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The Gift of Time

An Acorns Flash Fiction Feature

By: Patrick Siniscalchi

Russell loosened the Windsor knot and slipped out of his dress shoes and socks. He dropped back onto his bed and rubbed his red, compressed feet, wishing he had listened to his mom and gone shoe shopping before the funeral. He longed to see his grandfather once more but was thankful for the closed casket—he couldn’t bear gazing at the damage from the head-on collision.

His own father’s funeral ten years earlier was now a ghost of a memory.

After slipping on his sandals, he raised his head and startled. “Geez, Mom, you scared the crap out of me.”

“I’m sorry, Russell. Are your feet okay?”

“Yeah. I thought those shoes still fit.”

“Well, it has been a few years, and you are growing.” Mom often joked that her teenage son had transformed into a ‘mouth with feet.’

“What’s that?” He pointed to the small wooden box in his mother’s hands.

“Apparently, something your grandfather wanted you to have. I found it with this Post-it note on it when I was in his closet picking out the suit for…” She held out the box so Russell could read it.

For Russell,

Love, Grandpa.

“What is it?”

She shrugged. “I figured you should be the one to open it,” she said, presenting it to him.

The craftsmanship of the ouroboros, a circular snake eating its own tail, carved in maple, contrasting harmoniously with the dark walnut shell, spoke of a time long past. He flipped the tarnished brass latch open, then hesitated.

“Well, go ahead… it won’t bite you,” she said.

He lifted the lid.

A watch lay encircling a round crushed velvet frame.

“Wow, it’s ancient, but kinda cool, too. It’s got like a steampunk look.”

“I remember that watch. I hadn’t seen Grandpa wear it in a long time, probably since your father passed.”

Russell raised the watch to his ear. “I think the battery is dead.”

“Honey, it doesn’t have batteries…you have to wind it. Let me show you.”

She rolled the tiny wheel back and forth for half a minute.

“You pull this out to set the time.” After matching the time to her smartwatch, she pushed the knob flush against the side. “Here you go.”

“Thanks, Mom.” Russell slid the band onto his wrist. “I like it.”

She smiled, then kissed him on the top of his head.

Early the following day, the absence of his grandfather pained Russell while looking at the watch. His ever-present pride and support—attending soccer games, school plays, the father/son picnic.

He blinked several times and rubbed his eyes.

The second hand moved counterclockwise.

He counted slowly to sixty to see if the minute hand followed suit.

When it also moved backward, the clunking sound was far louder and deeper than could come from the mechanical timekeeper on his wrist.

“Russell.”

The familiar baritone calling his name chilled him. Fear of seeing what the closed casket had kept hidden held his gaze downward on the second hand, ticking in reverse.

“Don’t be afraid.”

He stared at the rectangle of window light on the carpet for so long that he thought it moved. With as much courage as he could muster, Russell lifted his head.

Relief washed over him. The man who was so instrumental in his upbringing stood before him, wearing the comforting smile that always put him at ease.

“Grandpa…” Russell searched for another way to ask that didn’t make him sound like a kid but finally settled on the simplest approach. “Are you a ghost?”

“Not in the way that we experienced them in books and movies. There’ll be no haunting from me.” Grandpa chuckled.

Russell’s face eased into a grin, but then his brow knitted. “Why are you back?”

Grandpa pointed to Russell’s wrist. “That watch is very special. It has connected loved ones across the life/death membrane for generations, even before my time. But only for those who had the truest relationship while living.”

“Will Mom be able to see you?”

Grandpa shook his head. “I’m afraid not. Even if she were to wear that, her energy is not linked to mine like yours.”

Thoughts and questions swirled through Russell’s brain, tying his tongue.

“There is no need for me to divulge it all now—I will appear as long as you wear the watch and think of me.”

Still trying to calm his mind, Russell simply nodded.

During the rest of the day, Grandpa kept popping up since it was impossible for Russell not to think about him. Unfortunately, Russell’s mind wandered to his grandfather at some inopportune moments: dinner with his mom, sitting on the toilet, and while trying to fall asleep. That last one spooked him, causing him to yell and sending his mother rushing into his bedroom. Afterward, he removed the watch, breaking its connection to the other side.

The next day, after much deliberation, Russell realized what his follow-up question would be. “Grandpa, what is heaven like?”

Grandpa sighed. “That’s a tough one to explain, but I’ll try my best. Heaven and hell are not what we were taught—one up in the clouds, the other in the fiery bowels of the earth. If you’ve led a respectable life, your energy is used to propel the universe forward, to keep it running, so to speak. However, if you’ve been less than honorable, your energy opposes the workings of the universe. So, you see, it’s essential to be more virtuous and just than deceitful or unethical.”

The explanation caused Russell’s eyes to glaze over.

After a long moment, Grandpa asked, “Does that make sense?”

“I guess so. Though it’s kinda difficult to wrap my head around.”

“Absolutely. When my father first explained it to me, I couldn’t grasp it. The good news is that once you pass over, it all becomes crystal clear, like you’ve known it forever.”

“Wow,” said Russell when no other words would come to mind.

“I’m really nervous about the school play next week,” said Russell. “We’re supposed to be off-book by now, but I can’t remember all of my lines.”

Grandpa patted him on the shoulder. “You’ll do fine. However, if you want, I can run lines with you.”

“That’d be great.”

An hour later, there was a knock on the bedroom door.

“Come in.”

Mom entered and said, “I could hear you practicing your lines. Sounds like you’ve got them down pat.”

Russell smiled and glanced at his grandfather, who winked back.

During the curtain call on opening night, Russell alternated his smiles between his applauding mother and somewhere in the wings.

Over the next year, Grandpa helped Russell through various challenges: his first time playing goalie, his geometry final, his driving test for his permit, and his first real dating experience, as well as the aftermath of the eventual breakup. Russell later heard through friends that his ex was ‘weirded out’ when he frequently talked to no one.

One day, he asked, “Grandpa, why did you stop wearing the watch?”

“Well, while it was wonderful to see your father again and discuss his hopes and dreams for you, there comes a point where one has to go it alone. But you won’t be alone—you’ll have friends and people who love you for support. And, of course, I can always come if you need me.”

Russell remained silent for a few minutes. “I’m a little afraid and will miss you terribly, but maybe it’s time.”

Grandpa grinned and nodded.

They hugged. Grandpa said, “I love you.”

“I love you, too. Thank you for everything.”

“It was my pleasure. And remember, time is a precious gift. Never squander it.”

“I promise I won’t.”

With tears in his eyes, Russell removed the watch, and his grandfather faded away. He placed the timepiece back in the ornate wooden box. He crumpled Grandpa’s Post-it note, tossed it in the trash, and replaced it with his own.

For my son or daughter.

Love,

Dad

About the Author:

Patrick Siniscalchi is a retired electrical engineer living in Asheville, North Carolina with his wife and scruffy dog. His work has appeared in the Bright Flash Literary Review, The Sunlight Press, MoonLit Getaway, Suddenly and Without Warning, Great Smokies Review, and elsewhere.

