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  • Apple Heart

    When I was born, I did not have a heart, so the Doctor fashioned one for me out of an apple. In return, every day for the rest of my life, I was to bring him an apple.

    Until I was old enough to walk, mama delivered the apple to the Doctor, carrying me swaddled to her back so I received the credit. After I could walk, the burden fell on me. Every day, I would go into town, take a left at the dead tree, climb over the crumbling wall, and place an apple in his hand.

    When it rained, I waded through mud. Every day, the mud grew thicker until the water began to pool on top of it. The standing water went from kissing my toes to tugging at my ankles, deeper and deeper each day. The rain would not let up. When it reached my waist and the only way out of the house was through a window, I begged mama to let me miss this one day, what could it hurt? My backside was on fire as I sat in the rowboat and paddled through the town, the roads hidden beneath the standing water.

    I hated the Doctor. (more…)

  • Il Dottore

    Il Dottore never changed.

    Il Dottore always strode into the amphitheater, dusty black robes swirling about him, never looking to right or left. He landed at the lectern like a swooping hawk, turned piercing eyes to survey the students seated in the tiers.

    Il Dottore commanded silence with that glare and not one of the students assembled there dared break the stillness.

    Il Dottore had a sonorous voice, deep and booming, which resonated as much in the hearer’s chest and bones as their ears.

    Il Dottore’s words commanded an unwavering attention as he spoke, and afterwards, no student could remember exactly which words, which phrases, he had uttered, only their deep and sage meaning. (more…)

  • Ugly Fruit

    Eward Sullivan was dying.

    “Isn’t there an herb?” asked Inga, his wife. “I’ve still got the silver chalice from my dowry. Money won’t be a problem.”

    “No,” the grim faced valley physician told her over Eward’s head, as though he weren’t right there listening. “His heart’s just bad.”

    “Nothing bad about my Eward’s heart,” she said rolling up her sleeves over her robust arms and rising haughtily. “Now if you’ll excuse us, we’ve got a real healer to see.”

    She grabbed the handles of Eward’s wheelbarrow. Eward shrugged apology at the physician who shrugged in return as Inga pulled him out of the physician’s cottage, muttering. (more…)

  • October Stories at the Confabulator Cafe

    Fall has arrived, dearest patrons of the Confabulator Café. Shorter, cooler days, apples and cider, pumpkins and other squash, Halloween and Thanksgiving. This particular Confabulator considers this to be the most wonderful time of the year.

    And this time of year wouldn’t be the same without apples. So, this month’s prompt included that necessity. The prompt is: “an apple a day keeps the doctor away. What happens when you run out?”

    I hope you’ll join us every Monday this month to find out.

    Here’s the October schedule:

    Monday, October 8: “Ugly Fruit” by Emily Mosher
    Monday, October 15: “Il Dottore” by Aspen Junge
    Monday, October 22: “Apple Heart” by Eliza Jaquays
    Monday, October 29: “Apple of Her Mother’s Eye” by Sara Lundberg

  • Motorcycle Jack

    Her name was Motorcycle Jack and I didn’t know whether I wanted to be her or to fuck her when we met.

    “Motorcycles aren’t just machines. Motorcycles have a soul. They’re better than people.” That was her motto and I adopted it like the eleventh commandment the summer I worked the round-up, sitting beneath the stars on the dry plains listening to her wisdom. I was a hired hand, helping to bring in the car herds on an old paint they’d given me. That bike was a rust bucket, prone to problems no matter how I nursed the throttle. No faster than the cars we were bringing in, but I rode her with pride and a sore ass until we reached the plant.

    2,000 hood of cars on their way to Detroit. Dumb beasts, on their way to be stripped for parts at the end of the line.

    The days were long and the nights were short and uncomfortable. I would stare at the sky and wonder what the hell I was doing there. But there was money. There was the open road. And there was Jack.

    We were deep into the trail when we spotted the Harley. Every head in the camp went up. Her engine thrummed as we strained for the sound of a road bell on her, but none came. A road bell meant she was lost and probably registered. Without one she was a wild Harley and she was beautiful.

    Quick as a snake, I grabbed my rope and rushed my old jalopy to life. If I could rope myself a Harley I would be a true cowboy, destined for a life on the plains. Six other engines roared their full-throttled agreement beside me as everyone mounted up. The other hands weren’t riding borrowed rust buckets. Their engines didn’t backfire as they crested the hill. These were seasoned pros in pursuit.

    Motorcycle Jack was in the lead, whooping and hollering as the wind picked up against us.

    I was outclassed. As my tires slid in the muddy ruts the other bikes left behind, the Harley climbed the next hill like it was nothing but flat ground, unbothered by pedestrian worries like gravity and torque. She took the downhill like a river over a waterfall. She was grace incarnate. A creature born not to the plains, but placed here by some deity to show us all what freedom could be. In that moment, she was the only creature I loved more than Jack.

    I pulled my bike up and watched Jack give chase. We cheered her on as each hand pulled up. It was clear she was the only one who had any chance of catching the Harley. I screamed until my throat was raw. I don’t even remember what the words were. My spirit soared with the Harley as Jack gave chase. (more…)

  • Sunday Morning Coffee

    “Coffee, black,” said the lady at the counter. She was old, gray, yet spirited. She wore a white military style uniform. Its metallic silver trimmings reflected the incandescent light in such a way as to make it difficult to stare at her. It’s not every day that someone new orders here. That’s why I like it. It’s boring and predictable. The perfect place to spend my Sunday mornings after my work week filled with surprises and unpredictable chaos.

