‘Time Stopper 3000’

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The holopixel echoed in the vast apartment. Sasha, the Shar Pei, with her crinkly face covered in slobber, lounged on her dog bed, awaiting her mistress’ return.

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8:34 PM:

<<Happy birthday, Alissa! Tired of crow’s feet, elevens, and marionette lines? Check out our patented TimeStopper 3000 Wrinkles Be Gone service! For the low, low price of 14 credits per wrinkle per month, we will literally freeze time on the parts of your face that bother you most! Yes, that’s right—targeted temporal stoppage is finally at your fingertips! Contact us now by touching anywhere on this ad!>>

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8:48 PM:

<<Alissa, you’re turning thirty-eight today. You really should have begun TimeStopper 3000 ten years ago to get the best results. Luckily for you, we can preserve what’s left of your rapidly dwindling youth. Contact us now by touching anywhere on this ad!>>

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9:13 PM:

<<Alissa, don’t miss this one-time opportunity—do a free wrinkle assessment now! Simply touch anywhere on your screen.>>

Sasha stretched before walking up to the holopixel and booping the screen with her nose.

<<Alissa, excellent choice.>>

Beams scan Sasha’s face.

<<Oh. Oh my. I’ve never seen anything this damaged… Haven’t you heard of sunscreen? I’m afraid we can’t help yo—>>

screen goes mute

<<Alissa—good news! My manager said we can help. For only…let’s see…14 credits per wrinkle…carry the one…that comes to 64,342 credits per month with tax. Save an extra 10% with a year-long subscription. Do you accept?>>

Sasha touches the screen with her moist black nose.

<<Fantastic. We will bill you directly to your account. And you’re personalized time freeze starts now.>>

Sasha stands frozen, doll-like. Her brown eyes and nostrils are the only parts that move.

“C’mere girl! Mama’s home! … Sasha?!?!!>>

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WC: 292

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Thanks for reading! Feedback is always very much appreciated

NYU Rules

The island of Manhattan is deceptively small and yet very territorial. I’m an NYU girl—above 14th, and you’re killing me.

Or I was. Now I have a swish job in Midtown and wear a suit every day.

So, imagine my surprise when my hot new boyfriend suggested we see a gig in Gramercy Park in the twenties.

“Wait—you want to catch a band in one of the most affluent areas in town?” How completely not edgy.

“Yeah,” Rob said matter-of-factly as if I was an idiot for asking. “It’s The Specials, for crying out loud.”

The who what now? “Mmmmhmmm.”

“Great—see you at 7:45 at the Gramercy Theatre.”

Google and YouTube were my friends that day. I learned a bit about Ska and The Specials in particular. Listened to some of their songs—SO not to my taste, but hey, I knew the headlines now.

That evening after agonizing over outfit choices to get the ska look right, I arrived at The Gramercy under the art deco street lamp.

Rob eyed me up and down. “You look like No Doubt era Gwen Stefani.”

“Thanks.”

“It wasn’t a compliment. The Specials are more mod-influenced,” he sighed. “More like this,” he said, gesturing to his own pork pie hat and subtly checked vest. It’ll have to do, though. No time to go back and change.” Rob held out his gym-honed arm. “Shall we?”

I struggled not to roll my eyes as we linked arms. The pretension was oozing off him like grease from bacon. All this for a fifty-year-old band—what the hell?

Sweat-stained forty-something guys filled the bar area, nodding along to the music with the kind of confidence that bespoke discovering the next big thing.

My twenty-three-year-old boyfriend assumed the pose along with the rest.

As the horns blared and the singer wailed, I watched the dad bods awkwardly bop along to the ska/punk/mod wannabe reggae band.

Rob grinned, “Isn’t this incredible? Such a unique sound.”

Ummm… reggae would like a word. At least it doesn’t completely suck. Heck, rocksteady is better.

“Yeah…it’s great,” I deadpanned.

“I’m so glad you think so. They play again next week in Hoboken. I got us tickets.”

Hoboken, not on your life! This was bad enough. Life would be so easy if Rob lived by NYU rules.

“You know what? I’m done. We’re done,” I said, walking out the door. Some principles just weren’t worth compromising on.

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WC: 403

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Thanks for reading! Feedback is always very much appreciated

No crit—just listening to it at campfire and really admiring your descriptions and characters :)

This was gorgeous as always, Rainbow :)

This was great, Astro. Particularly the office characterization—so easy to picture. And the ending was the right balance of a catchable reference with a little subtlety. Really well done

Thanks so much, Astro! Some really good insights :)

‘The Shot’

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Boogieing beneath electric lights—this is our haven.

