Some Games Are Not For Grown-Ups

Ten, nine, eight jumps to go. Nick meets my gaze. Seven, six, five, four.

Say it, Nick. Say it. Three.

“Irene.”

Grown-ups shouldn’t play alphabet games.

“Isa, come back. Letter I is so tricky.”

Grown-ups shouldn’t jump rope. It’s not good on the heartstrings.

I sat under a Jacaranda and tore the Valentine’s Day card. Nick and Isa 4 ever 2 gether littered my lap.

Grow up.

I dug into my hand bag, pulled out my diary and littered again. My lap brimming with lavender scented paper.

Grown-ups shouldn’t keep diaries. It’s not like I’m Anaïs Nin for goodness sake!

From Guest Contributor Isabelle B.L

Isabelle is a teacher based in France. She has published a novel inspired by the life of a New Caledonian feminist and politician. Her work can be found in the Best Microfiction 2022 anthology, Visual Verse, Free Flash Fiction and elsewhere.

Flying Jack

CONTEST SUBMISSION:

Jack watched the planes fly with wonder. As a puppy, he aimed high. As a teen, Clark Kent and YouTube inspired.

He left soaring.

Networking at airport lounges was his forte. Frequent flyer points reached Gold Star status, so he flew over many oceans visiting his poodle friend Jeanette in Paris, Rob Retriever in St. Louis, and Sheepdog Barbie (named after the Barbecue and not the famous long-legged, wrinkle free doll) in the Aussie Outback.

When jet lag took its toll, Jack chose rails. When arthritis restricted movement, brimming with nostalgia, he watched the planes fly by, grieving what was.From Guest Contributor Isabelle B.L

Isabelle is a teacher based in France. She has published a novel inspired by the life of a New Caledonian feminist and politician. Her work can be found in the Birth Lifespan Vol. 1 and Growing Up Lifespan Vol. 2 anthologies for Pure Slush Books, Flash Fiction Magazine, A Story in 100 Words, Visual Verse, The Cabinet of Heed, Ample Remains, Found Polaroids, Five Minutes, Kitchen Sink Magazine, and Splintered Disorder Press. Her work is forthcoming in Drunk Monkeys.

The Pencil

Spine broken. Pages deliver a scrambled story. I have the power to pick up the fragments. Rewrite. Write what others have tried to mute. Seventeen centimeters of lead might not be much, but I’m her voice. I’m sharp. I’m ready, but she turns away from me and picks up her glass of whisky instead.

We’re both small. Lead or crystal? One can save her. One can break her. Who will she choose?

Neither. She adds another plate to her dish-pile. It looks like the Tower of Babel, minus the words.

She turns. She’s getting closer. Closer. Picks me up and—writes.

From Guest Contributor Isabelle B.L

Isabelle is a teacher and translator currently living in New Caledonia. She has published a novel inspired by the life of a New Caledonian politician. Her work can be found in the Birth Lifespan Vol. 1 anthology for Pure Slush Books and Flash Fiction Magazine. Her work is also forthcoming in Growing Up Lifespan Vol. 2 for Pure Slush Books and Drunk Monkeys.