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The Hole Which He Made

An Acorns Flash Fiction Feature

By: Tom Howard

Naked trees rattled around him as he tramped through the snow, ruining his expensive leather shoes. He cursed the unexpected blizzard destroying his plan to be as far from his wife’s body as possible. He’d hidden his car on the other side of the hill from the hotel, but a bad snowstorm had settled over the area, and he’d gotten lost. Damn weather channel.

Shivering, he pushed aside a branch and gasped when it dropped a wet clump of snow down his back. His suit was wet, his shoes squished, and he couldn’t feel his fingers. Where the hell was his car?

He’d lured Beatrice to the hotel under the promise of a weekend getaway. Her fat dead body lay wrapped in a bloody shower curtain in the tub. The wiped knife rested in the bottom of the wastepaper basket.

The bare trees on the hill didn’t block the snow, which had grown worse since he started. He’d gotten turned around in the dark and had no idea how long he’d been lost. Ironic if he’d planned the perfect murder only to die of hypothermia in the woods.

A fallen log beneath the blanket of snow caught the toe of his shoe, and he fell into a snowbank. An owl hooted in the distance.

“Damn you, Beatrice.” He spat out a mouthful of snow. He’d married her for money, but her father held the family purse strings too tight for her husband to get any.

He pushed himself to his feet. His wet clothes clung to him. Maybe if he had more body fat like Beatrice, the cold wouldn’t bother him.

The wind blew ice crystals into his eyes while he staggered down another hill, unable to tell if he’d been there before. What did you do when you were lost in the wilderness? Go downhill, find a creek, and follow it. With his luck, he’d fall into a river and die in a block of ice. Beatrice, who loved telling him how to do things, would have suggested a dozen ways for him to get out of this predicament.

Brushing aside fat flakes, he didn’t notice the small light ahead until he stumbled across a snow-covered driveway.

The cabin, a rambling shack with a wraparound porch, lay half-buried under the snow. Two small windows glowed amber with flickering light as he climbed the steps. He didn’t see a car. He didn’t see a garage. Well, maybe they had a phone. He’d left his in the car.

He pounded on the door with a clenched fist, and after a few minutes, it was opened by a small woman. She peered at him through thick glasses.

“You’re late,” the old woman said. “My nose has been itching all day. Means company is coming. Come in.”

She opened the door wide, and he entered without asking who she’d been expecting on such a stormy night.

The room was hot from the roaring fireplace, or maybe his body temperature had dropped so low that anywhere out of the storm seemed tropical. At one end of the room, a large hearth fire crackled. Beside it sat a rocking chair. Folded quilts lay stacked atop an old trunk situated at the end of the room away from the fire. Faded family photos and an outdated calendar from a funeral home hung on the walls. The room smelled of cinnamon and cedar.

“I’m sorry to bother you,” he said. “I’m Nathan, and I’m lost.”

Her eyes twinkled in the light from the kerosene lamps. “Pleased to meet you. I’m Minerva Amburn but everyone calls me Minnie.”

“Do you have a phone or someone to take me to town?”

“Sorry. Neither. You’re stuck out here until the blizzard blows over. According to my knees, it’ll be a few days. I’ll get you some dry clothes.”

She disappeared through a thin sheet hanging over a doorway, and he considered his options. The old woman could identify him, and he was running out of time. She had to go. If they found Beatrice before he came up with a valid reason why he couldn’t have committed the murder, he’d get the electric chair. If he buried her in a snowbank, the old woman wouldn’t be found for months. Accidents happened to old people all the time.

Happy with his plan, he took deep breaths to quell the panic making his palms sweat.

Minnie looked like she was a hundred. Her hair was steel gray and gathered in a braided bun on the back of her head. Her glasses magnified her blue eyes, and her perfect teeth had to be dentures.

When she returned, she carried a flannel shirt and pair of pants. “I’m sorry, but my husband’s shoes are too small for you. Leave yours by the fire to dry.”

He took the clothes. “Where is your husband?”

“Truman’s been dead for twenty years. He won’t mind you borrowing his clothes. You can change back there.”

 “Thank you.” He left his shoes on the hearth.

She rubbed her nose. “Still itching. Means more company is coming. I can’t reckon why anyone would be out on a night like this.”

Great. More witnesses if he put much stock in her irritated nose. He didn’t. He went through the curtain, leaving damp footprints from his waterlogged socks. The small back room held a cot and a rack of clothes on a broom handle across one corner. Did the old woman sleep here? He changed from his soggy wool suit into a faded shirt and a pair of stiff jeans that smelled of camphor. He cinched up the old belt around his trim waist, grateful she’d included hand-knitted wool socks. A small mirror, cracked and askew, hung on the wall, and he ran his fingers through his curly black hair. With his good looks, he could marry anyone with money next time.

Warm and dry, he took a deep breath and planned what to do next. He had no idea where he was or how to get to the nearest highway. How long before someone found his wife’s body? She might not be discovered until the hotel maid came in the next morning. With his alibi of being miles away destroyed, his remaining option was to run. He had money and a passport stashed in a suitcase in the trunk of his car. He just had to find a way back to it.

Feeling human again, he carried his wet clothes into the living room.

Minnie sat reading by the light of the kerosene lamp. Dark veins stood out on the backs of her hands. She looked up from the book in her thin fingers.

“Just hang those on the nails on the wall over there,” she said. “They’ll be dry by morning. It takes most of the night for the fire to die down.”

“Thank you, again,” he said, “Minnie.” He’d almost forgotten her name. “What are you reading?”

“The good book, Mr. Franks. I read it every night. Are you a Christian, sir?”

The leatherbound book had the corners worn off from years of reading. “Yes, ma’am. Methodist born and raised.” He hadn’t been to church since he left for college. Beatrice went twice a week.

Minnie nodded. “Good to hear. I’m reading Psalms, my favorite book. Psalms 7:15 and 16. ‘He has dug a pit and hollowed it out and has fallen into the hole which he made. His mischief will return upon his own head, and his violence will descend upon his own pate.’”

Nathan froze. Why had she read that verse? Was she messing with him?

She looked over her thick glasses. “Coffee, Mr. Franks? I kept a pot warm for you.” She stood and moved into the kitchen, placing the worn bible on the table. Her back cracked as she stood.

Through the open doorway to the kitchen sat a wood-burning cookstove. She removed an enameled coffeepot and returned with it and a cup.

“I have sugar and powered milk.” She poured the coffee with a steady hand.

“No,” he said. “Black is fine. Thank you.” He took the offered cup and moved to the window. “You’re not having any?”

“Oh, no. If I drink coffee this late, I’ll be up and down all night. The outhouse is too far away in the snow.”

He parted the window curtains, more worn sheets, and peered at the ghostly landscape. The snowfall had slackened.

Something moved on the hillside, a gray movement amid the whiteness. A shrouded figure struggled down the hill. “Who’s that?” he asked.

Minnie joined him at the window. “It looks like our company has arrived. My nose is never wrong.”

The stranger in the snow fell, picked themselves up, and trudged closer. Something about the stranger’s movements seemed familiar. His heart raced, and he opened his mouth to scream but no sound came out.