Gloria Gaynor howls ‘I Will Survive’ over the tinny speakers. Swept away by the crowd, I sing along and gyrate with the rest.

Fragments of light strobe across Sonia’s face like a harlequin’s mask. Her baby blue sequined tube top pulses like some alien moon.

My heart pounds at the sight of her transformation. Sonia’s loose-fitting librarian’s knee-length tweed suit has given way to lacquered-on black spandex leggings. Gone, too, are her horn-rimmed glasses, revealing green eyes sparkling with mischief.

As if the DJ knows my mind, ABBA’s ‘Dancing Queen’ bops forth. My monarch of mayhem writhes before me.

I yearn to kiss her. People like Sonia are embarrassed by PDAs, but I love them. I love her, so why not?

Instead, I whirl in front of her like a Dervish—passionate, frenzied.

She smiles that grin that means, ‘You’re nuts, Jan. And I love you for it.’

“Want a drink?” I ask.

“You had to ask?” She flicks her carefully winged blonde hair to the side like a disco Farrah Fawcett. “Shots?”

I look at her askance. “C’mon. It’s a little early, right?”

In reply, Sonia grabs my arm, and we link elbows. The crowd parts as all eyes are on us. On her.

A low wolf whistle sounds. Sonia shakes her head ‘no,’ as the man steps aside.

Another grabs her hand. She disentangles herself and swats his arm.

My face contorts. She’s mine,’ I want to scream. To announce to the world our love.

Sonia looks over and glares.

I feel the ice in her eyes. It chills my heart. The anger and fear. She’s not ready to be out. I know that. But damn it, I want to protect her.

We reach the bar. The bartender slowly surveys her body, ignoring me. “What can I get you, hot stuff?”

“Tequila—two shots.”

“Slammin’. One for me, right?”

“No,” she looks down at me. “For my girl—.”

My heart jumps as I hear the beginning of that word and falls as she truncates it. “For her friend.” I finish lamely.

“Nifty.” His face drops. I wonder how many girls would have stared into his blue eyes and said ‘Yes’ without hesitation.

And now the game begins. Somehow the woman who struggles with the term ‘girlfriend’ enjoys showing off.

“Lean your head,” Sonia murmurs as I’m already doing so with practiced ease. She licks my neck with the tip of her tongue. Teasing me and her rapt male audience at the same time. And still, my traitorous throat tingles in anticipation.

Grabbing the salt shaker, she sprinkles it liberally over the moisture. Sonia takes her time, leaning down in slow motion. Her tongue darts out before her mouth engulfs the spot. Ever so gently and then deepening.

Time stands still.

The bartender murmurs, “Tubular,” breaking the spell.

Sonia pulls away as if nothing happened and swallows the tequila with gusto. Biting the lime as its acidic juices drip down from her still reddened lips.

The onlookers applaud.

My eyes prickle. What should have been our moment was hers and theirs. I feel more like a prop than a lover.

We return to the dance floor, but I am numb to the music.

As Donna Summers’ ‘Last Dance’ bursts forth, I know it is for us.

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WC: 554

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Thanks for reading! Feedback is always very much appreciated

Thanks so much, Duke! I definitely may explore this one more. Would have to think about how :)

Thanks so much, Restser!

‘My Biochemical Romance’

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The downy depths of the dark duvet beckon. I yearn to pull it over my head and shut out my heartbreak.

A distant siren wails, strengthening my resolve. Doing something, anything has to be better than this.

Lacing on my running shoes, I bolt outside into the chill November air. I race down the cobbled streets. My shoes tap the pavement like an ever-accelerating metronome.

And still, I run.

Past shops we’d visited. That cafe Clare liked with the double cocoa tiramisu.

Euphoric endorphins surge through my body, filling the gap of oxytocin’s sweet embrace.

And still, I press on.

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WC: 100

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Thanks for reading! Feedback is always very much appreciated

You definitely will—just takes time and commitment. But I have complete faith you’ll get there :)

I like this thoughtful contemplation on life, Restser. It might be me but it feels more like an essay than a story piece in that there’s a lot of telling but not so much showing.

This was a bittersweet piece and I love how you brought us to the widowed part. Like Astro said I think expanding the dialog would be good. I’d also suggest making it six months or the like. Three dates to me isn’t even ‘ I love you’ to me. It’s maybe let’s start calling this a relationship/ consider exclusivity. I think the longer timeline would increase believability of the very sweet line about wanting to stand next to him someday

Hey socks—there were a lot of sweet parts to this! I agree about the preaching part being somewhat distracting.

