'Things That Travel Through the Air on Any Given Day in America' by Andrea Goyan

Birds, airplanes, falling leaves, butterflies, bees, mosquitos, plastic bags, cigarette butts, balloons, kites, soap bubbles, honking horns, chirping birds, barking dogs, children giggling—

Bullets.

Screams.

Blood.

Sirens.

   

Thoughts and prayers. 

Weeping.

                

Thoughts and prayers. 

Sobbing. 

    

Thoughts and prayers.

I pluck those empty thoughts and bitter prayers from the air they’ve polluted, snatch them as they pass their speakers’ lips, slurp and swallow the words, all the words, the vowels, the consonants, and the speakers’ impotence, all to be digested, shat out and flushed away. Forcing the loudest mute. 

Allowing the voices of the masses to break through the din and be heard floating in the air every day in America.

'Celestial Celebrations' by Sarah Oakes

“I can’t pluck a name from thin air," my celestial cryptid says, as we wait for passenger assistance at Peterborough, her alto saxophone voice echoing in the empty space. I nod. I understand. We’ve had this conversation before. She wasn’t sure then either, because choosing is hard, and she remembers the cruel names, the false ones the scientists gave her long ago. “But can I have a birthday?” She asks, her voice scooping octaves in hope.

“Sure you can.” I answer, delighted, surprised. “I’ve got one. Mine’s on St Patrick’s Day. You could have the same, or pick another day.” 

“I was thinking the solstice.” 

“So next Friday then?” I ask, excited, mind already planning.

“I’d like that!” There’s a pause, as she thinks. “Although I’m not sure how old I am.” The chord turns minor, and I know why. There are several different dates it could be.

“It doesn’t have to be about age” I say quickly. “It could just be a celebration of you. We can make it this weekend, if you like. We are headed on adventure, after all.” I continue. “And there’ll be lots of stories, and music too probably. We can find cake and coffee and cider and listen to old myths, all the things you love.”

“That does sound like fun” That Eb Major chord returns, her favourite, and I know she’s happier. And as passenger assistance arrives, I’m glad she suggested it, for she has done so much for me, its lovely to be able to give back. And why not celebrate her, when she carries wonder in her wake?

'In the Manner of Fairy Tales' by Luanne Castle

Magda broke off a hazel twig she passed on her path to the magistrate’s office. What had she really done anyway? Magda hadn’t realized there was a law prohibiting her chickens from wandering into her neighbor’s yard. As soon as she noticed they had gotten through the fencing, she rounded them up and led them home. They hadn’t even had time to shit over there. Now she saw she had been picking bark off the twig. Better than biting her nails. Magda pictured the magistrate’s sour face and stabbed at the air with the twig as if to puncture that nasty look. Instead, the air parted, just for an instant, and a dragon ghost stepped through and sat down on Magda’s shoulder. Seeing the woman’s shock, the ectoplasmic miniature roared with laughter. Of course, being small, his roar was not too loud for Magda’s ears. And being a ghost, he didn’t spew fire. Although the Wawel Dragon had demanded cows to eat and occasionally possibly maybe been responsible for eating human flesh, he had been dead now for many years. Magda grew brave and insisted he go back where he came from. Instead, the dragon ghost insisted on traveling with her to the magistrates. “Thank you for your hazel twig magic,” he crowed. Magda insisted she was not a magician or witch, but the dragon ghost just laughed. The magistrate seemed especially sour this morning, but when he glanced up and saw the dragon ghost he paled. “Hey there, judge! Remember before you were so high and mighty? Before you were chosen to judge others? Just a whippersnapper shoemaker you were! Feeding me that poison ram!” Just before the dragon ghost dragged the magistrate back with him through the thin air, he forced him to sign Magda’s papers of innocence. 

'A Gift' by Heain Joung

I walk out of the hotel. The noise, smells, colours, everything is the other side of comfortable. I wonder why am I here. She stands in front of me, her baby brother on her hip. She looks about seven. I try to imagine her life but give up. She calls me, “Sister,” and puts out her hand. I give her a coin. “You can give me more, can’t you, you have more,” she says. I stutter, “How dare you.” She then says she knows that. I am not sure of what she knows, but I put a couple of coins on her palm. She smiles, then says, “I knew you had more.”

Maybe,

she is right,

I have more,

more,

more of stories.

'Magnini's First Trick' by Sean Hill

 The Mystic Magnini flung out his cloak with a dramatic flair as he crossed the small stage,
all lights on him—for all he was a performer, he focused better when he couldn't see the
audience so well. He had never quite gotten over the stage fright of his first failed
performance. He looked to his assistant, Asenath. Beautiful. Graceful, beyond compare.
Invaluable. But the price had been heavy. A siren they called her. Oh they had no idea.

Magnini had been studying. Deeper than anyone ever should, he was told. He was finding
it hard to hold back the laughter. When does an illusion become so real that the performer
forgets it's an illusion? When it's not an illusion. Oh they really had no idea. They couldn't
see the names, the signs, the grisly totems which all hung just out of sight—a sleight of
spirit.

Three words that hadn't been spoken by human tongues in ages too horrible to recount
were transmitted through a cheap microphone and resounded across the smoky little
theatre. Magnini did not hide his smile as with a flourish of his wrist—a personal touch—he
slid his hand behind the very air itself, half his arm vanishing into nothing as the audience
erupted into the whispers and craning necks he had desired.

He could see beyond the lights for a second. Victor and Marianna. They knew. Oh, yes,
they knew. Victoria's knuckles, white with straining. Marianna's lips pursed and pale with
fright. Stop me. I dare you, thought the magician.

From the air, the Mystic Magnini began to beckoned something that began to turn the
whispers into raised voices, and the raised voices into screams.

They had no idea.

But tonight, they would know. They would all know.

NFFD 2024 Prompt #16: Out of Thin Air

Prompt #16: Out of Thin Air
AIR prompt D

Welcome to The Write-In!  This year, we're celebrating the 2024 National Flash Fiction Day Anthology theme of The Classical Elements - Air, Earth, Water and Fire. Throughout National Flash Fiction Day, we'll be posting one time-related prompt on the hour every hour from 00:00 until midnight (BST), for a total of 25 prompts in all.  You have until midnight on Sunday (BST) to submit your responses for possible publication here at the Write-In.  We'll start posting responses on Sunday, 16 June 2024....

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Write a story about someone who plucks something out of thin air...literally.  Is it a magic show? Magic realism? A worm-hole in space-time? Something else entirely?  It's up to you to decide....

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If you’re submitting this to us, make sure to note that this is a response to Prompt 16: Out of Thin Air.

You can submit responses until 23:59 BST on Sunday, 16 June 2024 for a chance to be published here at The Write-In.

You can claim the badge for this prompt by visiting the badgifier here (hosted by the NFFD website).

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