Minnie peered through the glass. “Poor thing. Out on a night like this wearing only a shower curtain.”

Her eyes twinkled in the firelight, and she chuckled. “I guess this is the ‘violence will descend upon his own pate’ part of your story, Nathan.”

About the Author:

Tom Howard is a fantasy and science fiction short story writer living in Little Rock, Arkansas but originally from the Smoky Mountains.

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Why Would You?

An Acorns Flash Fiction Feature

By: R.S. Nelson

The woman stretches her long, wrinkled hands across the table and flips the next Tarot card. “The Fool,” she says, and does a theatrical flourish before placing it next to the Ten of Swords. She frowns after turning over the upside-down Magician. Then the Three of Swords and The Devil, and finally The Star card, all aligned in the shape of a triangle, a spread I had never seen. She pauses, and I’m not sure if she does it for dramatic effect or because the cards are in fact that bad. She lifts her weathered face, her dark eyes narrowed, and I wonder if the cards are telling her what is happening in my life, or if she’s “reading” it in my disheveled hair and puffy eyes.

“Hmm.”

“What is it?” I ask, even though I already know the answer.

“These cards. What is happening in your life, young lady?”

I stifle a smirk. Not only I’m not a ‘young lady,’ but does she really want me to make her job easier? Give her all the answers?

She waits a beat for a reply and when she doesn’t get it, she cocks her head and says, “You already know what’s happening. Don’t you?” Not really a question, more like a statement.

I hold still.

She leans closer, her eyes slit. “If you already know the answers, why did you come here?”

“One of my friends recommended you,” I say, avoiding her gaze, afraid that shame will creep onto my face. “She said that you helped her when her husband cheated on her. She said that…” I look at my hands, trying to find the right words. “She said you gave her a…potion to help her get him back.”

“I see.” She crosses her arms and leans back in her chair, which makes the wooden floors creak. Neither of us says another word and after a while, I fidget in my seat and wriggle my hands. I believe we’re playing a game, one where I must either beg or persuade her to help me. But I’m tired of playing, so I don’t. I sit straight and raise my chin, reminding myself that I’m the one paying.

I wait for her to say something, but she just stares at the cards, as if she’s reading a book in another language, one that I can’t decipher.

Suddenly, the pressure of the small room is suffocating, and heat is sweltering up my cheeks. I worry that I’m going to have a hot flash. Not here, please. I look around, trying to find a window to open or a fan nearby. But there’s no fan, and the closest window is tightly shut, the hinges covered with cobwebs. There’s a shelf with a bunch of vials and liquids in containers, crystals and books, but nothing else. Why did I let Betty convince me to come here?

“Would you like some water, dear?”

I realize she had been watching me, her green eyes focused on my flushed face, the wrinkles on her forehead deepening. I’m afraid of grabbing anything from her, but the idea of a glass of cold water is too enticing.

“Yes, please.”

“I’ll be right back.”

As soon as she leaves, I use my hands to fan myself but it’s not enough to provide the needed relief. I rummage through my Louis Vuitton looking for anything that can help me, and I find a pharmacy receipt, the one for the hot flash medication that I’ve been taking to no avail. I fold it and move it rhythmically, my face and neck welcoming the cold air.

She comes back with a glass of iced water. I look at the ice cubes greedily, wanting to shove them inside my blouse, but I settle to drink the cold, refreshing liquid instead. She waits until I gulp all the water before saying, “I’m afraid I can’t help you.”

“Why?” I place the glass on the table with a thud. “My friend said…”

“Your friend, whoever she is, was in a different situation than yours. Right?”

“I-I don’t know,” I fib.

“Yes, you do.” She stabs the cards with a long, red nail. “The upside-down Magician, the card for a con man looking out for himself. The Ten of Swords, big trouble. The Three of Swords, too many people in a relationship. The Fool, well….” She cocks her head and raises an eyebrow, and I feel my cheeks flushing again.

I think of Betty, who was indeed in a different situation. Her husband cheated on her, once. She had little kids. She still loved him. He still loved her too and was, apparently, truly sorry for what happened. Told her he didn’t love the woman, that it was a mistake. But Carlos, my Carlos… he never said sorry.

And it wasn’t the first time.

I can feel the woman’s eyes on me, dissecting me like a bug under a microscope.

“So, dear, the question here is: Why would you?”

“Why would I what?” I say, confusion—and a hint of defiance—in my voice.

“Why would you want him back?”

I wince, and think of something to say, anything that would make sense to her. I can’t say because I love him; that wouldn’t be the truth. Should I say it’s because we’ve been together for over thirty years and raised four kids together? Or because he owes me, after I helped him to get through school and start his own company, putting my own needs and dreams aside to help him reach his dreams, taking care of his needs? Or simply because I hate the idea of being discarded like an old mop? And for his twenty-something year old secretary, for Christ’s sakes, someone who wasn’t even bornwhen we got married.

She’s still looking at me, waiting for an answer, not a drop of sweat on her, her wrinkled face serene.

I let my shoulders drop and fiddle with the giant rock on my finger. “I don’t know,” I confess.

She smiles. “Now we’re getting somewhere.”

I chuckle. I can’t help it. I am the fool, believing I can bring him back. And for what? To have him cheat on me again? To wake up alone in my bed. day after day, the sheets covered in sweat and tears? Is that what I truly want?

As if reading my thoughts, she asks, “Well?”

I lean toward the woman, my stretched hands making creases on the red tablecloth, the tips of my fingers touching the upright Star card. It shows the image of a naked woman bathing in water, her arms stretched out toward the sky, a bright star above her head. She looks liberated, carefree, happy.

“Do you have anything for hot flashes?”

The woman leans forward, a smile arousing, the corners of her wise eyes forming a universe of wrinkles. “Dear, I have just what you need.”

About the Author:

R.S. Nelson (she/her) is a Latina writer. Her work has appeared in over twenty publications, including BULL, Flash Fiction Magazine, Twin Bird Review, SciFiSat, the Mission Viejo Library first anthology, the podcast “Tales to Terrify,” and elsewhere.

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The Hollow in the Hedgerow

An Acorns Flash Fiction Feature

By: Subham Rai

Greta walked the hedgerow every morning for forty-three years, ever since Tom built their cottage on this quiet patch of land. The hedge stood older than either of them, a dense weave of hawthorn and blackthorn laced with ivy that held fast like lingering memories. It separated their small world from the open fields, a barrier that flowered white in spring and bore red berries in fall.

Lately she moved more slowly. Her knees complained on the uneven path, and the basket on her arm dragged even when empty. Tom had left her three winters past, claimed by a chill that took root in his lungs and would not let go. The cottage felt too still without his low songs while he fixed tools or tended the stove. She missed the way he paused to listen to birds or comment on the weather, his voice a steady comfort through the days.

One morning mist drifted close to the ground, turning the fields to soft grays and faded greens. Greta stopped where the hedgerow curved into a low arch she had always called the gateway. A shadow among the roots drew her gaze, a dip in the soil that formed a small hollow no larger than a rabbit burrow.

