The Reluctant Time Traveler

Chance traveled to this decade against his will. Yes, he'd complained plenty about how fucked up everything was in his own time. He'd pointed to a number of examples of how society had been better before and that the whole country was doomed if we didn't get our shit together. But the last time he checked, it was still a free country. He could complain all he wanted. It didn't mean he actually wanted to teleport back to the past.

How was he to know his wife was building a time machine in their basement just to shut him up?

The Bequest

Matt arrived at the reading of Grandfather's will ready for his moment of ascendance. As the only living male heir, the family's wealth now belonged to him.

During the ceremony, Matt's seat was eclipsed only by that of the adjudicator. Grandfather was known for his love of pomp and grandeur, so it was only after many arcane rituals and benedictions that the adjudicator cracked open the will. "The heir shall find his bequest inside the labyrinth."

Next thing he knew, Matt was naked and bleeding at the center of a hedge maze. This was not the inheritance he'd been expecting.

Death’s Head

Retreating from Leningrad respect for the Soviets had grown amongst SS Totenkopf, elevated from Untermensch – ‘suhumans’ – to Bolsheviks.

After the bombardment from the eerily howling Katyushas – ‘Stalin’s organs’ – half of Franz’s platoon had been blown to bits, their blood staining the snow.

Silence.

Then line after line of T-34 tanks covered in infantrymen appeared over the frozen steppe.

The odds were impossible, yet none would surrender, warriors moulded by the code of blood, iron and unconquerable will.

Franz, 19, watching the approaching hordes, glanced at the Totenkopf – ‘Death’s Head’ – insignia on his lapel.

Yes, this was what he existed for.

From Guest Contributor Ian Fletcher

Martinet

He enters the classroom on Monday morning.

They ignore him, will not be silent as he speaks, chatting about the weekend, this and that, cocooned in subcultures he would not understand.

He cannot break in to quell their energy, bend them to his will, force the curriculum upon them, teach them ‘respect,’ nor corral them down the narrow path his life has taken.

He would beat them if he could but, thwarted by laws he would repeal, he can only shout.

“Shut up! Listen!” he bawls, getting their attention, momentarily.

“Why?” one of them simply asks.

He has no reply.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.