Shadows Of The Forgotten Timepiece

He never uttered the word curse, but Dante had no doubt his life was marked for tragedy.

From his car accident at 16, to the string of outlandish catastrophes that followed him like ducklings throughout adulthood, including bouts of homelessness, addiction, and illness, both mental and physical in nature, Dante never caught a break, until finally he simply gave up all together.

Most of those who knew poor Dante blamed his lack of willpower. But they might have thought differently had they realized every misfortune occurred at exactly 3:13 PM. The same time he'd broken his grandfather's lucky watch.

Compassion

George staggered into the hallway searching for Cecilia. He didn’t have much time and he needed her to make haste.

“There you are. I signed it.”

She sipped her tepid coffee. “Oh, George, can’t I even take a short break?”

“Just take it. You don’t need to read it.”

“I know, I’m your attorney. I read it already. Are you sure about this?”

George sighed and put the paper in front of her, pushing aside the glazed donut.

It was done.

His estate would go to Myra Ariello, the compassionate nurse who cared for him when no one else would.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Lisa has been writing since 2010 and has had many micro-flash fiction stories published. In 2018 her book Shorts for the Short Story Enthusiasts, was published and The Importance of Being Short, in 2019. Her most recent book In A Flash, was published in the spring of 2022.

She currently resides on Long Island, New York with her husband Richard and dogs Lucy and Breanna.

Reduction

He sat alone.

He watched her scrape the painted letters from the window; watched FINE ARTS CAFE become FINE ART, then FINE and finally FIN.

She took a break.

He couldn’t bear to watch anymore anyway, imagined Painting becoming mere Paint, then Pain; Lessons, Less.

Having finished his coffee, he talked to the café owner about her plans now that she’d finally served up her last cup.

He knew he’d go soon too.

He mentally counted out the other empty storefronts, some of the buildings invisible from where he sat, their windows staring out at a rapidly fading Main Street.

From Guest Contributor Ron. Lavalette

Hell's Kitchen

We were the grounds crew at a minor league ballpark in the city. “I was about a hundred feet away. He lifted the gun and just...” Gerry looked away.

“That’s never happened to me,” Harry thought. “What do I say?”

“I ducked for cover.” He wiped his face and squatted to give his knees a break.

“Most of those people in that crowd...They don’t know. They live in the suburbs and they just come in for the game.”

“POP!” The shot came from the houses beyond center field.

“I gotta get outta this city,” Gerry said. “Any way possible.”

From Guest Contributor Steve Colori

Of Weak Spots

Summer holidays meant wagon rides and a delicious break from school.

On the run for letting the poultry loose, my brother and I were making a hidden treehouse.

Later, we would have gone to the bank, devoured stolen nuts, nailed floorboards, as punishment. Together, we would have made jokes. Of weak spots on the fence and Granddad!

However, the treehouse being too feeble, our hands slippery from juice, hearts too unwilling, he fell to death.

Standing on the desolate bank, I glance at the familiar walnut blooms at Johnson’s. I wonder how we never discovered the weak spot in life.

From Guest Contributor Swatilekha Roy