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The Hand that Bites

An Acorns Flash Fiction Feature

By: Rye

The Hand that Bites

The leaves had only just started to turn. An awful viscera-red crawling up the struggling green with a terrible, earnest determination; that was when the teeth had started to grow out of my hand.

I’d noticed a subtle feeling of wrongness over a few weeks, a gnawing ache that radiated from my palm and through my fingers. Years of carrying burning plates from the kitchen had, I thought, killed all sensation in my palms, but this did feel different. Midway through an unremarkable shift, I ducked into a tiny alcove, predominantly to escape the sharp gaze of the managers who circled like vultures, but the effort was wasted. There was nothing there but a faint redness; a few inches of blushing skin stretched in a lazy crescent shape from the padded place beneath my thumb to the base of my little finger.

I finished my shift, the oddness with my hand pushed to the back of my mind as a group of eight barged through the doors, demanding the best table we had—only then to leave it ransacked after hours of loud, honking laughter and sporadic cheering. After two hours of unpaid overtime, I returned to my one-bedroomed cell, originally sold to me as a cosy flat, and passed out.

Days oozed past, each one the same as if I were stuck in some terrible TV show documenting the miserable life of the hospitality workers. Customers chatted inanely, celebrating the summer which refused to leave; blissfully unaware the planet was clearly dying as they ordered another ice cream sundae for their ugly, red-faced children. I kept my head down when I entered the roiling heat of the kitchen, where the underpaid cooks swore and snarled about the lack of air conditioning. I wove around the tables and chairs, dodging the wandering hands of bored men like some nightmarish obstacle course; only to fall asleep knowing the following day would bring the same.

“I told you I didn’t fucking want pickles!” A man shouted, and as I turned, a bun whipped past my face like a bloated breaded bird. It seemed everyone in the restaurant paused to watch as it splattered onto the wall, one half slid down the plaster and left a gory trail of ketchup and pus-yellow mustard. I turned back to the man. His cheeks were flushed, and his porcine eyes narrowed in anger. Yellow, crooked teeth glinted when his thin lips pulled back. I felt so still. I had stepped outside of my body to look at the depressing scene unfolding. At me, my crumpled uniform and dishevelled hair, at how easily an apology rose from my throat. From this perspective, I couldn’t see the anger which grew through my veins like barbed wire.

The restaurant slammed back into my senses with merciless force, and I swayed on my feet.

“I want another one, do you understand? And a fucking refund. Are you listening to me?” The man’s voice was grating, a petulant note heard in the toddlers who whined for dessert. His meaty fingers reached for my shoulder. I jerked away, my own burning, stinging hand rose to fend off the invader. Our skins touched, and he yelped. The man staggered back and grabbed the edge of the table to remain upright, his eyes wide. Blood, ketchup red, was smeared on his hand.

“I’ll go and get the kitchen working on your order right away and my manager will handle your refund, I am so sorry this has happened to you today.” The script was so light on my tongue, I wondered if I said the words in my sleep. I darted around the man and through to the kitchen, where I grabbed a wad of bandages. Instead of returning to the front, I slipped outside the fire exit and stood beside the large bins in the filthy courtyard. Only now, alone, did I unfurl my hand.

The red crescent was now vivid, a pure and pulsing shade of cherry-red. I watched as the skin writhed, and I felt it. I felt all of the nerves in my palm, as it squirmed. Then the redness opened, revealing two rows of glassy teeth bared in a mischievous grin. I quickly wrapped a length of bandage around my hand and was sure I felt the impossible teeth grind in frustration.

I returned to the flat, and my hand throbbed beneath the bandage. I could see the shadow of blood rise from the gauze. My kitchen felt even colder as I unwrapped the heated skin. Blood had dried into the cracks, dying my prophetic lifeline a vivid red. For a moment, I wondered if the teeth had been an illusion, some stress-provoked hallucination—but no. The second mouth opened, as if stretching after confinement, and again revealed two rows of pale, almost transparent teeth. The flesh surrounding the lipless maw felt raw and tender as if it had been gnawing on itself. I could feel it move, feel the shift of my flesh as it yawned and revealed glistening innards.

Sleep, surprisingly, came easily that night. I woke to see my hand resting on the other pillow, the mouth now on my palm was soft, as if it too slumbered. With a yawn, I walked into the bathroom and found I could shower without consequence; the teeth did not snap or nip at my skin. Instead, I was sure I felt the jagged edges caress my skin with the sweet gentleness of a parent.

A thunderous banging broke through the soft post-shower comfort. I walked with apprehension to the front door, the door which now seemed to tremble beneath the pounding fist on the other side. I exhaled slowly and opened the door to reveal Mason.

“You can’t do this!” The words were spat at me through lips I used to find alluring.

