forgot to make a note.

He had heard of this before. The textbooks called it autoscopic phenomena, but most people called it an “out of body experience.” He tried to remember what the

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most recent articles said it meant when you saw your doppelgänger, but he couldn't recall. He was sure it wasn’t good.

It was now very dark, and, just then, the man began to turn around. Professor Vincent desperately did not want him to do this, but it was clear that he would. He told himself that when the man (when he?) turned around that he should not look at his face. He didn’t know why, but he knew he didn’t want to see it. The man moved slowly around. He turned until, standing just a few steps away, he faced Professor Vincent and stood motionless. Professor Vincent told himself not to look.

As he stared into the man’s eyes (his eyes?), his first thought was: “I didn’t wear the glasses.” He knew then that he could write a paper that would alter the field of psychology forever, and he also knew that he would never write it. What he saw in those eyes he would never tell another living soul. He saw what he did not want to see and what he couldn’t help seeing. He saw two enormous black discs ringed with flame. A total eclipse in each of the man’s eyes. This can’t be right, he thought. There is only one eclipse. Only one is possible. And yet he stared at those black voids encircled by blinding orange light.

The next thing he remembered he was being roused by the two awe-struck girls from earlier. The eclipse was over, they said. Was he alright? He said nothing but picked himself up off the ground and walked silently back to his office. Sitting at his desk, he realized that there was no looking away. There was never any looking away, and there never would be. With the lights out, he sat in front of his computer, eyes closed, yet staring. And there in the darkness he saw still the two flaming rings of light even through his closed eyes.

Matthew Bardowell

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You Shouldn’t Be Here The masquerade should’ve been over; it had served its purpose nearly an hour before, and the distraction was no longer needed. Why hadn’t Godmother stopped it?

The clock passed midnight moments ago without a sound, yet Nadia was still cloaked in fine emerald velvet, a jeweled mask over her eyes to hide her wavering expression.

Lords and ladies of the court danced, their laughter echoing through the halls, no one questioning their host’s sudden absence. The small victories did nothing to ease Nadia’s mind.

“You will have until midnight to take care of this, my girl.” Godmother had told her, “See to it that you won’t fail us again.”

The young woman had kept her promises, all of them. Nadia knew her cover should’ve disappeared, and Godmother would whisk her away as the choir of chaos harmonized with the stroke of midnight. Something had gone wrong.

“Would you like to dance, Princess?”

A masked gentleman appeared at her side, his gloved hand extended to hers, his question still hovering around them. Her worry escalated, questioning how he had recognized her under the finery, powder, and a blonde wig.

Nadia plastered a soft smile and accepted the stranger’s hand, allowing him to glide her away from the darkness of the walls into the candlelit center of the dancing.

The pair of them were a dark spot among the rose dresses and cream suits. From afar, Nadia spotted a glimmer of gold, hopeful until she saw a young woman’s mask instead of Godmother. The slight distraction was enough to make her gasp when the masked gentleman brought his hand to the small of her back, the other finding her hand.

“Feeling anxious, Love?” His words were silk.

“Not in the slightest. Merely anxious for the arrival of a friend who promised to be here.”

He chuckled deeply, “If your friend is not of royalty, they are likely to keep their word. The lower class does well in keeping promises… unlike someone I know.”

His green eyes shined through the darkness of his mask before he loosened his hold to guide her into a spin. The motion left Nadia locked tightly against his chest.

In an instant, she knew exactly who he was and why Godmother wasn’t there.

“You shouldn’t be here.”

“Neither should you.”

“Quiet your voice or you’ll kill us both.”

“Nothing pleases you, does it, Princess?”

“Nothing you do.”

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The young man smirked, “I take it you still hate me?”

Nadia let her gaze wander over her partner’s shoulder, the clock neared 12:30. No Godmother.

“I don’t hate you.” Her words came gentler than expected. “I’ve only lost all respect for you.”

His smirk faded, but his timing never faltered as the music built up.

“You know why I’m here, Nadia. Tell me where to find your father, and I’ll leave quietly.”

“I can’t tell you. I’ve risked enough just being here. A girl claimed as the illegitimate princess isn’t exactly welcome amongst the royal court, much less a ball.” Her hushed voice found its edge. “The enemy King regent is along those same lines I’d assume.”

