Far, Far Away

Justin put the finishing touches on his email and hit send. He found giving his messages a human touch helped them stand out in the never-ending garbage dump of communication his supervisor constantly found herself filtering through. Hopefully it would be the advantage he needed come promotion time.

When he'd taken this remote position, he knew the hours would be bad and the pay low, but he didn't expect to be stuck at an entry-level position forever. Surely his enthusiasm would stand out.

Now he just needed to await a response. Transmission to corporate headquarters would take 53 light years.

We Will All Stop Using Acronyms

Friday afternoon: Another email pinged through from the boss, full of acronyms and bullet points. Bullet points always made Stella want to shoot herself.

“WTF,” Stella replied. “This is CRAP. CBA, TBH.” She went home.

***

Monday morning: “Stella. My office. Now.”

***

“Well, of course I mean Wednesday/Thursday/Friday,” Stella explained. “There’s to be a Completion Report After Production. Your IRK suggestion Can Be Arranged. Your third request, the prioritization protocol presentation, I’ve marked To Be Handled.” She drew a long breath.

***

Another email pinged through as Stella returned to her desk: “Moving forward we will all stop using acronyms…”

Stella smiled.

From Guest Contributor Fiona M Jones

Death Of A Student

The email arrives just after 7:30 am, and its subject line is blunt: “death of a student”

You read this slowly. Twice. Open the message. In two sentences, the Dean of Students tells you everything: She was killed in a car accident. They’re working to remove her from your roster.

You delete the message, drag it back out of the Deleted Items folder, read it again.

The news isn’t public yet. You can’t say anything in class.

Her seat is empty. You pass out the day’s reading assignment and have an extra copy, which you quietly drop in the trash.

From Guest Contributor Shane Borrowman

As If

“Darling,” Burt said from the bedroom doorway to Anita, his wife of many decades. “You may get another email.”

“Oh?” Anita eyed him above her crossword puzzle.

“Random con artist,” Burt continued. “Claims about online activity. Sexual and whatnot. The usual.”

“Uh-huh,” Anita said.

“Totally fictitious, of course.” Burt waved a dismissive hand.

Anita blinked, laughed, and returned to her crossword. “As if you even have such thoughts these days, sweetheart!”

Burt laughed too. Then he returned to his private study where he transferred another cryptocurrency payment to the anonymous account, hoping this would resolve the matter at long last.From Guest Contributor John Sheirer

John lives in Western Massachusetts and is in his 30th year of teaching at Asnuntuck Community College in Northern Connecticut where he edits Freshwater Literary Journal (submission welcome). His work has appeared recently in Five Minutes, Wilderness House Literary Review, Meat for Tea, Poppy Road Review, Synkroniciti, Otherwise Engaged, 10 By 10 Flash Fiction, The Journal of Radical Wonder, Scribes*MICRO*Fiction, and Goldenrod Review, among others. His latest book is Stumbling Through Adulthood: Linked Stories. Forthcoming in fall 2023 is For Now: One Hundred 100-Word Stories. Find him at JohnSheirer.com.