She knelt, joints protesting, and swept aside fallen leaves. The opening ran deeper than expected, a smooth passage edged with roots that caught the faint light. A cool draft rose from it, scented with earth and a trace of apple blossom though no trees bloomed nearby.

Greta paused. At seventy-two, new wonders should have lost their pull. Yet the hollow waited, steady as the hedge around it. She wondered if loss had sharpened her sight for what lay just beyond the ordinary.

She reached inside. Her fingers brushed cool space, then cloth. She pulled out a small handkerchief, faded but marked with stitches she remembered making: T & G, hearts linked. Tom’s gift on their wedding day, misplaced long ago during a picnic beneath these branches. She turned it over in her hands, tracing the careful embroidery that had survived untouched by time.

Her breath shortened. The fabric lay fresh and whole, as if the years had passed it by.

“Greta.”

The name came soft on the draft from below. Tom’s voice, rough yet kind as ever.

She held the handkerchief close. “Tom?”

Silence answered, broken only by leaves stirring overhead. Still, the hollow appeared wider now, almost welcoming. She leaned nearer, drawn by a gentle glow rising within, not daylight but something calmer. Pictures formed like scenes on quiet water: Tom young and smiling, lifting her among apple boughs on their wedding day; Tom older, showing their daughter how to set seeds in rows, his patient hands guiding her small ones; Tom near the end, gripping her hand as snow gathered at the window, his eyes steady even as strength faded.

These were more than recollections. They carried sharp detail. She smelled crushed grass from that distant picnic, felt the heat of his hand in hers, heard the laughter of their daughter echoing through the years.

The hollow returned their shared years to her, moment by moment. Greta lingered there that first day until her knees throbbed and the light shifted. She saw their life unfold in pieces: delight at their daughter’s arrival in a rush of spring rain; sorrow when she left for the city, waving from the bus with promises to write; the steady kindnesses that shaped four decades into something solid, like the way Tom always saved the best apple for her or mended her favorite shawl without being asked.

Certain scenes stung. Disputes over scarce coins during hard winters, quiet stretches after their daughter moved away, the gradual fading of Tom’s vigor as illness crept in. Yet love ran beneath every ache, a quiet current that held them together.

As evening settled and mist rose higher, Greta drew back her hand. The pictures dimmed, but the handkerchief stayed warm against her skin. She folded it carefully and tucked it into her pocket, rising with effort to continue her walk. The fields seemed a little less empty that day.

She came again the next day, and the day after. The hollow never spoke, yet it seemed to hear her. She told it of the vacant chair at meals, the garden Tom once kept neat with rows straight as his carpenter’s lines, the long stretch of nights when sleep came slow. She spoke of small things too: how she still set two cups for tea out of habit, or found his old jacket hanging in the shed and pressed her face into the fabric to catch any remaining scent of him.

One morning clouds promised rain. Wind shook the hedge, scattering early leaves, and Greta carried her shawl along with a tin of Tom’s plain biscuits, edged dark as he preferred. She settled near the hollow, knees folded beneath her, and shared one biscuit with the draft rising from below.

The hollow waited. This time it offered fresh images: herself over the past three years. Greta alone in the cottage, working the garden by habit with hands that moved slower each season. Greta by the fire, speaking to no one as flames crackled. Greta tracing the hedgerow each dawn, seeking what she could not name in the familiar paths.

She saw herself grow spare and silent. Saw the spark fade from her own eyes, replaced by a dull patience that carried her through days.

Tears welled, sudden and warm. “I don’t know how to manage without you,” she murmured into the opening, voice breaking on the words she had never said aloud before.

The cool draft lifted once more, scented with apple blossom though winter neared. No voice replied, only quiet acceptance. The scenes turned to their beginning days: Tom guiding her to plant potatoes, both laughing when she set them too deep and had to dig them up again. Tom raising the cottage stone by stone on weekends, vowing a home to endure beyond them while she brought him water and watched with pride.

The hollow reminded her what endured: the garden pushing through soil each spring, the cottage standing firm against wind and weather, her hands yet able to care for both. She saw flashes of future seasons too, brief and gentle: bulbs blooming where she planted them, neighbors stopping by with shared meals, quiet evenings by the fire with memories no longer sharp but softened like well-worn cloth.

When she rose at last, legs stiff from kneeling, rain had begun, a gentle fall that brightened the hedge and washed the paths clean. Greta slipped the handkerchief into her pocket. It rested lighter there, as if some burden had lifted.

She did not seek the hollow daily afterward. Some mornings she turned soil and set bulbs for spring, hands steady in familiar work. Others she baked proper biscuits and carried them to neighbors who had lost partners of their own, listening to their stories in return. She found comfort in small routines, in watching seasons turn as they always had.

The hollow stayed beneath the hedgerow, patient as ever. When loneliness pressed sharp on quiet evenings, she returned. It offered no judgment, only fragments of their life together, showing her that love does not vanish. It sinks into roots and waits for the proper season to rise again, in new growth or shared remembrance.

Years on, when Greta’s hands stiffened too much for garden work, she often sat beside the hedge with a cup of tea, watching light shift through leaves. Children from nearby farms sometimes found her there, sharing tales of the old woman who spoke to the plants and seemed to know secrets of the land.

They never noticed the hollow. Yet on misty mornings as they passed, they caught the scent of apple blossom out of season and felt, for an instant, wholly known. Greta smiled at their wonder, remembering how such small gifts had carried her through long seasons of loss. The hedge stood as it always had, a quiet guardian between worlds, holding memories for those who needed them most.

About the Author:

Subham Rai is a writer from Kolkata, India. His work has appeared in Strange Horizons, Macramé Literary Journal, Cohesion Press, Zoetic Press, Bindweed Magazine, Graveside Press, Horror Tree, and Consequence Forum. Forthcoming pieces will appear in DreamSpinner Press, Dead Fox Publishing, Cupid Arrow Publishing, Cliffhanger Magazine, Plotthound Magazine, and Vellum Mortis. He can be found online at https://linktr.ee/subhamraiauthor.

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From the Editor’s Desk

Reading a book in front of a campfire, with a pine tree line and sunset in the background

Musings from Amanda Pica, our Editor-in-Chief

As we come into spring and the blossom of seasonal allergies and bug bites, I’ll be spending the newly bright, warm weather reflecting on coziness.

We aren’t a “beach reads” sort of publishing house, but I think the beach can get whatever read you want to give it, so take that, summer. I’m not exactly Morticia on vacation over here, but to be totally transparent (much like my skin in July thanks to my SPF 1000), I’m not really a summer person. I love a fluffy blanket, a hot drink, and dim lighting, and all of that is tough to enjoy during the season of sweat and blinding sun.

But our next anthology, The Ordinary Magic in Extraordinary Tales, is all about coziness. Our official release date is TBD, but it’ll be just as the leaves burn orange in cool sunlight, the breeze nips your skin, and the nights get just a little bit longer. We have fourteen cozy fantasy stories for you, each more delightful than the last. They’ll be grouped thematically and paired with essays written by yours truly on how to curate a cozy life for yourself, full of conviviality and contentment.

