Letter From The Editor - Issue 69 - June 2019

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Issue 50
Cherry Red Rocketship
by James Maxey
Jupiter or Bust
by Brad R. Torgersen
Middle Child Syndrome
by Scott M. Roberts
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Schroedinger's Hummingbird
    by Diana Rowland


It didn't matter who'd left the safety-gate at the top of the stairs open. The result was the same, the tragedy still there in twisted limbs and broken bones. But wherever the fault lay, it had happened, and so she'd tried to fix the mistake and made an even bigger mistake. Guilt on top of guilt. Had she been the one or not? It was too late to ever know for sure, since Mark's memories of it were gone. How could he have a memory of something that would never happen?


The cup crashed to the floor, spraying over-sweet tea and sharp shards of fine china across the blue-flowered pattern of the linoleum. It had only been a momentary lack of concentration--but then that's what had caused all of the problems in the first place.

This time her gaze had been intent on the hummingbird whirring green and blue wings at the bright red plastic feeder she'd put out the day before. That long ago day before. She barely remembered that yesterday anymore, it had been so long since she'd lived it. But her thoughts had been scattered as she'd tried to gather herself for yet another go at getting it all right, and she hadn't paid attention to where the table was, and had placed her cup it half off the edge.

The hummingbird was right. She remembered that much. She wasn't sure if it mattered, but she knew by now it was vital to try and do everything exactly the way she had before and try and reduce random changes.

But breaking the cup hadn't been part of it. The ruins of the cup that had once been her grandmother's still quivered in the aftermath of the destruction, shards slowly spinning to a stop. She heard the water running in the bathroom. Mark would be finished with his shower soon, and he'd come into the kitchen. If he found her cleaning up a mess of broken porcelain, that would throw everything off.

Carol looked down at the Rorschach blot of brown tea on the pale blue flowers of the floor. She'd have to do it again. Just a small one though, not even a minute long. Just long enough to make sure she didn't break the cup. Better to do it now than wait and see if breaking the cup messed up all the rest. There were only so many times that she'd be able to go through this. Only so many times she could stand to go back and start over.

Soon it will work out though, she told herself. Soon I'll get it right. Soon I can end this.

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