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.

Tannery

He received a large order to carpet an entire wall: that meant working late at the light tannery, in the other room. He looked at the skyscrapers at the far end of the room where he was now, but it could be done. He had to get to the other room, where the flowers grew: once the stem was cut, the stone inside reacted chemically with the local oxygen, then melted into spots of light whose original texture was much like a tongue’s. He sighed, thinking about his life. What he really enjoyed was preparing chlorophyll manually, on the piano.

From Guest Contributor Angelo Colella

Murder In The Grass

After choking down the pill, Leonard found that his scale of perspective had changed drastically. It wasn't that he was small, but now he saw the world as if he were only three inches tall.

The house, the trees, the mailbox, they all seemed like skyscrapers. The lawn was a forest, and the sidewalk might as well have been an ocean of concrete.

Leonard immediately began to run. He never realized that so many creatures wanted him dead. He was being chased by a million silent ninjas.

When the drug had worn off, Leonard swore he would never trip again.

Starburst

I remember being hurriedly pushed toward the flying ship by panicked voices howling peril. They spoke of a great heat inside me.

What was happening—?

Somehow, it was too late.

Now, all around me is twisted metal, smoking wreckage. My body throbs. Soot covers my hands and feet. Away from me, the skyscrapers appear spotted and streaked, but near there is only ruination. Debris like leaves. Great buildings that stood here only moments ago are gone. Here I am in the midst of it all.

I’m alone and lost and scared.

And, all the blast lines point to me.

From Guest Contributor Matthew Wells

Fabrication

Everything is desolation.

The more involved the enterprise, the more bustling and productive society becomes, the greater the emptiness.

Activity creates a void.

There is an inherent meaninglessness in fabrication. The greater the heights of the accomplishments--both metaphorically and literally, if one was talking about the mammoth skyscraping towers--the more devoid of meaning they become.

Even religion has become transparent in its vacancy. Enforced attendance and ritualistic devotion do not make for fulfillment. It just seems something fundamental is missing. It's like memorizing a list of vocabulary without understanding what the words mean.

Everything was different before the robot apocalypse