If you didn’t know, I have a graduate degree in educational psychology and a decades-long background in recovery-based mental health. This book is a real passion project for me that combines two areas of great interest.

Let’s be real, though. All of our books are like that. I love them all—this one’s just a different type of intersection for me.

If you aren’t familiar with the cozy subgenres, the concept is a smaller cast of characters, and a more upbeat and optimistic tone. The plots have action, adventure, and emotion, but they’re lower stakes that are more about interpersonal relationships and personal development rather than world-ending issues.

Anyway, the stories have been chosen and we’re working on finalizing the last of the contracts with our authors, as well as on the details of the book. I can’t wait to get these tales out to you. There’s a wonderful mix of fantasy elements across the stories, including witchy tales, dragon tales, and ghost stories. We have modern day magic, second-world mysticism, and post-apocalyptic settings.   

Choosing the final stories for the book was really difficult, and the overall quality and quantity of submissions this time really blew me away. I had to reject some that I loved out of considerations like physical layout space and theme. It’s such an honor to attract so many talented authors willing to trust us with their work, and it allows us to build out our concept in the best, most complete way that we can.

Next up, we’ll be finalizing the cover and the essays, then the book will go to our amazing and talented layout editor, Austin Gray.

In the meanwhile, I’ll be doing a lot of reflecting on how coziness is a mindset, and how we can always make the choice to live a life of simple pleasures and contended relationships. Even while swatting mosquitos in the dead of summer.

With gratitude,
Amanda

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9 Questions for Ellis Reyn

9 Questions for Ellis Reyn

We caught up with Ellis, author of the delightfully unsettling story “Pink,” from our debut project The Wordsmiths.

Tell us a little bit about yourself.

Ellis: I’m Ellis Reyn, a thirty-something novelist. Enneagram 5, Capricorn, eldest daughter, cat person. My novel-length work sits somewhere between romantic thriller and literary fiction—stories about complicated women, the ways they survive things they probably shouldn’t, and how they find love with green-flag men along the way.

I live in North Carolina with my husband, a cat unironically named “Cat,” and our four kids, which means my life alternates between writing very dark things and packing school lunches.

How do you find time to write?

Ellis: I write in the little pockets of the day. Right before appointments from the passenger seat of the car, late at night when the kids are finally in bed, or during rare quiet mornings when the house miraculously empties out.

I’ve learned that butt-in-the-chair time is the most important thing. Tiny progress is still progress.

What does your writing space look like?

Ellis: I have a desk under a huge window that looks out over the woods. That’s where serious writing happens. But in reality, I usually write in bed with my laptop balanced on a pillow (RIP my upper back). Wherever I can get words on the page is the perfect writing space.

Tell us about your favorite story that you’ve written.

Ellis: When I was a kid, I wrote a short story from the perspective of a horse during the Gold Rush. I printed it out, stapled it together, and put it in my dad’s lunch box so he could read it during his break at work.

He did read it—and I’ve felt like my dad was my biggest fan ever since.

What are you working on right now?

Ellis: I’m working on a contemporary romantic thriller set in the Mojave Desert about a beautiful rehabilitation center. Think cult-adjacent wellness, tiny smoothies served at an all-day health-food buffet, a lot of white linen and patchouli… and body horror.

I’m also on submission with a Southern Gothic. So please send me all the good publishing vibes!

Do you read much? If so, what are you currently reading and what’s at the top of your TBR pile?

Ellis: As much as I can!

My TBR pile is always slightly out of control with lots of horror (especially women-written) and historical romance. They’re genres that feel different but are both excellent at exploring big emotions.

Right now I’m reading Black Sheep by Rachel Harrison. I can’t recommend her horror enough! I’m catching up on Alexandra Vasti’s historical romance backlist next. 

What’s the most challenging thing about being a writer, and how do you manage it?

Ellis: The uncertainty. Writing a book (and then trying to publish it, my goodness) takes a long time, and a lot of that time is spent alone with your doubts.

The best thing I’ve found to do is to keep going. Write the next page, revise the chapter, start the next idea. Do the next right thing. 

What do you do when you’re not writing?

Ellis: With four kids, there’s always something happening around here. Apart from endless school pickups and drop-offs, I read a lot, sweat through Pilates and hot yoga, hunt down good strawberry matcha with friends, and rewatch the same comfort shows while folding laundry. The usual!

Where can readers find you?

Ellis: You can find me online at: Instagram: @ellisreynbooks

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Live-Journaling

An Acorns Flash Fiction Feature

By: Karl El-Koura

Thank you for joining me on this live read-through of what’s supposed to be the greatest horror novel ever written. The book is claimed to actually be haunted by readers with overactive imaginations. On Goodreads the reviews spend more time chronicling people’s paranormal experiences than discussing the novel’s literary merits. The Amazon reviews are a series of warnings to read the whole thing in daylight and surrounded by friendly people.

So consider yourself warned, especially if you’re on your own at night! (With apologies for spoiling anyone’s fun, though, I don’t believe a word of those “experiences.”)

I stand by what I said, but boy do our minds play tricks on us! Especially in the dark.

I’m in my office, sitting in my most comfortable chair and sending these notes from my phone as I read through the book—yes, to all the fifteen people actively watching this thread right now. My wife and kids are asleep upstairs. No one else is in the house. But, just as the main character catches a glimpse of the dark creature crawling across the ceiling of his bedroom, I heard something in our basement. Thought I heard something.

It’s kind of funny, really.

I heard it again, just as the main character goes for a midnight run.

For the record: no one else is in our house. I went downstairs; I turned on all the lights. Just to be sure, right? No one is there. Obviously the novel’s bleak atmosphere is seeping into my mind! What possessed me to start reading this book so late at night?

Well, if you believe the people on Goodreads—and I don’t!—the only way to exorcise whatever has come into your house is to finish reading the novel.

I was convinced the reviews were fake, everyone’s tongue planted in their cheek. But I’ve been hearing the noises in the basement again. They started up as soon as I came back to my office and sat down. Someone’s walking around in my basement, trying to be quiet about it, but I can hear the footsteps.

I skipped ahead, to the last paragraph—he finally decides to seek help for his addiction to amphetamines, which of course is what is causing his insomnia. The sun rises over the hospital as he checks himself in. I skipped ahead, thinking I’d…stop hearing things. I’ve read the final paragraph twice. The first time I heard a creak on the stairs…I know it’s a step mid-way up the stairs that creaks. The second time I heard nothing for a while, and thought everything was fine and started laughing at myself, then I heard it—the sound of weight on the top landing, where the carpet gives way to tile. The reviews don’t tell you this, because they’re not real—most of them, I mean. But: you can’t skip ahead.

I’m typing into my phone whenever I feel myself getting tired. It helps me stay focused. Alert. I’ve read as quickly as I can, but I can’t finish, can’t finish before it reaches me, whatever has come up from my basement and is now slinking toward my office.

I’m going out to face it.

