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.

Home

As the helicopter approached the storm-ravaged town, hundreds of people desperately watched and waited for food and supplies. I started to make the first drop and joyful screams filled the air.

The hurricane damaged houses, leaving them engulfed in water, while downed trees blocked the roads and cars had streamed down the streets into one another. Shelters were provided, but they couldn’t accommodate everyone. They needed help.

The pilot turned in my direction. "Okay, that’s the last one. Let’s go.”

I buckled my seatbelt and said a silent prayer, thanking Him that I had a place to go home to.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Traitor

The streets were eerily quiet, and I knew Nazis were lurking around. I stood in the woods and listened to the animals’ noises until I heard footsteps. It was the contact. He said the code word and I handed him the papers. He was gone as quickly as he came.

I was about to make my way back to the resistance when I heard another set of footsteps. I braced myself and reached for my weapon, but it was gone. Traitorous monster, I thought. He swiped my knife.

A Nazi appeared pointing a barrel of a gun to my head.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Reflections In The Rain

Amid labyrinthine alleys and neon-lit streets, a small cafe beckons. Inside, a lone figure cradles a lukewarm coffee, eyes weary yet searching. Across, a young couple laughs—a fleeting yet beautiful symphony of joy.

The cafe hums: baristas call orders, chatter blends into a comforting buzz. Inside him, a yearning tide—echoes of a once-ablaze love, now scattered like dead autumn leaves. Rain taps a melancholy rhythm, each drop a plea.

The coffee, bitter; the rain, demanding. He catches someone staring back—unspoken stories, quiet regrets. He reaches to comfort the other, feeling only glass. No one searches but himself.

From Guest Contributor Chinmayi Goyal

The Right Thing

When I stepped into the cold of the night, the wind against my face, there wasn’t a soul in sight. I walked the streets in desperate need of an answer. Those files I found would ruin the company and probably cost me my job but inevitably save lives. I wish I hadn’t come across those documents. At least I wouldn’t have insomnia.

After what seemed like hours, I had an idea. I’d go in tomorrow as if nothing happened. No one would suspect a hard working every-day man like me would do what I decided.

And that’s the right thing.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Tank Man

No one knows where he came from. He simply appeared on the streets from nowhere.

He stood defiantly, one man against a nation, a beacon of hope, a harbinger of doom.

He became a symbol around the world. To many, he was an emblem of brave resistance. To some, he was a token of what one person can accomplish against all odds.

Nothing is known about who he is or what made him believe one man was able to stop an army.

No one knows what happened to him afterwards. But the truth is everyone knows what happened to him.

The Walk

I must be insane walking the streets at 3 o’clock in the morning, but I need to clear my head and the air helps.

A dog lunges at me from the alley nearly biting my ankle. It growls and leaves. I head toward my apartment since I wouldn’t get any thinking done after that.

I’m about to put the key in the door when a tap on my left shoulder startles me and I jump.

It’s my son Jameson.

“Dad, I want help, I need help.” His beseeching voice says.

I unlock the door and leave it open behind me.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Horrors Of War

Innocent civilians taken hostage. Families plead for their loved ones' safe return, helpless and fearing the worst outcome. All they can do is weep and wait.

Pictures of children shown on the news, unaware of the outside world, scared, frightened, and huddled together unable to sleep, wanting their parents to save them and not knowing why they’re separated.

Countries gather to create foundations to help those in need. How long will it last?

Shootings and chaos surround streets, and gunfire echoes in the air. People bellow and search for safety, unable to find it.

These are the horrors of war.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Assignment

I had been told of the dangers of the assignment and assured my boss that I could handle it. Now on the dark, ominously quiet streets after curfew, in Nazi-occupied Poland, I wondered. I told myself I’m doing it for my country and for myself.

I hid the folded map in the secret compartment in the heel of my shoe. If I am captured, we will all be tortured and then executed.

I continued until I reached my destination and handed over the map to the leader of the resistance.

I finally let out a sigh of relief and wept.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Anomie Can Be Defined As . . .

At that late hour, the streets were deserted. I wandered the dirty sidewalks in a kind of amnesic daze. Somehow I had gotten lost in a part of town I thought I knew well. Familiar landmarks had simply disappeared. I didn’t recognize the faces of buildings or the signs on storefronts. My own footfalls sounded weirdly detached from me. After only twenty minutes of this, I felt as though I had been running, falling, flying, floating, crawling half the night. I sat down on the curb exhausted. Clouds shaped like vague suspicions of vast conspiracies were just starting to pinken.

From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie's latest poetry book is The Horses Were Beautiful, available from Grey Book Press.