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Thursday’s Child

Thursday’s Child

by Anne Trainor

If this were a story, it would start with: Once upon a time, there was this woman who was sleep walking.  She tried and tried to wake up.

The problem was, she had forgotten about the little people.  No, not people with dwarfism or people of lower class status, this is a fairy tale.  The little people, the meekies.  The pixies some people call them.  They were everywhere, where she had grown up.  In the stone fences that burrowed through the woods throughout the town, the bowls and bifurcations of the maple trees and the oaks, under the tufts of grass in the pine marshes.  They danced through the house at night, played around the sleeping bodies of herself and her brother like the Lilliputians and Gulliver.  Sometimes, they loved little tricks like this, they would lift the whole bed, gently floating it up into the night sky, send it spinning and reeling through the stars.  It was a blast.

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Thor’s Tarts

Thor’s Tarts

by Go Ducks!

Thor opens the oven to reveal one single tiny tart.

“Hmm, now that’s one tasty-looking tart.  I don’t know if Miss Paula Dean can beat my signature recipe.  But I guess she’ll sure try.”

The studio audience claps.

“You bet your ass I will.”  Paula says as she struts onto the set.

Thor welcomes her with a big hug.

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The Sun-flower

The Sun-flower

by The Honest Liars

It was yellow like the sun, and Charlie had never seen anything like it in his life. He got on one knee to look closer. He wondered if it was warm to the touch, or if it would burn him.

“Maybe it’s a rose,” said Charlie.

“You should get away from it. It’s dangerous,” said Louis, adjusting the glasses on his thin nose.

“There ain’t no roses in Rose City,” said Nathan as he crossed his arms.

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The Mischief of Doppelgangers

The Mischief of Doppelgangers

by Amanda Robinson

Bobby wasn’t really crazy.  Unfortunately, only a handful of people knew Bobby wasn’t crazy, and almost all of them were Bobby.  Bobby’s only real problem was that he was an avid proponent of the works of Brian Greene, the theoretical physicist and string theorist.  See, when you try to explain to people that everyone has doppelgangers- exact copies of themselves who exist in parallel realities- you tend to be labeled as crazy, or perhaps simply a little “out there”.  Go on to explain that these doppelgangers can travel between any of infinite multiple universes, and so can you, and you’ll notice your listeners begin to back away from you slowly.  Continue reading

The Bridgetown Serpent

The Bridgetown Serpent

by Nick Powell

 Of great age were the halls Paul strode. Not in four years had the feet of men tread within, but now there rang the clangor of steel and the roar of machines with cutting teeth. Strewn about were rags and boxes of caustic powders and buckets of hissing acids, and to and fro went his fellow workers clad in rubber and helmets grunting as they pried wood and pipe from the walls, stripping the halls down to their metal frame and carrying the dross out in wheeled buckets as fogs of dust billowed in their wake. They yelled and laughed at each other above the din. Prowling in the noise was the timekeeper, whose work lay in a stack of papers, rather than in his hands. Paul, dressed as his fellow workers and gripping a great hammer in his right hand, strode into a room whose skin was of porcelain, punched through by cracked tin plumbing, all corrupted of a creeping black mold that the years had been kind to. He was thankful of his mask as he went at his work, smashing with broad sure strokes the wall, sundering tile as though it were soil ‘neath a plough.

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The Wyrd

The Wyrd

by Team Training Bra

Tonight was the night.

Ben smoothed his fingers over the outline of the key in his pocket, breathing slowly.  He calculated every movement as he walked down the corridor into his room, ensuring to adhere to the list of rules written on the wall of the ward.

1. No contraband in the Rose City.

2. No stealing in the Rose City.

3. No smoking in the Rose City.

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Thorsday Nights

Thorsday Nights

by Bob Ferguson

The young man next to me was whizzing like a race horse while I was peeing in Morse Code—symptomatic of an aging prostate.

“It must be hell to get old, eh ol’ geezer” snorted the young stallion in the stall next to me. His tone insinuated that senior citizens should stay home at night.

“Well, you’ll never find out if you don’t show a little more respect,” I said.

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