There’s nothing there. I’ve turned on all the lights on the main floor, all the lights in the basement. I’ve left everything on. Should I wake up Maisy? But she’ll laugh at me. Deep breath—I am being crazy, though. There’s nothing there!

Heard the footstep—just outside my office. I’m so tired—but I can’t go to sleep. I have to keep reading to the end.

The door to my office is open. I should’ve closed it—but, no, I couldn’t do that! Close myself in. But I can feel it, sense it—I’ve felt it for the last page or two, standing there, watching me. I don’t want to glance over; I think I know what I’ll see. I want to finish reading this book.

I’ve caught myself trying to fall asleep. My eyes having a mind of their own, trying to trick me into giving them what they want.

I saw it. I couldn’t take it anymore, not knowing—I looked over, and it retreated, but not before I glimpsed its light-sucking voidness. Like looking into a hole in reality. It’s the Netherwere from the novel, the shadow-creature that wants to take over the main character’s body and life. I saw it.

What does it want? It wants me to fall asleep. Like the Netherwere in the novel, its power is greatest in the liminal state between wakefulness and sleep. Only in that moment—in the novel, I mean—can it leap forward and inhabit you, evicting you from your own body, taking over your life, turning you into a Netherwere to seek out your own tired victim. It stalks our hero but never gets him, because he doesn’t fall asleep—at least, not until he checks himself in.

People…it can’t stand other people. I should wake up Maisy. It’s a small price to pay, being laughed at, isn’t it?

But if I can just power through to the end of the book, I won’t have to explain why I woke her up in the middle of the night like a frightened child. I can make it.

Caught myself again, drifting off. Can’t let that happen.

Well—I hope I didn’t pull your leg too long. There is no such thing as Netherweres, and they can’t enter our world seeking bodies for themselves.

No, the claims of this book being haunted, or being a conduit to another reality, are not true, of course. It’s a very good book.

You should read it for yourself.

About the Author:

Karl El-Koura lives with his family in Ottawa, Canada’s capital city, and works a regular job by day while writing fiction at night. To find out more about Karl, visit his website at ootersplace.com.

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The Last Page is Always Warm

An Acorns Flash Fiction Feature

By: Khayelihle Benghu

The Last Page Is Always Warm

The first time Miriam noticed the warmth, she thought it was the radiator.

It was early October, in the late hours of the afternoon, when the library grew hollow and echoing. The old pipes beneath the floor ticked and complained like tired bones. She had been re-shelving returns in the history aisle where the spines were old and some darker, the fonts more ancient. When she pulled a paperback from the drop cart, she felt heat against her palm, not body heat, no, not quite.

The book was warm the way a mug might be warm long after the tea inside has gone cold.

She held it there, confused, before checking the cover.

The Long Watch, by Arthur Bell. No dust jacket and slight curl at the corners. The library stamp inside was faded, as if impressed decades ago. She pressed her thumb to the pages and found them still warm.

Miriam looked around, half-expecting a prank, but the aisle was empty. The overhead lights hummed and the windows showed only her own reflection, thin and pale, framed by shelves.

She set the book aside and finished her shift.

The book must have embedded into her subconscious. That night, she dreamed that inside the library, the pages were live and they scanned her fingerprint.

The next afternoon, the book was back in the returns cart.

Miriam frowned. She was meticulous, had always been. She remembered placing The Long Watch on the shelf between two anthologies. However, here it was again, spine scuffed, pages faintly warm.

This time, curiosity overcame her caution. She slipped it into her bag at the end of the day and checked it out under her own name.

At home, she placed it on the kitchen table and let it sit while she made soup. The steam rose and the windows fogged. Still, when she returned and touched the book, it was warm in a way that did not belong to rooms or weather.

She opened to the first page.

The prose was spare, almost old-fashioned. A man standing watch in a lighthouse and the sea restless. The isolation familiar, Miriam read a few pages and then paused.

There was a line she did not remember from the first paragraph.

He thinks of the sound his wife made when she slipped on the rocks.

Miriam read it again and her throat tightened, becoming dry as if something was lodged inside it.

Arthur Bell’s wife had died that way. It was a minor detail mentioned in an obituary she had read years ago when cataloguing local authors. A coincidence, she told herself. Writers borrowed from life all the time.

She turned another page. The book was warmer now.

Miriam began to notice changes, sentences shifting and details deepening. Passages that felt less written than remembered. The lighthouse keeper began to think thoughts Miriam herself had once tried to forget: the hospital room with its too-clean smell, the way her mother’s hand had gone slack mid-squeeze, the silence afterward that felt heavier than grief.

She closed the book, her heart racing.

The warmth lingered on her fingertips.

For two days, she avoided it. She returned to work, catalogued donations, and answered patron questions. Almost pretended not to notice how often people paused in the history aisle, touching spines as if testing with their fingers.

On the third night, she opened the book again.

This time, the lighthouse keeper was no longer alone.

There was someone standing just beyond the reach of the light. Someone familiar, maybe someone he loved and had lost. The prose did not describe the face directly, but Miriam knew it anyway.

Her mother’s face, as it had been before the illness. Miriam slammed the book shut.

The cover was hot now –unmistakably so. She dropped it onto the table, breath shallow and pulse loud in her ears. She did not sleep that night. The following week, a patron approached the desk holding The Long Watch.

“Excuse me,” the woman said, eyes twinkling. “Is this new?”

Miriam stared. “No,” she said too quickly. “It’s old stock.”

“It feels alive,” the woman whispered, almost apologetically. “I’ve never read anything like it.”

Miriam swallowed hard. “I’m afraid it’s… fragile,” she said. “We’ll need to keep it in the archives.”

She took the book with careful hands. It was warm again, even through her sleeves.

That night, she locked it in the back room, inside the metal cabinet reserved for rare and damaged items. She told herself this was enough. That stories, however strange, were only stories. However, warmth is patient.

Miriam began to notice patrons lingering longer in the back room when she fetched holds. Fingers brushing the shelves and their eyes unfocused. One man stood too close to the cabinet once, breathing shallowly, as if listening for something inside.

She moved the book again. Wrapped it in archival paper. Placed it in a locked drawer within the cabinet, but the warmth seeped through anyway.

Feeling almost haunted, she dreamed of pages turning themselves. Hands reaching out from margins, of a lighthouse whose beam swept not over water but over memories, illuminating moments she had buried. The arguments left unresolved, words unsaid and the particular way grief could feel like being watched. When she woke, her palms were warm. Miriam tried to research Arthur Bell, but records were scarce. His biography was thin, contradictory, and one note in an old newspaper mentioned that the final manuscript of The Long Watch had been unfinished at his death, discovered among his papers with “no clear ending.”

She checked the library copy.

There was now an ending.

The lighthouse keeper, aged and tired, stood before the light for the final time. The warmth was unbearable. The presence behind him no longer waited in shadow. It stepped forward, and the prose grew intimate, tender.

He understands now that someone must remain.

Miriam felt a pressure behind her eyes.

The final paragraph was written in a hand that felt uncomfortably close to her own thoughts.

The watch does not end. It is passed.

She closed the book slowly.