One other point I’d raise is that it would be nice if this started with ‘Dear Sophia.’ The reason I say that is that without that context it feels like a story that is telling us stuff about what has happened to the mc vs showing us what happened.

Also, a small thing, but the first sentence feels quite repetitive. I think you could save a bit of word count but paring it down a little bit which will make it sharper and hook the reader more.

>> I remember when I was still 16, I was almost out of highschool with only one more year left.

Could be:

• I remember when I was sixteen with a year of high school left.

Last thing, you start quite a few sentences with ‘ I’ which could be varied up a bit more to not feel samey for the reader.

Hey Astro—this was heartwarming and wholesome as fudge.

A couple small things:

• Her weeping, I think? >> In spite of her efforts, her weeps escape her mouth and alert the diner to her sadness.
• I wish we knew a little more about Xavier in context. I get that he could be an anonymous figure, but did he walk in with her? After? Also maybe leave him unnamed as he doesn’t appear named elsewhere in the story?
• I love how everyone is so nice to her and generally. The one thing id say is there are an awful lot of names to keep track of. Eg maybe don’t name the couple in the booth with the umbrella
• And this last part is a really small thing, but fifty tissues is more like a box than a purse pack which is ten. Silly thing, but took me out for a sec Overall, really great tale

‘Ring Around the Dolphins’

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The scents of clove, cinnamon, and cardamom wafted through Zanzibar’s docks. I tread carefully along the cart-rutted dirt path in my cute but impractical heeled sandals.

“Try to look a little happier, Trish,” Steve whispered.

Sulky and sunburned, I hissed, “I wish I could.” I sighed. “Sorry. The heat is getting to me.”

He put his arm around me and kissed the top of my head.

“Hey, let’s go over here,” Steve gestured to a narrower path between some tin-sided buildings that had seen better days.

Shrugging, I followed.

The trail opened to a beautiful square replete with the island’s famous carved and copper-studded wooden doors. A small cafe with burnt red mosaic tables and electric fans beckoned. My stomach rumbled in the affirmative.

“Hey, babe. Want to stop here? It’s lovely.”

Steve paused and shook his head. “Maybe later. I want to show you something first.”

“But I’m starving.”

“I promise this will be worth it.”

Wrinkling my nose, I nodded in assent.

We rounded another corner. A small, blue shed stood with a canopied boat out front. There was nothing else of note, and yet he stopped.

“I don’t get it.”

“You will. Trust me.”

I squeezed his hand.

“Mustafa,” he shouted.

A portly man in a blue button-down shirt came out of the building.

I cocked a curious eyebrow but said nothing.

As we set out across the water, Mustafa gestured to the cooler in the back. “Lunch.”

Inside was a whole steamed fish and vegetables. A bowl of fresh fruit accompanied it.

The fish was seasoned with salt and fresh pepper and incredibly tender. As I bit into a ripe mango and juice dribbled down my chin, I peered out at the azure waters. A breeze ruffled my hair. I felt calm. Happy.

I looked over at Steve. “I love you. This is pretty special.”

“We’ll stop here,” Mustafa said, handing us some snorkeling gear. Luckily, I had my swimsuit on under my dress.

The warm, clear water caressed my skin. Kaleidoscopic fish ringed us. “This is gorgeous, isn’t it?”

“I’m glad you like it, Trish. I’d hoped you would.”

Mustafa tossed cut-up fish over the side. A pair of dolphins swam up and nudged my leg. “Oh my god, dolphins! Can this day get any better?”

“I hope so.” Steve had a faraway smile.

We got back into the boat and dried off.

The sun began to crest below the horizon casting a cotton candy glow. The dolphins continued to frolic around the craft.

Steve went down on one knee, velvet ring box in hand with a large purple-blue tanzanite. The full moon shone down over the water behind him. I mentally photographed the moment. I wanted to remember it forever.

As we turned back toward the docks, Mustafa handed us a bottle of champagne and two flutes. We toasted. It really was the perfect day.

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WC: 481

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Thanks for reading! Feedback is always very much appreciated

A GD poem in all its glory—hilarious! Loved it!

‘Guns, Klowns and Gory’

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It was the kind of middle-American town where no one locked doors. Kids’ bicycles left in carefully mowed yards stayed out overnight unmolested.

