'Church Angels' by Julia Goodlet

Me’thk’ow opened the doors to the large stone building and entered carefully, she did not want to disturb the ruin any more than she had to. This was her last visit and she wanted to make sure that she had captured the details correctly. Her carapace itched and her front claws needed a good oiling but that would need to wait. There was so little time before the planet was plunged back into the heliosphere of the red giant it orbited.

The beings of this world must have been gigantic, given the size of their structures. She had argued, as part of her thesis that these were their houses, made of gigantic stone blocks and wide steps to strange domed towers. Even ruined they were expansive and breath taking.

Her back claws chimed lightly as she scurried forward, each strike of her talons echoing in the vast cavern around her. She wondered what they were like, how they spoke, what their culture was like. There were hints from the statuary that still existed, their fierce features, flowing folds of skin and long broad wings. Not all of them were large, some were small and without the grace of the dominant people. She had discussed it at length with her senior academics and they agreed, these were pets, kept close for security by the winged-ones.

The heat of the red giant had burned away anything not made of stone but the vast arched structures at the end of each room remained, huge windows that the winged ones must have used to keep watch.

Checking her photos one last time, she scrambled over the fallen blocks and headed home, ready to submit her findings.

'Thursday, 8 September 2022' by Pam Makin

Newspapers are insulating on a cool night. Whatever the news, fold a broadsheet in quarters, it fits snuggly across a chest. This evening’s headline reads THE QUEEN IS DEAD. LONG LIVE THE KING. Emotionless faces glow in the light from smartphones. There is so little warmth in this digital age.

'First Place' by Emily Hall

My grandmother and I watch as Surya Bonaly lands the backflip at the 1998 Olympics. She’ll win gold, I think. But alas, she comes in tenth.  

Right before we drive back to Indiana, she tries to hug me. I slip away and go to my other grandmother, the one who doesn’t call me “hussy.” 

Years later, my brother will get off a plane and mention casually, in the back of my car, that she died. “When?” I’ll ask, shocked. “Back in February,” he’ll say, staring at the fields of ripening corn.

At night, her father, a World-War II veteran would get drunk, lean out the window, and swear that he could see Nazis coming for him. She’d tuck him into bed and clean him up. She was his oldest daughter, but in the end, when he was frail, he’d choose to live with her youngest brother. 

The hierarchy was this: his violence gave way to her sour tongue, which gave way to my father’s stone silence, which gave way to my tendency to make jokes that hurt. 

Long day at work. I take refuge in a quiet bathroom. When I look up in the mirror, I’ll be surprised to see her face in mine. Stubborn chin. Haunted eyes. What an odd way for someone to finally come in first. 

'A Library Bonus' by Jean Feingold

Lindsey always expected to find something special at the public library. Even though she went looking for a particular thing, like a great book or a funny movie, what she ended up with was often much more.

Her most recent visit took her to the mystery section. She wanted something new to read when she came across an author she’d never heard of named Henry Modread. His book was called This Book Will Change Your Life. Lindsey liked her life pretty well as it was, but enjoying a challenge, she checked it out.

Back home, she opened the book and a document fell out. It was the deed to a mansion a few miles away. A note attached to it said once the finder registered the deed with the court, the mansion was theirs to do with as they wished. Lindsey was skeptical, so she called her lawyer friend Ben. A deed like this was new to him so he came over to take a look. 

After a careful reading, Ben concluded the deed and the deal were legit. “Let’s drive by and see what it looks like,” Lindsey said. “It could be a joke or a dump.” They gasped as they gazed at the house. It was huge, it was gorgeous, more lovely than either had imagined. 

“Court’s open today,” Ben said. “Got your ID on you? You’ll need it for signing documents. And remember I said I wanted a new roommate? You have an extra bedroom for me now.” 

As they drove to the courthouse, Lindsey opened the book and inspected it. All the  pages were blank other than the title page with the book’s name and the author’s signature. Now she had a research project, to learn everything she could about Henry Modread. 

'Swimming with Mom' by PL Harris

In Hawaiʻi, when someone dies, we say:

I love you. I forgive you. Please forgive me.

I say this to my mother when I visit her grave.

But for some reason, I mostly think about this at the beach.

Mom didn’t learn to swim until after she retired, when she was 55 years old.

I don’t know why.

Might have been because she and her family lived away from the shore, on a sugar cane plantation.

Might have been because it wasn’t something girls did back then.