It was hotter than she could comfortably hold. She considered destroying it. Fire would do, she thought. Or water. She imagined the book sinking into the river, pages bloating, ink bleeding away. However, the warmth felt almost pleading now. Not malicious, no, not exactly. But lonely.

That night, the power went out at her apartment. Darkness pooled in corners. She lit a candle and sat at the table, the book between her hands.

Her mother’s voice came to her, not as sound, but as presence, familiar warmth. The ache of connection.

Miriam felt aggrieved and wept. Not loud but in silence. She let herself read—the final pages had expanded again.

They spoke not of the lighthouse keeper but of a woman in a quiet building full of books. A watcher. A caretaker, someone who noticed what others passed by. Someone who listened.

The warmth grew steady, no longer threatening, but expectant.

The next morning, Miriam returned The Long Watch to the history aisle.

She did not stamp it. Did not catalogue the changes. She slid it into place and stepped back.

A young man reached for it moments later, eyes widening at the touch.

Miriam watched him go, heart heavy and calm all at once.

At the end of her shift, she noticed something strange.

Her hands were no longer cold.

Over the weeks that followed, the library felt different to her. It felt fuller and charged. She sensed stories breathing behind their covers and seemingly waiting. She began to linger after hours, walking the aisles, touching spines, feeling warmth bloom and fade.

Sometimes, when she paused long enough, she felt memories stir hers, others indistinguishable and some human. She understood now.

The watch does not end. It is passed, and the last page, she learned, is always warm.

About the Author:

Khayelihle Benghu is an emerging author residing in Johannesburg, South Africa. Except writing she has a heart for photography, mainly nature.

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In from the Cold

An Acorns Flash Fiction Feature

By: Maxim Volk

“Lace your skates tight,” her grandmother said, her warm voice a contrast to the deadly cold outside. “Don’t dawdle. They say we have a few more hours of daylight, but one can never be sure.”

Summer double-checked her skates, zipped up her coat, and put her earmuffs over her ponytail before donning a pair of white mittens that her grandmother had knitted her for Christmas. Summer loved running errands for her grandmother because Summer loved the ice.

Summer was born in the ice—not in a poetic way as some children are born in war and others in famine—but in a literal sheet of ice. She had often begged for her grandmother to recount the story of her birth, but her grandmother could only cry at any mention of the First Freeze. Finally, at her eleventh birthday teleparty she convinced her least favorite cousin, a rowdy, crass boy a few years older than her, to meet her in a breakout room and tell her of that night. He recounted the tale of her mother going into labor and her father taking her in the car, despite the weathermen’s warnings, to give birth in a hospital. He described in gruesomely exaggerated second-hand detail how they had found her father frozen solid outside of the family car that had slidden into a ditch, and how her mother, who had already fallen asleep for the last time, was transported to the already overflowing hospital where Summer was born healthy, kept warm from The Freeze by her mother’s unconscious body: one small miracle among a frozen sea of despair. Summer knew she should hate the ice for what it took from her, but how could she hate something so beautiful?

Summer flipped the switch in the foyer, causing the front door to glow and melt the frozen rain that had sealed them inside the last few days, draining it to be filtered into drinking water. Summer held in her breath, opened the door, and stepped out, slamming the door quickly shut behind her as to not cause her grandma any undo chill. Outside, Summer exhaled and watched as the warm breath she had been holding crystalized in the sunshine as it floated to the ground. She carefully descended the front steps, and then, on the sidewalk, she turned her heel and kicked off, gliding carefreely across the frozen landscape. She lifted one leg and bent the other, watching the world turn upside-down. The wind whipped her rosy cheeks as she pulled her slender frame into a tight low spin. She knew people were staring at her, annoyed that anyone chose to move so gracefully in a frozen world where speed and precision were often the key to survival. Summer didn’t care. There was nothing she loved more than basking in the glisten of newly frozen buildings and flitting from eternally icy tree to eternally icy tree.

Summer did not know how long the next rain would last, so she skated outside for as long as she could before setting off for the protein bank where everyone in town received their rations. In the middle of a smooth glide around the corner from her destination, she realized she had skated too long. The line to the protein bank was longer than she had ever seen it before. Everyone had set out as soon as the sun came out. The last rain had been worryingly long, and she remembered some of her virtual classmates mentioning that their families had begun rationing food. This time, no one was going to risk it. Summer pulled herself to the wall at the back of the line and waited impatiently, wishing she had listened to her grandmother’s advice. Hour after hour went by, and the sky turned orange as the pale sun, which Summer had been told once burned bright, began to set on the horizon. Summer was glad when she finally got to the front of the line and even more glad that they had not yet run out of purple, which was her favorite protein. She got some reds and some blues and a green along with an abundance of purple and set out for home in the ever-darkening twilight.

“It’s only a couple of miles,” Summer kept muttering to herself under her breath as she shivered in the frigid air. She made a reminder for herself that she would save her skating for after the protein bank next time so that this didn’t happen again, if she survived long enough to have that opportunity. Up ahead, a Zambo had stalled, blocking the narrow bridge that was the easiest way home. Sighing, she turned, knowing she was adding five more minutes to her journey but not wishing to keep her surely-already-worried-to-death grandmother waiting for the Zambo to move.

It was very dark now, but her new path at least took her through a maze of tall buildings that kept most of the icy wind away. She was moving too fast to take note of her surroundings when she tripped over something, falling hard against the ice. When she opened her eyes to check what she had fallen over, she wished she hadn’t. Her face was inches from a sheet of ice of that glazed the horror-stricken dead eyes of a homeless man. She screamed and pulled herself up. The city had not yet had the time to clean up the icy bodies left by the last rain’s unyielding slaughter.

Summer heard a noise nearby. Her scream had attracted attention. She didn’t want to know who would be out this late. She began to set off towards home again, but she didn’t get far. A man in a ski jacket and large goggles slid from around a corner, cutting off her path. He had long shaggy blonde hair that looked unwashed. “Where are you going little girl?”

“Stay out here and play some games with us,” snarled a different voice. Another man emerged from around a corner. Summer let out a shriek as the men inched closer to her. One lifted his hand to his mouth and slipped his glove off with his teeth. Summer held her breath, refusing to close her eyes.

From behind the men, Summer heard a whizzing followed by a loud crack. The man in front of her fell flat, a trickle of blood dripping from under his hat. The other one grumbled in confusion before receiving a similar blow that sent him sprawling. Summer looked up to see whether the attacker was her savior or another fresh horror that merely prolonged her inevitable fate.

Summer heard a chuckle as a masked figure slid to a halt in front of her holding a hockey stick. While organized sports were a thing of the past, some of the troublemakers still snuck out to play hockey when the weather permitted. The boy turned on an eLantern and pulled his mask up, revealing rosy-red cheeks that covered strong cheekbones and pretty blue eyes that glittered like ice. He gave a grin that was short a couple of teeth, trophies of too many unauthorized games. Summer recognized him as Benji, a student a couple of grades above her. He had gotten in trouble at school once for hacking the teacher’s camera and mooning the class. “Can I skate you home?” the boy asked with an air of sarcasm that masked sincerity. Summer blushed and nodded, suddenly feeling a bit warmer. Benji grabbed her gloved hand with his empty mitten and slung his hockey stick over his shoulder. They moved with haste but slow enough to make pleasant conversation. They chatted about school and family and skating and that, no matter the impending permafrost, they were glad to have the ice sometimes.

