Unlucky Day

Being a leprechaun is a delight 99.75 percent of the time. All rainbows and clover and pots of gold. But for a single day in March, everyone wants their three wishes and suddenly life gets a lot more complicated.

Sean O'Patrick O'Reilly knew enough to scout his hiding place early. You never wanted to be caught because you're scrambling for an empty cave or secluded tree hollow and without warning someone has you by the ankle demanding a million dollars or world peace.

But who could have foreseen an old, fat man's metal detector stumbling upon Sean's golden hat buckle?

Nothing

The engine gives out and we’re about to crash. I guide the plane as best I can and brace for impact. Then there’s blackness.

When I wake, Ted has a blank stare, and his head is twisted in an awkward position. He’s dead.

The bone in my left ankle is protruding from the skin and I’m having trouble breathing. I’m sure I’ve ruptured my ribs.

The door is jammed and I can’t walk. The airplane will soon explode and there’s nowhere to go. I say a silent prayer and close my eyes.

There’s a crackling noise, flames and then nothing.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Do It Well

Do it well, honey. My lover’s voice echoed inside me as I stabbed my wife repeatedly. Fear flashed in her doe-like eyes. She fell to the wet forest floor and crawled away. I grabbed her ankle and pulled. On my umpteenth attempt, my knife struck through her neck, severing her jugular vein. Blood splattered. The light faded out of her eyes. I rolled her up in a plastic sheet and buried her. Later, I stumbled into my home, choking on her perfume. There she stood in front of me. “What?” I gasped. She brandished a knife. Sharper than my own.From Guest Contributor Fusako Ohki

Translated by Toshiya Kamei

Fusako Ohki is a Japanese writer from Tokyo. She obtained her master’s degree in Japanese literature from Hosei University. Her debut collection of short fiction is forthcoming in 2021.

Unconventional Ray

“I need to take another X-ray,” the doctor said.

“Why?” asked the patient.

“Not ‘Y’. ‘X’ as in X-rated.”

“What is X-rated?” The patient was awakening from post-surgery slumber.

A nurse entered the hospital room. The doctor left.

“So, how does it look?” the patient asked the nurse. Realizing his covers were off and she was peering down at him below the waist.

“I mean, my ankle.”

The nurse funneled her eyes through his. Her full lips smiled at the corners. Giggling followed.

“You’re on the mend, Ray,” she said. “Dr. Hoo just wants to take one more X-ray.”

“Who?”

From Guest Contributor Krystyna Fedosejevs

Krystyna writes poetry, flash fiction and short stories. She’s published in Canada, United States and Europe in journals, anthologies and online including Boston Literary Magazine and Friday Flash Fiction. She won several poetry contests, was shortlisted in a short story competition and is a member of two writers’ groups where she resides.

Becoming

Mrs. Hoover knelt in front of me, a gesture reserved for the quietest of her preschool students.

“What do you want to be when you grow up?” she repeated.

I knew what I would become, but it had nothing to do with wanting or wishing. My fate felt solid, and it vied for my attention.

I tried to ignore the itch.

Even at a young age I knew that it would be dangerous to provide details.

“It doesn’t matter what I want to be, only what I am becoming,” I recited, the scales on my ankle yearning to be scratched.

From Guest Contributor Sarah Vernetti