Not a Mech of Dust

by Justin Byrne

“Make sure you shine the laser sights,” Zera yelled from inside the Resistance’s newest mech.

“Sure,” Josi responded as she climbed up with a rag in hand.

Zera needed to make sure that every nook and cranny of the cockpit’s instruments were sparkling. The Resistance was prepping for battle, and Zera didn’t want blood on their hands. As Zera continued to scrub, they heard a scream and a thud outside.

“Josi, you good?” Zera asked as they sighed, half concerned and half exasperated. At that moment, Zera realized they’d been scrubbing the laser’s on/off switch.

“Oh… sorry, Josi…”

Deirdre’s Bucket List

by David M Wallace

Skydiving. Check. Albeit in tandem, harnessed to a bronzed instructor with pecs like loaves of rye bread.

Tattoo. Check. A black serpent, an apple in its mouth, writhing down the long branch of your spine.

Poetry Slam. Check. Second place in the GTA Spoken Word Contest. And a bonus one-night-stand with an almost handsome Creative Writing grad student.

Silent Retreat. Check. That still small voice. Perhaps the one that spoke to Elijah at the mouth of the cave. “Accomplish, accomplish,” it whispered. “Or you will regret it.”

After you are dead, that is.

Eating Cake

by Wayne Garry Fife

Chester and Aisha snuck from their 43rd anniversary party so they could eat chocolate cake amongst their tomato plants and runner beans while watching Cedar Waxwings devour the bright red berries of the Mountain Ash.

“I read that some philosopher said that hell is other people.”
“Mmmm?”
“What’s heaven then?”

Pianos

by Linda Lowe

Pianos come in different shapes with 88 keys that make all our songs come true. Spinets are preferred by the parents, whose children love to bang through the bass keys and tiptoe through the high notes, like a tiny rain. On lofty avenues, the grand pianos roll into concert halls, the women in long white gloves, the men stiff in their tuxes, while down the street the uprights spend their lives in honky-tonk bars, where the tired and discouraged gather for a tall cool one and wait for the piano man to play, “Don’t Stop Believen” even if they have.

Haboob

by Scott Burnam

Morning reveals a feather and a bottle cap, delivered by the sandstorm, perched on the ribbon of grit outside my motel room door. The feather’s gray canvas is punctuated with riotous white spots. The brassy bottle cap, harshly bent from an opener, bears the words “Good Luck” on the inside, either as wish or warning.

Crouching, I snap a pic of this gifted totem. I fate the feather to find its own way out on another breeze. But I retrieve the bottle cap, blow out most of the sand, and pocket it, good with the gamble that it’s a wish.