Sand In My Shoes

Time is an abstract concept. Yet the seconds, minutes, and hours are woven into the very fabric of existence just as surely as the matter around us. The matter inside us, for that matter.

Forgive me the pun. It may be the last one I have time for.

Understanding time is an integral part of the universe doesn't make it any more concrete. Time depends on where the observer is located.

My days as a young man passed by so quickly. Now, I look down and there's nothing but sand in my shoes. One breath of wind, and I'm gone.

Fool In The Rain

The rejection stings. Dave stumbles down the sidewalk, absorbed in his own thoughts, oblivious to the people walking nearby or the rain pouring overhead. Motor memory guides him back to his apartment despite never making a decision to walk home. He's too preoccupied with being left standing on the curb looking a fool. The others were probably still laughing.

All he knows with any certainty is he will never allow himself to be in such a vulnerable position again.

If only he'd been a few seconds quicker, he could have boarded the bus before the door slammed in his face.

Analog

Clocks are next to useless and no alarm cares what you think of it. Their noise is neither birdsong nor church-bell. It is measured by eye-blinks and muscle contractions. Clocks reflect anxiety when the big hand overtakes the little. Their seconds are like tickles of hair. Sometimes clocks are said to be buying time. But what happens when that time is only borrowed? Clocks stop without notice when their time is up. When their battery runs out, it sounds like the click of a tiny rifle; the tapping of a deathwatch beetle. No one hears it until it’s too late.

From Guest Contributor Cheryl Snell

The Stalker Inside Me

I’ve been watching them. Her and her baby. I know she'll leave the baby alone in a minute for what she thinks is only seconds. But precious seconds for me.

She turns and enters a walk-in closet.

I move closer.

The aroma of milk on its breath sends me over the edge.

I jump.

I'm grabbed by the back of my neck while still in flight and hauled against the wall. I didn't know she was a ninja.

He storms into the room.

"Why did you do that to Churchill?"

"Keep your freaking cat away from my baby."

Divorce follows.

From Guest Contributor E. Barnes

E has works in The Purple Pen, The Haven, Spillwords, Centina Pentina, Entropy, NanoNightmares and a collection of the works, Flash Crazy, was published in 2021 and is available on Amazon.

The Diver

The diver stood before us holding a thimble too small to fit on the pinkie of either hand. The thimble was filled with water, much less than what could swish around a small mouth after brushing.

“I will dive into this,” he announced, to our astonishment. He then climbed a ladder that went up into the clouds.

He was so tiny we could not see him. If we had looked away at any point, we would have never believed him to even be there.

Seconds later, the water in the thimble moved.

We looked down to see him inside, smiling.

From Guest Contributor Ran Walker

Ran is the author of 25 books. He teaches creative writing at Hampton University in Virginia. He can be reached via his website, www.ranwalker.com.

Why Can't I Be Robert Smith?

It’s 10:15 Saturday night, the last day of summer. What a strange day.

I’m cold, I almost feel numb. We’re in your house in Fascination Street and I’m homesick.

All I want is to write a letter to Elise in six different ways, but now it’s Wendy time.

“Trust me,” you said. “Don’t doubt. Have faith. Let’s go to bed in the upstairs room. It will be just like heaven.”

“Its’ not you,” I replied. “This is just a short term effect.”

“So what?”

“Maybe another day.”

It took her seventeen seconds for dressing up.

The perfect girl is gone. From Guest Contributor Hervé Suys

Hervé SUYS (°1968 - Ronse, Belgium) started writing short stories whilst recovering from a sports injury and hasn't stopped yet. He usually writes them hatless and barefooted.

Mask

Jonathan burst into the office, waving a bunch of papers and screaming out loud: “It’s all a scam, it’s a hoax. I’ve got proof in my hands. It’s the government trying to control us and all of our movements” as he rips off his oxygen filter.

Just seconds later he starts gasping and drops dead almost immediately.

Proof was indeed given to be very careful with skepticism.

Little did they know he died of acute heart failure.

And that’s why till this date the inhabitants of Planet Ksam are being closely watched and are all wearing very uncomfortable oxygen filters.

From Guest Contributor Hervé Suys

Only Words

She replayed his voicemail message. ‘Sorry I missed you, I’m just catching the plane now.’ Then an airport announcement sounded in the background and almost drowned out the next words. ‘I left a note on the kitchen table. Read it when you get home.’

Now she picked up the note and read it for the umpteenth time: I love you. See you next week. I’m counting the seconds.

It may have been only words, but they were important. Especially now. How she wished she had gone too, then she would not have had to listen to news of the crash.

From Guest Contributor Henry Bladon

Henry lives in Somerset in the UK and writes all types of fiction. He has a PhD in creative writing and runs a writing support group for people with mental health issues. His work can be seen in Writers’ Forum, MicrofictionMonday, FridayFlashFiction, 50-Word Stories and Writers’ Forum, amongst other places.

Bad Journey

Rob drove down the back road at excessive amounts of speed. After losing his job, his fiancée, Felicia, broke off their engagement. He swerved into the next lane and an oncoming car approached.

“Watch it, nut!”

“Screw you,” Rob yelled.

Those few seconds his eyes were off the road, he came head on with a tree. His head slumped on the steering wheel, horn honking.

Several hours later he awakened handcuffed to a hospital bed with a policeman standing next to him.

“Once the doctor releases you, you’re coming to the station with me.”

Could Rob’s life get any worse?

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher