Note To Self

I recognized the helmet on the unearthed body as the same customized gear hidden in my private lab. The ancient, scarred face underneath it, not so much. The damage was far too extensive. Even so, I knew.

Words scratched into the metal plate the body clutched remained legible: “Do not activate.” It didn’t specify what, but I knew that, too.

If I press that button in my lab a portal will open to the past. I had decided against the risk.

But now I must do it. I need to find out what could cause me to write that warning.

From Guest Contributor Sean MacKendrick

The Path

I hurried, heart trilling, feet moving. Left turn, right. The path was familiar, an old enemy. Left again. I could have screamed. It was here somewhere. Right turn.

Yes. There it was, the candy-red button. I pressed it down. A tray burst open with the pellet inside. I crunched into its horrible glory. Relief.

“Nice work, Algernon,” the human said, her thick hand lifting me from the labyrinth and setting me in fresh sawdust. I curled my tail around me. If I slept now, I would reawaken to the path and begin again. Did I have a choice?

I slept.

From Guest Contributor Ryan Doskocil

Barking At Shadows

One minute I’m falling exhausted into bed. The next I’m getting beaten by goombahs wielding metal bats. “I’m going to die,” I think. “I’m going to lose everything.” My body trembles like it’s not under my jurisdiction anymore. I don’t want to make this sound worse than it is, but there isn’t a lot else happening, just assorted crises, each at a different point of unfolding. It’s an intricate universe. When day returns with a button or two missing, I’m spooning hot cereal into a small white dog that has been exhibiting signs of incipient dementia. Heartache is everyone’s neighbor.

From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie is the author most recently of Stick Figure Opera: 99 100-word Prose Poems from Cajun Mutt Press. He co-edits the online journals Unbroken and UnLost.

He Will Think I Don't Love Him Anymore

Seven-year-old Ava Mendez fidgets with Mimi's cellphone in her lap.

Abruptly it rings. She smacks the green button. A recording informs her it's a free call from her daddy, being recorded.

Press one to accept. Hastily she slams her little finger onto the keypad.

Horror grips her sullen face as tears flow uncontrollably, realizing she pressed the number two in haste.

Nothing but dial tone. She wails for her Mimi. "I have to talk to my daddy," she cries.

Daddy, in a holding cell waiting for deportation, has not forgotten nor heard her angelic voice in three days and nights.

From Guest Contributor Yknow

Marathon Man

I lace up my trainers; the park beckons me.

My new Runmaster 3000 watch. Mary's times improved dramatically usingthe mind control feature. Now it's my turn.

A gust of wind blows the instructions out of my hand. Oh well. Howcomplicated can a running watch be?

I press a button. My body starts stretching. “Run.” I do; my techniqueis perfect.

“One mile completed; Nine hundred and ninety-nine miles remaining.”

Oops.

I try to press the button, but my arms swing forwards and backwardslike pistons. “Stop! Halt! Reset! Help!?!?”

“Two miles completed; Nine hundred and ninety-eight miles remaining.”

From Guest Contributor Ross Clement

To Delete, Or Not to Delete

To delete, or not to delete, that is the question. Kurt stares at the highlighted name on his phone, and his finger hovers indecisively over the button that will erase Karen from his life forever. Eyes closed, he breathes deeply. Deleting would be the right thing to do, considering the misery she’s caused him. On the other hand, she was the source of some incredible moments in his life. Maybe she’ll come to her senses someday, he thinks. Maybe this isn’t quite the end. He opens his eyes, backs out of the directory, and leaves her there. Just in case.

From Guest Contributor Dan Slaten

The Button

Blake sat alone in the cell. He only had the bar of soap his guards had given him, and a button he'd smuggled under his tongue.

Alone. Alone. It had been 17 days now. He knew it was 17 days, because each morning, he made a mark in the soap with his button. There were 17 marks for 17 days.

For those 17 days, his only contact with the outside world was the metal plate they slid through the door at mealtime.

17 days to contemplate his crime, his smuggled button the only thing keeping his sanity from slipping away.