“I’m here to stop a war. If your father’s life is the cost, so be it. I’ve already warned you of his actions, yet you still chose to play ‘Princess’. So don’t come crying when he’s gone.”

His arms spun her out of his embrace as his feet made to walk away. Nadia felt a twinkle out of the corner of her eye as a blinding glitter of rich gold entered the ballroom. Godmother. The woman’s bright blue eyes flew lazily to the clock, where the minute hand was drawn back, unnoticed, to five minutes before midnight as she joined the fray of dancers.

Nadia reached for the enemy’s hand, pulling herself back into his arms, forcing him to lead their dance. Godmother’s appearance meant the job was done, there would be no war, and tomorrow she would be queen.

“My father is dead.” She whispered, brushing her cheek past his quickly.

From his sharp intake of breath, Nadia couldn’t tell if her actions or her words were the cause as she pulled away. “You have minutes before everyone knows and they question strangers.”

The prince brought his hand to her waist, the other twirling a curl from her wig.

“I miss the brown.” He started before leaning in, his voice low. “How do you know? The old lady?” His eyes gestured towards Godmother, who drew every eye away from them as Nadia guided them towards the doors.

“Godmother is merely the diversion.”

He drew back, taking in her expression. “You?” She looked down, “It would appear you were right about him.”

“Nadia, you’ve saved my country.” His attempt to caress her cheek was stopped as the Princess pulled away.

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“At a cost, your Highness.” Nadia began, “In exchange for your people’s freedom from the king’s tyranny, you are to stay from my kingdom… forever. No alliances, no treaties... no marriage. If you disagree, I’ll tell the people it was you.”

“And if I were to share your dirty little secret?”

“Then we shall see who they believe: the unwanted Princess or enemy Prince.” Nadia sighed, forcing herself to stare in his eyes, the same green she once found solace in. The crowd began to stir.

“Time’s up, Highness. What say you?”

He pulled his hands away from her slowly, a final nod of acceptance as he bowed.

“I should’ve kissed you when I had the chance.”

Alyssa Gray

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As Surely as the Sky is Blue The picnic blanket unfurled in the air before me, coming to rest on the grass.

It was April the eighth, 2024—the day of the solar eclipse. It was a warm day, but with the knowledge that the moon would soon block out the sun, many park-goers had brought with them light jackets. I sat on our blanket and looked lazily about the parkfull of cookie-cutter families all doing the same thing: tossing frisbees, eating snacks, or looking at the sky through their eclipse glasses long before there was even something notable to observe. We had settled on Art Hill in Forest Park, just outside the Art Museum in St. Louis—an ideal spot to watch the eclipse, we had been told, and a notable location in History—the site of the 1904 World’s Fair. My mother and father had begun unpacking various coolers of finger sandwiches and organic colas. My mother, the health nut that she was, changed her diet on what seemed like a daily basis—one day it was keto, the next it was intermittent fasting. Either way, my father, clearly worn after having helped her prepare our eclipse feast, pulled a bundle of perfect yellow bananas from the cooler, doing little to hide his sour expression—obviously bitter after having to pay three dollars more for the “organic” kind at the grocery store. My sister and her husband sat on the other end of the picnic blanket. My brother-in-law, an extrovert and fantastic photographer, began rabbiting on about the fascinating technology used to create eclipse glasses something to the effect of “ISO 4000 camera film used to make the lenses.'' My sister, a chronic introvert, did her very best to pay attention, nodding her head and inserting various ‘mhms’ and “I sees’ while plicking away at her Nintendo Switch, playing Animal Crossing, no doubt, and our lawnmower of a golden retriever, Skippy, laid down and began happily munching away at a plot of grass, as she was wont to do.

For my part, I sighed and tried to take in the scenery before me, in order to prepare for the account I was to write for my English class. I cared very little for the eclipse, but still found myself terribly upset by the prospect of having to complete a writing assignment. I knew I was being foolish, after all, considering the trade-off; classes were canceled for the day, and the eclipse would not occur for another twenty years—this was, supposedly, a very big deal. I tried to recall the terms of the assignment—“a factual, yet entertaining recollection of the events you witnessed during the eclipse.” Which was to say, nothing fictitious. With an exasperated huff, I dramatically threw my back against the ground and looked toward the sky. What was the point in being an English major if I wasn’t allowed to write fiction? Life as of late had become nothing but a routine: school, work, sleep, repeat. As if an eclipse would magically change that. It wasn’t long before my internal petulance party was interrupted by a shout that rang out over the crowd: “HERE IT COMES!” I sat up, brought to by the crowd’s mounting buzz of excitement. I hastily put on my eclipse glasses to watch the event unfold.

