A message comes up on my screen. Tells me by clicking ‘OK’, I agree to age at a rate of one year per second.
I click ‘OK’. Whatever happens will give me something to write about.
I was eight years old when the message came up. Now I’m fifteen, seventeen… nineteen.
I wanted to write about sharks, then space, then excess, young love… fading youth.
I’m forty-six now. 48. 49.
I take a few moments, to reminisce about my joints not creaking so much.
I just turned eighty. These words are all I have to offer.
We are thrilled to announce our 2022 Best Small Fictions nominations: A girl by Melissa Llanes Brownlee Detached by Anika Carpenter ...
One day the planet tilted just ever so slightly to the left and everyone and everything I’d ever known in between fell off. It wasn’t easy t...
A shaft of sunlight fell across the worn herringbone floor, drawing his gaze upwards to the flawless blue sky beyond the row of windows, ...
A girl sits, waiting. She reaches above her head for a girl. A girl to pluck from the tree of girls. The tree is full and ripe, the perfect ...