Harford High’s annual clash with Cookesville on the football field was the year's biggest drama.

In this quiet burg, the annual Fall Festival sponsored by the local volunteer fire company and Royal Farms was underway.

Vintage fire trucks in shades of red and yellow with freshly burnished chrome stood sentinel over the proceedings. Suspenders clenched tight over beer bellies, the firefighters waddled proudly by their gun raffle.

“Only twenty dollars, and you can win your own AR-15–perfect for home invasions or deer.”

Flynn, a man with a long greying beard and stinking of cheap beer, walked up. “But it’s safe here, right? I don’t hunt. Why would I need that?”

“You can never be too careful—a man’s home is sacred.” The raffle runner’s smile didn’t quite meet his eyes. “Besides, you never know what they’ll get up to these days.”

Hiccuping once, Flynn took two tickets.

That night, he walked home on foot, newly acquired AR-15 in hand. He was too drunk to drive but feared leaving his weapon in his truck.

Fallen sticks and branches marred the caliginous path through the old oak grove. Only a fingernail slice of moon lit the way. Flynn cursed as his foot connected with a branch and weaved sideways.

A harsh laugh sounded nearby.

Nursing his ankle, he hobbled faster toward home.

Two round bulbs spread meager light on the driveway in front of the modest yellow rancher. Flynn paused, wondering if Amber was there, but realized she was still down with her folks in Arkansas.

Turning the key in the lock, a gust of unseasonably cold air caused his neck hair to rise. He clutched the gun tighter and pushed inside with his shoulder.

Out of the darkness, a pair of golden orbs stared back. They leaped into the air, and he almost dropped the AR-15 as he moved to catch Mittens. Ignoring Flynn’s clumsiness, she landed on his shoulder and nuzzled his face.

“Hey, girl,” he said, placing the gun on the counter. “Let me rustle up some dinner for you. Sorry, it’s late.”

Mittens jumped off his shoulder onto the counter. She cocked her head as he spoke as if understanding before licking a paw and cleaning her face.

“You warsh up better than I do, girl. Here ya go.”

Flynn grabbed a bag of peas for his swelling ankle and settled into his off-brand La-Z-Boy.

Flipping through channels, he settled on an old favorite that was more terrible than scary—‘Killer Klowns from Outer Space.’

As alien clowns harvested and ate the human denizens of a small, sleepy town, Flynn’s eyelids grew heavy. Mittens curled on his lap, and he stroked her.

A metallic scratching sound against the living room window echoed through the room.

scritch Scritch SCRITCH

Flynn awoke with a snort. “Wuh-uh?”

SCRITCH

Waxen fingers smeared crimson across the glass.

“Ha. Ha. Very funny. Stupid kids,” he muttered.

Glancing at the TV screen, a hand smeared blood down the glass and then smudged it clear.

A makeup-caked white face peered out, red eyebrows furrowed menacingly. “Flynn, it’s time.”

“Wow. Pranks are getting more high-tech these days. Wonder how they did it?”

“Flynn, wake up.”

He pinched himself and grimaced.

Flynn’s nervous laughter echoed in the room. “I’m a-awake. This mu-ust be the biggest practical joke ever. Whoever you are, you can come out now.”

“It’s not a joke, I promise you. Your destiny is nigh.”

“Wha-at?”

“The Klowns have arrived.”

“I’ve officially lost it.” Flynn slapped himself and groaned. “I’m awake, aren’t I?”

“Yes. And we have much to do to defeat the Klown invasion.”

“Bu-ut I’ve never killed anyone.”

“They’re aliens, not people. And if you don’t get them first, they’ll get you. Besides, in the right situation, we are all capable of the most terrible crimes.”

A bright orange-and-black striped circus ball crashed through the window. Lurid green smoke pulsed forth.

“Hurry. Grab your gun!”

Flynn glanced at the weapon and fumbled for bullets. There were none.

Hoisting the AR-15 like a baseball bat, he sprinted to the door just as it opened with a screech.

A curly red wig peered around its corner, breaching the doorway without knocking. “I see yooooou.”

Flynn swung and connected. Rivulets of radioactive orange blood and bluish brain matter mingled against its frame and oozed to the floor.

Looking past the gore, Flynn smiled. “Now, I see through you too.”

“One down, Flynn. Only a few hundred to go,” the TV encouraged.

Frowning, Flynn pulled the door open and saw legions of clowns scrambling toward his house. “Well, ain’t that a kick in the teeth.”

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WC: 788

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Thanks for reading! Feedback is always very much appreciated