Might have been it just didn’t feel important to her parents.

But she wanted to swim so much.

Her first step was to make sure we three kids, my brother, sister, and I could swim.

She took all of us to lessons when we were little kids.

I only swam once with my mom in the ocean, me in my floral bikini, her in a blue one piece. 

There was nothing but joy in her eyes, in her heart.

How I wish she could have experienced more of that.

Will you forgive me Mom, for not being there when you had a stroke, for not getting you to the hospital, for not giving you one more day in the waves?

'Summer ‘73' by Erin Bondo

Bob Weir’s vocals lilt from a second floor window, sibilating shhhhugar magnolia as the needle vibrates across a scratch in the vinyl. Naked in the August heat, Diana shelves her breasts on the windowsill, leans out to watch a couple of cubiches slapping dominoes with rhythmic clacks on a small folding table that belongs to the grocer downstairs. She smiles, takes a long, slow drag on the joint trailing from her fluid fingers, inhales deep. This summer has been her flowering, eyes open to the world: America’s involvement in Vietnam dwindling as Watergate hits the fan, revelations of secret bombing raids against Cambodia in ‘69 and ‘70, a looming energy crisis. Light and shadows. Scandals and war. Everything different, everything the same.

---

Prompt #17 involved choosing five words from a FlashFlood story.

Source text: 'Magnolia' by Emily Devane

'Lorca Found and Lost' by Mike Lewis-Beck

I found Lorca, disguised as a turtle, when I went to Atocha station to check the train schedule to Madrid-Barajas. The big red-brick barn-like edifice contains a large palm tree conservatory protecting a stone- filled pond, brimming with goldfish and turtles. There Lorca swam contentedly, returned from Vermont as a turtle, after having been lost for 55 years.

'Saturday Morning Scrapes' by Melissa Flores Anderson

The bicycle chain whirs and the wheel skids on sand that has blown onto the pavement from the Marina dunes. Charles is a skilled rider, but he’s off his game today and careens into the ground. His hand looks like raw hamburger as he rights the bike to continue forward. It doesn’t hurt much, but as he rides along a main road, dodging vehicles, the pain intensifies. He is nine miles from home, where he will deal with it later.

***

Jack hates the helmet, but Lilly insists on it. Jack teeters forward, training wheels holding him upright. He goes faster  and she runs to catch up. He tips over into a rose bush. He has a small scrape on his arm, but wants a band aid. Lilly kisses his forehead, lifts him into her arms, holding him against her hip with one arm while wheeling the bike beside her with the other. The last time she rode a bike was with Charles. She was too slow, just like in high school when she was last to finish the mile.

'Stories are good — what’s yours?' by David Lewis

 Dad says he’s Elvis. I say Presley’s dead. "Fake news," Dad drawls, imitating a President.

'Longdale' by Geoff Benn

Something was off in Longdale, California. Sure, the well-watered lawns were perfectly edged

and the only sound louder than the sprinklers was the occasional whir of a Tesla headed off to

the country club or swim lessons. But something was definitely off.

I first noticed the signs:

A huge billboard, just off the freeway, showed a smiling woman holding a test tube, with the

text “Genely Labs – engineering tomorrow, today.”

Outside of a city park, a bus bench read “Genely – passionate about community safety.”

“Genely wrangler positons starting at $20/hr – same day hiring” scrolled across the bottom of

the local news in my hotel room.

I decided I wanted a drink and headed for the Pelican Tavern, which promised “Mixed Drinks”

and “Billiards” in a neon glow just up the street.

Alfred’s Sporting Goods was closed, but a printed sign in the window said “We are sold out of:

croquet mallets, golf clubs, lacrosse sticks, BB guns, and marshmallow roasting sticks. We

apologize for the inconvenience. Good luck!”

After I settled into the vinyl embrace of a stool at the Pelican, I asked the bartender what the

hell was going on in Longdale. He shook his head and pointed to a framed notice behind the

bar:

“By order of the City Council, discussion of the ongoing safety incident is prohibited in the

interest of public order. Violators are subject to fine and / or placement on a wrangler crew.”

On the walk back to the hotel, I saw a business card stapled to a telephone pole. It said

“McTernan Law – have you or loved one been harmed by mutant hamsters? Call 1-800-HAMHARM!”

As I pocketed the card, I thought I heard scurrying in the nearby alley. It was time to get out of

Longdale.