“Welp, this is me,” giggled Summer as the pair approached her grandmother’s house. “Thanks for saving me from those creeps.”

“Anytime,” Benji said, flashing his broken smile.

“See you at school tomorrow?”

“Not tomorrow; I got suspended again. Monday.”

“Monday it is,” she said. She skated up to her grandmother’s door and stepped inside. Her grandmother rushed to the door, praising the warmth that she was home and damning the cold for her tardiness. Summer turned around to wave to Benji, and he waved back. A drop of rain fell to the ground in front of her and froze immediately.

“Grandma!” she shouted. “We need to let him come in. He’ll freeze to death.”

Her grandmother shook her head. “We do not have the room or the supplies for another body.”

“Please,” Summer pled. “He got me home safely. I wouldn’t even be here if it weren’t for him.” Her grandma sighed and nodded her head.

“Benji!” shouted Summer. “Come in from the cold!” Benji smiled and skated up to the door, stepping inside. Her grandmother bade him close the door and went off to boil some water for tea. Summer and Benji hugged, feeling each other’s warmth as another rain washed over the house.

About the Author:

Maxim Volk (they/he) is a queer speculative fiction author from the Midwest. They have publications in Macabre Magazine and Carnage House, and their first book releases in 2026 from Slashic Horror Press. You can find them on Instagram @maximvolk1.

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The Chicken House

An Acorns Flash Fiction Feature

By: Fija Callaghan

Old Mrs Iles first came across the house when she was out gathering moss to line her garden stones. Her own home had been awfully quiet since Mr Iles ran off with New Mrs Iles, and so Old Mrs Iles often went for walks in the woods behind the property.

The forest was a bright young thing, all adolescent saplings spaced a respectable distance apart so they could grow big and strong. Even the brambles and ivy behaved themselves, most of the time. So when Old Mrs Iles discovered a ramshackle stone cottage not much bigger than a garden shed, with a pair of scaly chicken feet sticking out from underneath, the most reasonable thing seemed to be to go inside and see what it was about.

The house seemed bigger on the inside than it did on the outside, but not much bigger, not like a magic trick. Just big enough to while away a pleasant afternoon. There was a cold woodstove and a kettle, a small table with two off-kilter chairs, a lumpy mat piled high with blankets, a narrow broom cupboard propped against one side, and a dusty, meaty smell like someone had eaten stew there a long time ago. Old Mrs Iles thought that actually, it was quite homey. So she did a little dusting and cleaned off the single windowpane so she could see outside.

By the time night fell, nobody had returned to the house. So Old Mrs Iles thought oh well, I’ll just rest for a few minutes. The truth was, she still wasn’t used to coming home to a place that didn’t have Mr Iles in it.

Old Mrs Iles lit a fire in the woodstove, laid down on the lumpy mat, and was out like a light.

When she woke she wasn’t sure where she was, but she knew the air was salty and sweet, and she was more well rested than she’d been in a long time. She could hear gulls crying. Outside the window was a broad, sparkling expanse of bright blue sea.

Her heart swelled with longing and joy. She hadn’t seen the sea in more than fifty years.

A quick look in the broom cupboard revealed a neatly folded fishing net. Old Mrs Iles took it outside to catch some fish for her breakfast. She stood right in the water in her bare feet, with her trousers rolled up to her knees, and laughed like she was a young girl.

That night she lay down in the little house again and wondered how her garden was faring. But that made her think about Mr Iles, and some of the day’s happiness went from her. She dispatched the cumbersome thought by promptly falling asleep.

The next morning when Old Mrs Iles looked out the window, the world was carpeted by powder-blue and violet bluebells. Gentle, gnarled garry oaks stood watch between moss-covered stones. It reminded her of the place she used to go for picnics with Patrick, the first boy she’d ever loved. Her mother hadn’t approved of her marrying a penniless painter, and so the two of them had to meet in secret.

Old Mrs Iles stepped outside and let the fresh, cool blooms brush up against her ankles, and felt like she’d come home.

When Old Mrs Iles built up a fire in the woodstove that evening, and warmed her old bones, she remembered the day her mother had introduced her to Mr Iles and said isn’t he such a nice young man. And he had been nice to her, or at least companionable, up until the end.

Old Mrs Iles fell asleep to the sound of wind rustling the oak leaves.

The next morning, the house rested at the foot of a deserted cobblestone street. The sun was just beginning to peek out over the rooftops, and a smell of freshly baked bread drifted lazily through the air. It looked a bit like the village she and Mr Iles had visited once on holiday. She’d been too nervous and distracted to enjoy it, gathering her courage to tell Mr Iles what the doctor had said—about how having children would never be possible for her. Not without an expensive medical treatment. It was in the village square, beside a bubbling fountain surrounded by life, that Mr Iles told her he loved her for the last time.

Old Mrs Iles bought a croissant with jam for her breakfast and walked along the charming passageways, peering in windows at colourful and exotic treasures. A gentleman tipped his hat to her as she went by.

Her feet seemed to know their way, and Old Mrs Iles found herself at the village square. The fountain was gurgling contentedly, and an artist had set up an easel nearby. A tourist posed in soft the morning light while he painted their portrait. Old Mrs Iles closed her eyes and lifted her face to the sun. There was a feeling of life and effervescent happiness all around.

Then someone said her name.

Her eyes snapped open. There, standing at the easel, was Patrick—a little stouter, a little greyer, but no less handsome. Old Mrs Iles touched her own grey curls self-consciously.

With a few more brushstrokes—Old Mrs Iles couldn’t see the canvas, which had its back to her—he pronounced the painting complete and handed it to the happy tourist. Then he came and sat by Old Mrs Iles at the fountain.

When at last they spoke, it was easy, as if they’d seen each other only yesterday. He told her of his travels through Italy and France, painting souvenir portraits for the wealthy; she told him about Mr Iles and New Mrs Iles and the garden at home, which wasn’t large, but was delightfully fragrant on summer mornings. No matter how long they talked, there was always more to say. There was a whole lifetime.

Finally, Old Mrs Iles said, “Patrick, would you like a cup of tea?”

And he said that sounded like a fine idea. So they left the square and wandered back to the little house at the bottom of the cobblestone street. Old Mrs Iles couldn’t wait to see where it took them next.

About the Author:

Fija Callaghan is a storyteller and poet who has been recognised by a number of awards, including winning the SFPA Poetry Prize in 2024 and shortlisting for the HG Wells Short Story Prize in 2021. Her writing can be found in venues like Seaside Gothic, Gingerbread House, Howl: New Irish Writing, and elsewhere. Her debut collection, Frail Little Embers, was released by Neem Tree Press in 2025. You can find out more about her at www.fijacallaghan.com.