The world became darker, and the shadows as far as the eye could see stretched into unnatural proportions. Skippy, noticing the change in her environ-

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ment, halted her mission to rid the world of St. Augustine’s, yawned, and laid her head down to sleep. All around, nature surrendered itself to the astrological cycle occurring before us. I looked at my watch: 2:02 PM. In one minute, the eclipse would reach totality. The moment I looked up, the world froze. Not just in the sense of everyone going quiet to watch the events unfolding, but the world really did freeze. No one spoke, no one moved, not even the whisper of breath escaped anyone’s lips. Not a single noise could be heard, like I had entered a soundproof room and the only audible thing was the beating of my own heart.

I looked back at my watch. 2:03. Totality. The sky turned from a hazy gray, dimmed by the moon’s coverage, to a bright, blood red. I watched in horror as the outline of the sun the moon couldn’t block began to flicker and flare. The temperature rose to an uncomfortable degree- I could feel sweat begin to percolate on my brow. Music reached my ears then- the sound of an old fair organ. What would have been bright and cheerful sounded hollow and haunting. I looked about to see what it was that was creating the sound, and instead found myself amidst a crowd. A crowd, which was superimposed over the one I was a part of. Whereas mine was physical and tangible, this new crowd was ghostly apparitions of men and women swirled about; the women wore petticoats and long dresses, and the men wore suits and top hats. I gazed at them, aghast, wondering what had happened to transport me between the dimensions of past and present. “Come one, come all,” said a voice behind me. “To the Museum of Art and Science, now illuminated by our friends at Edison Electric!”

Edison Electric? I wondered. Like Thomas Edison? What year was this? I spun around to see where the voice had originated from and found myself staring at a seemingly impossible reality. The Art Museum, which sat atop the hill like the crown on a king’s head, was adorned not only with its jewels of carved stone but with red, white, and blue bunting and a banner reading “Museum of Art and Science, 1904 World’s Fair.”

I gasped. The ghostly crowd around me all stopped at once, and turned to look at me. As they turned, their bodies of flesh and clothing of finery withered and faded into bone and rags. They reached for me but fell short before collapsing into piles of dust. A harsh cry rang out across the valley as they fell, indicating some form of pain. I was about to yell out myself when suddenly, like a movie unpaused, the physical world around me resumed. The clicking of my brother-in-law’s camera was in my right ear, and the “oohs” of my mother and father as they stared slack-jawed at the sky was in my left. Only Skippy, it seemed, had any awareness as to what had just happened in the metaphysical world. She sneezed, and spun around in circles, clearly spooked. She looked at me, and then to my hand, before sniffing what it was I was holding. I looked down and realized I was now carrying something I hadn’t been carrying before: a flyer reading in bold letters “Meet Me in St. Louis! April 30th, 1904December 1st, 1904.” In the corner of the flyer, the date, April 8th, 1904 was printed. I stuffed the flyer in my pocket before anyone could notice, and began reflecting on what I had seen.

The car ride home was full of excitement over what my family had seen, but I sat in the back of the car in silence. How could I truthfully write about all I had seen,

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when no professor in their right mind would ever believe my essay was that of fact?

No, for the sake of my own grade I had to write fiction, or at least, realistic fiction.

Instead of writing about the paranormal experience, I had to spin a lie so closely aligning with everyone else’s truth that my “individual experience” would be nothing more than, at this point, a shockingly boring eclipse, comparatively speaking. I tried to imagine what my professor would say if I wrote about the apparitions I had seen from the past. “A fanciful tale, I tell you!” He would exclaim. “One unbecoming of a writer tasked with acknowledging this incredible moment in history!” I scoffed at the idea, the irony of the moon crossing between the sun and the earth somehow eclipsing the significance of witnessing the 1904 World’s Fair with my own eyes. I looked at Skippy, who had not stopped watching me since Totality. I looked back out the window at the blue sky, remembering the crimson red it had taken on. A fanciful tale indeed. I felt resolve develop within me, as I swore I would write my own truth. A fictitious tale, as surely as the sky is blue.