    I heard the woman pay with coins, which is odd. Who does that anymore? I quickly turned to look away just as the old lady grabbed her coffee. I pretended that the calm street outside was worthy of my intense glare, but I wasn’t fooling anyone, especially her. I caught her out of the corner of my eye as she pulled out a chair and sat at my table, “Are you Jackie Pitz?” asked the lady.   (more…)

  • Dream Wars

    The first time I saw X I was seated in one of three rows of folding chairs in a locker room huddle with my sweaty teammates listening to Martha Stewart describe how best to photograph cats along their migration route. Cats swirled around our chair legs, meowing and nudging my teammates shin guards to claim them as territory.

    “This is what I’ve got to work with?” said a strange voice. A squeaky voice that sounded like a rusty hinge.

    I looked down. On the dented metal folding chair beside me sat an olive green imp-thing about the size of a baboon with bat-like ears, pointy teeth, and luminous yellow eyes that looked way too big for its head. The imp had on a vest with no shirt underneath and pants that went to its knees and were a gray color that looked like they’d been dipped in a combination lichen and cement mix.

    “Be quiet,” I hissed, “or Martha will have us killed.” (more…)

  • September Stories at the Confabulator Cafe

    Hello, readers. Hope you’re ready for a brand new month of fiction.

    Our prompt this month was about dreams. Confabulators were given this line to inspire stories: “Every night you visit me. Sometimes in my dreams. Sometimes in my nightmares.”

    Here’s the schedule for September. Hope to see you around!

    Friday, September 7: “Dream Wars” by Emily Mosher
    Friday, September 14: “Sunday Morning Coffee” by Kara DeLaughter
    Friday, September 21: “Motorcycle Jack” by Dianne Williams

  • Tourtime Terms and Conditions, Page 6

    will not be held liable for any incidents, physical or otherwise, which arises or results due to one or more of the following temporal anomalies: inserting yourself into earlier or later branches of your family genealogy; transporting, removing or otherwise redistributing such items defined as illegal contraband in Section III.B.2.ii; directly or indirectly acting as, or claiming to be, the past or future savior of one or more indigenous peoples; deliberately affecting one or more forces of nature (including but not limited to: slight gusts of wind, butterflies, or small acts of kindness) with the intent to influence, change, or otherwise alter the future. This list is not intended to be all-inclusive, and is subject to change.

    Final determination of qualifying temporal anomaly events is determined by trained temporal anomaly adjudicators. Written appeals may be sent to the Office of Temporal Research. Applications will be reviewed in the order they are received, and may take up to one to three business decades for processing. All verdicts will be delivered no more than five minutes after submission, and are considered absolute.

    Section IV. Package Options and Limitations

    A. Tourist Destination Packages

    With the partnership from Activision, we are proud to announce that certain historical events previously deemed to crowded for additional spectatorship have been reauthorized for personal travel. By utilizing recent developments in incorporeal and invisibility technology, an unlimited number of people are able to coexist inside of the same spacetime coordinates, undetectable to local spacetime natives. The Activision Incorporeal Cloaking Unisuit (ICU) Technology is known to the State of California to cause cancer and birth defects or other reproductive harm. Usage of the ICU for purposes other than spectation the intended event will be punished to the full extent of the law. Package pricing and availability may vary on location, and is subject to change. Please see your local Tourtime Agency for a full list of current destination packages.

    1. The National Period Act of 2731 enabled Congress to declare periods of time, designated to be tourist destinations, locations of interest, or otherwise determined to be of significant importance, to be Federally protected in order to maintain the integrity of existence. As such, Tourtime is legally required to restrict the number of travelers per year to the following periods, designated as high traffic periods:

    • The Pepsi Cola World War II National Period (Europe, select parts of North America and Africa)
    • The General Motor Renaissance National Period (Europe only)
    • The IBM Prehistoric National Period (select parts of Pangaea)

    This is not an all-inclusive list of all federally protected national periods, but does represent a comprehensive list of all such national periods which Tourtime is authorized to service. There can be no exceptions made for travel to any unlisted national period, which includes travel for the purpose of familial genealogy tourism, as defined in Section VI.A.3. Any customer found to

  • The Scavenger’s Jar

    It stood taller than Elijah, wrapped in layers and layers of light fabric that wafted around its’ frame as the boom of air settled. His chest heaved from where he stood in the corner, holding tight the broom his mother had thrown in earlier. You need to sweep that hellhole! she’d said with a laugh just before leaving for work, and all Elijah could think was that she was being literal and somehow, his messy room had summoned a demon.

    Under a large gauzy hood he could make out a human face, but he was utterly certain that there must have been horns as well. A large hump rose from its shoulder and back. He held the broom out, and in response, the demon whipped a long staff out of a loop of rope on its hip and pointed it at him.

    “You must take me to the town water,” it said in a voice that was sharp but entirely too high to belong to a demon.

    “The what?”

    “Town water.” The demon sized him up so obviously that it seemed an exaggeration, then slid the staff in the scabbard. It reached up with normal human hands and tossed the hood back to reveal an average human head behind the light fabric. Its hair was jagged, dark, and cut short over dusky olive skin.

    The demon was just a tall woman, dressed in drab, dusty fabric that covered her from head to toe. Even the hump on her back was just a bag, not some demonic deformity. It rattled and clanked loudly as she shifted her balance. She sighed and gathered the fabric of her cloak up to glance at what looked like an ice cream sandwich with a screen clipped to her belt. She squinted, then smacked it with her palm. Dust drifted to the ground at her feet.

    “I need to hurry,” she said. “This passage is not forever.” (more…)