When The Fairy Dust Wore Out

When the great clock hands of Big Ben stretched upwards to midnight, Peter Pan sagged and leaned against them, resting his aching back. After years of flying, he had grown not old but weary. London was all skyscrapers now, smoke-plumes that he had to twist to avoid. Still, beneath the honks and hustle of the streets below, Peter imagined he could hear the calls of Tiger Lily, Tinkerbell. As he watched the dull skies, he pictured Neverland, the green of it, the harbours. Then through the smog he saw hands outstretched, a Lost Boy perhaps. Relief coursed, and Peter sighed.

From Guest Contributor Colleen Addison

Colleen lives, and writes on a small island off Vancouver, Canada. Her work has been published in River Teeth, Painted Pebble Lit Mag, and Crow & Crosskeys, among others. She is a recent winner of the 3rd Wednesday flash fiction contest.

Cat Lady

In a rapidly gentrifying London suburban apartment by the park, where the people are cold and the weather is colder, I overhear a nascent rumor in the making, about myself from the overfamiliar voices, and for a long second, I wish my life was as interesting as my thriving geriatric grapevine conjures it to be and believes in possibilities over probabilities. I move on, wondering why those so close to death remain so inquisitive about the lives of others who are busy living, and I tell my friends that if I ever become that bitter old cat lady, stop me.

From Guest Contributor Dr. Vaishnavi Pusapati

Plague

First little Amy was stricken, taking three days to die.

After collecting the body, the wardens painted the black cross on the door.

Then her husband and son Mark sickened. She could do nothing for their agonies.

A cart collected them to be buried in the pit.

Now the street is sealed off. No food arrives, and the water is almost gone.

She sneezes twice. She knows this is the end. But what is there to live for?

Thus the pauper Mary Wells died alone in London in 1665, with no priest to console her, no caring God above her.

From Guest Contributor Ian Fletcher

Born and raised in Cardiff, Wales, Ian has an MA in English from Oxford University. He has had poems and short stories published in The Ekphrastic Review, Tuck Magazine, 1947 A Literary Journal, Dead Snakes, Schlock! Webzine, Short-story.me, Anotherealm, Under the Bed, A Story In 100 Words, Poems and Poetry, Friday Flash Fiction, and in various anthologies.

Dodge

Combined their ages were 106; they decided to celebrate their birthdays straight after her youngest sister's wedding in May. They would drive from Boca Grande, Florida all the way to Tampa and hop the first flight to London available. Only a few would be privy to their plan. The mother of the bride and her eldest daughter, whom many despised. They would celebrate the sixties and the end of thirties with the same trials and failures that they marked the twenties, fifties, forties, and tens. The zeros were so distant; neither woman could remember them. "Happy 106, us," they smirked.

From Guest Contributor E.B. Morrison