Jacob Meyer

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Contributors Matthew Bardowell is Associate Professor of English at Missouri Baptist University, where he teaches Composition and British Literature. Matthew enjoys spending time with his family and playing guitar. In addition to his work in Flash!, Matthew’s short fiction also appears in Cantos: A Literary and Arts Journal.

Alyssa Gray is a junior at Missouri Baptist University, finishing her degree in middle school math and science education. An avid reader since kindergarten, Alyssa’s love for science fiction and fantasy has grown through her time in school. Her passion for writing started in middle school and became her favorite hobby during the 2020 pandemic. She is currently co-authoring an anthology with Lashae Brown.

Ashley Hill (’24) completed her Master of Science in Higher Education Leadership as well as a Bachelors of Professional Studies in General Studies with a minor in Psychology (’23) with MBU. She previously attended Southwest Baptist University where she received her Bachelor of Science in Psychology with a double minor in Counseling and Sociology (’18). Ashley currently works in the Records Office on MBU’s main campus, and she spends her free time painting with acrylics, cross -stitching and embroidering, gaming, and reading. Ashley’s favorite genres of literature include classics and fantasy. Jane Austen, J. R. R. Tolkien, and J. K. Rowling are a few of Ashley’s favorite authors. She believes that many of life’s problems can be made better through a good book and a strong cup of coffee.

Lily Karase is a senior at Missouri Baptist University. She is majoring in Middle and Secondary English Education and has a minor in psychology. Lily is a part of the MBU Honors program and wrote “The Imposter” for the microfiction masterclass at the 2023 NCHC Honors Conference. Her story encapsulates the pressure and anxiety surrounding a deep-seated need for academic validation when simultaneously grappling with imposter syndrome.

Mercedes Parker is a student at Missouri Baptist University and adores the written word. In her limited free time, she enjoys reading, writing, and consuming Kdramas. Her family and fluffy little dog have her entire heart.

Elsa Linson is a senior at Missouri Baptist University earning her Bachelor’s degree in English with a literature concentration and history minor. She has loved stories her entire life, and it is this love that led her to pursue an English major and shaped her desire to work in a library after graduation. Genre fiction—sciencefiction, fantasy, and the like—has always been her particular favorite, which greatly inspired her story in this collection. This is her first published work of fiction.

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Jake Meyer is a senior undergraduate English student at Missouri Baptist University. After graduation, Jacob plans on earning a master’s in English, followed by a PhD. English, and creative writing more specifically, have always been a passion of Jacob’s. Publishing his first novel at the age of seventeen, Jacob discovered his love for creative writing and continued writing and publishing. Inspired by his own professors, Jacob has decided to further his education in order to become a professor himself, with an emphasis on teaching creative writing. Jacob hopes to inspire students to write and publish their own works through educating at the college level.

Mollie Monje is an English major at Missouri Baptist with a minor in Apologetics Studies. In her free time, she enjoys reading, sewing, and spending time with her friends and family. After college, she plans on becoming an editor or writer with a possible side job in photography.

Jackie Stewart is an MBU Alumna. Jackie graduated with a Bachelor of Arts degree in the spring of 2024.

Dylan White (’21) is a broadcast media alum of MBU and completed an English minor in his undergraduate studies. Dylan currently works in the Records Office on MBU’s main campus, and he freelances in photography and writing as a frequent contributor of the music review blog Sound Words Central. Dylan’s favorite genres of literature include classics, thriller/horror, and fantasy. J. R. R. Tolkien, Mark Twain, and A. A. Milne are just a few of Dylan’s favorite authors. A strong believer in the artistic power of the written word, Dylan loves to analyze and critique literature, breaking it down to its most basic elements and considering how it applies to the world around us as image bearers of God. John Zheng's work has appeared in New World Writing Quarterly, Potpourri, The Wise Owl, and The Literati. He is the author of A Way of Looking, a prose collection which won the Gerald Cable Book Award, and editor of seven books including Conversations with Dana Gioia. He teaches at Mississippi Valley State University and edits Valley Voices: A Literary Review.

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