Sasha’s attention fell on the harsh staccato of Stick’s nails, clicking across the hard floor. It’d been too long since she’d cut them, Sasha thought, distracted for a moment from the steady rhythm of her own breath. Stick clicked past again and Sasha heard him scratching against the front door. He had to go out. But it could wait. For one more breath at least, it could all wait — Stick and his nails and the world outside the door he was scratching at. Sasha re-focused her attention on the next inhalation, following it from the air fluttering past the edges of her nostrils, to the rising tide beneath her chest, as her diaphragm dropped and her lungs filled with—
Tag: Weird fiction
Well, Not Today by David August
Larry Sanchez, a father of two who worked as an operations manager for a pharmaceutical company, woke up at his usual time on Monday. Like every day, he sat at the kitchen table, drank his coffee and ate his bagel, but then, instead of getting up to go to work, he just stood there, thinking of nothing in particular.
He was startled when his sons stormed into the kitchen and grabbed whatever they could find to eat on their way to school. Larry usually left for work before the boys even woke up, although it was not unheard of for him to be a little late to see them off. In less than a minute, they said goodbye to their father and were gone.
Rituals by Joseph Evergreen
Before every game, Dalton Kissinger would arrive early and run exactly three laps around the baseball diamond. Following that, he would take his hat and flip it in the air, attempting to move his neck so it landed directly on his head. It normally took around five tries. Last, just before the game began, he would buy an order of fries, sprinkle pepper on them, and eat every last fry. With these three rituals, Dalton Kissinger ensured that he would play a good game.
He got fries from a place up the street and brought them back to the locker room. Dalton kept a pepper shaker in his duffel.
Keeping Up With The Joanses by Margaret Cahill
You look like a Joan. That’s what Ciara’s flatmate Fidelma said to me one Friday night in The Round House. We’d gone out for drinks after work and Ciara had texted her to invite her along. Ciara’d gone up to get the first round in when she said it.
“Sorry, what did you say your name was again?” Fidelma asked, even though Ciara had only just introduced us.
“Joan,” I replied.
Loser by Riley Passmore
Jeffrey Rhodes, the actual quarterback for the Detroit Lions, punches me in the face with everything he goddamn has, and I puke all over my Levi’s. I mean, he really lets me have it. By the time he pulls away his fist, I see stars and the face of God.
“How do you do it?” he snarls, his fist held high for another blow. He’s tied me to a folding chair, and has my collar wrenched up in his other hand. He’s angrier than Bigfoot.
Turn off Your Mind by Gary Duehr
Eddie hung a right onto Linden Court, a short dead end, and pulled over to the curb beside some blue recycle bins. He eased the Civic into Park, and the doors locked with a clunk. He checked the rearview mirror. His daughter’s girl, Mia, just 10 months, was still conked out in the car seat. Her head and right shoulder sagged against the seatbelt, as if she were an astronaut buckled into a capsule. The fuzzy straps of her gray knit cap dangled beside her ears, framing her look of serious concentration.
Welcome to the Starlite by Katy Goforth
Everyone has a limit. I hit mine on a picture-perfect Saturday in late April. I had resigned myself to being alone. Unlike my mother’s generation, I didn’t need a partner. I didn’t need a marriage contract. I did fine on my own. Or so I thought.
The loneliness set in after I started perusing the online dating sites. It was as if knowing what my prospects were made it worse. My profile was overflowing with potential mates that had perfected the bathroom selfie. The few times I accepted a match I quickly realized the dating software had failed me. I had no gracious way out. My “thanks but no thanks” message was most often greeted with, “Whatever. You’re an ugly bitch anyway.”
Optic Nerves by Catherine Yeates
I used to think that the crawling sensation on my back was a symptom. It began as an occasional twinge and grew into an ache, passing from the base of my neck down to my lower back in waves. Perhaps it was some manifestation of anxiety or dread; it certainly occurred alongside those things. The unease in my gut. My clenched jaw. The tightness in my chest.
Those sensations hit me in turn as I suffered through my first Medical Neuroscience exam in graduate school. Dread overtook me when I reached the sixth question and realized I was woefully underprepared. I already had been subjected to multiple anatomy courses in undergrad, not to mention that my earlier courses as a graduate student had already covered much of basic neuroanatomy. Yet, I had not prepared for the specificity or style of questions on this exam and my skin crawled with anxiety. By the time I reached the section on brain development, my mind had gone blank. Sweat gathered on my brow as I contemplated the possibility that perhaps my own brain had failed to develop at all.
What an Answer’s Worth by Tyler Plofker
I found the note, transcribed below, stuck in a yellowing copy of Jacques the Fatalist, borrowed from the Stavros Niarchos Foundation Library a few months ago. I submitted it to the online magazine you’re now reading because it seems to be what the author would have wanted—to make sure the contents continue on.
The note wasn’t dated or signed, but it looked fairly old (semi-brown, stained in parts, and wrinkly, but not falling apart).
Idle Ink 