“Mason? What are you doing here?” I asked, keeping my new mouth behind my back.

“You don’t just get to leave, not after everything. Please, come on. I know you, I know us.” He said, and I felt something in my chest fracture. His anger tilted into passion, and his eyes burned. I let him pull me against his chest, let myself inhale the scents of sweat and sandalwood. His arms rose and held me tightly, and my resolve weakened. Our script rose in my mind, and like at the restaurant, it was one I knew in my sleep—the apologies, the promises that this time would be different. We’d find therapists we’d never go to, or download communication guides we’d never read. I’d apologise for my passive aggression, and he’d apologise for smashing my favourite mug. I knew my part. We drew back slightly, but I was close enough to see the amber flecks in his eye.

“I’m sorry,” he said, and he meant it. He always did. Now it was my turn to apologise, my lines waited, but something in me tightened. Why was I sorry? What had I done? Mason’s face was expectant.

“It’ll be different this time,” he added, giving me another cue.

“No,” I said softly, “it won’t. We aren’t good together Mase, we haven’t been for a long time. I think… I think we need to stay finished.”

“No, no you’re wrong. I’ll plan better dates, make more effort. You deserve it.” He said earnestly, and I swayed. My body ached for his warmth. A sharp pain flared through my palm and helped ground my resolve.

“Are you happy? Because I’m not.” I said, straightening my back, “We’re stuck in this cycle, and it has to end.”

He shook his head, and for a moment, I was reminded of the petulant man who threw his burger.

“Give us another chance, you can’t just walk away after everything!” he replied, his voice growing louder, “I won’t let you.” His lips tightened into an ugly line.

He reached for me, but I stumbled back.

“Leave, I want you to leave,” I said.

“No, we are going to fucking fix this!” he shouted. I became aware of his size, of the strength of his arms. Of the weakness of mine. He strode forward and closed the distance between us. My back hit the wall. My phone was in my bedroom.

“Mason, please. We can talk another time,” I said, trying to calm the anger I saw twisting his features into a different face.

“There is nothing to talk about. You aren’t leaving me.” He snarled and placed one hand beside my head. I felt so small. I could not find the man in this creature.

“Mason…”

“I won’t let you go,” he said softly, the oath echoed in the twitching muscle of his jaw.

“I believe you.” My lips were numb as my body slackened. I lifted my arm and placed my hand on his neck. I could taste salt and skin, and then I could taste blood.

About the Author:

Rye is an English writer who specialises in both poetry and short form fiction. They have been published internationally in online journals and literary magazines, including ‘The Pink Hydra’ and ‘Dusty Attic Publishing’ among others.

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Seven Blue Bowls

An Acorns Flash Fiction Feature

By: Anne Karppinen

At dawn, the wind blows from the north, over the mountains. The air is crisp and easy to breathe. The landscape sparkles in shades of blue and green; as the sun rises, it adds more tints one by one. This is the time to make a pot of tea and pour it slowly into small cups. No one should start their day with a clouded mind or a burned tongue.

A flock of magpies passes overhead. The only time they’re quiet is on the wing, and even then one of them might burst out into a bright, cackling laugh. Birds are more aware of us than we are of them: magpies, too, keep an eye out for intruders, and make sure none of the flock is left behind if a human comes too close.

After breakfast, I get my foraging-basket. There are people who believe that certain plants need to be harvested by moonshine, while others will lose their potency if cut after midday. I have yet to meet a flower that refused to yield its essence, or a seed that shrivelled up at my touch. I choose the time and the method, and the plants choose how much of themselves they want to give up to my use.

When I return home, it’s midday. The sound of the cicadas is overwhelming; the sun is beating down on my back. I acknowledge the power of the noise and the stifling heat, and withdraw as gracefully as I can. Setting down my basket by the well, I draw up a bucketful of water from the stony depths, and savour the cool taste before splashing my face and neck. The hint of iron stays on my tongue.

Thus, I’m not surprised to find the young warrior expecting me. He has been sitting on the porch, but springs up when he sees me. He’s left his weapons at the gate as is customary; his angular movements and the rapid way he spits out his words are indication enough of his occupation. Men like him are used to bowing to authority. He sees none in me, and is negligent with his honorifics.

‘I was told you have a spell for untouchability in battle.’

Soldiers are also notoriously superstitious. ‘Such spells are expensive,’ I tell him. ‘The best way to remain untouchable is to avoid battles altogether.’

Worry flicks across his face. ‘Are you saying that I shouldn’t go South with the general?’

‘It depends on how badly you want to return home. You have a sweetheart waiting?’ He’s an agreeable-looking young man: chances are that he’s managed to attract someone who doesn’t mind his raucous voice and calloused fingers.

He looks down. ‘We’re getting married next year.’

I move my fingers in the tiniest of gestures.

The young man drops a bag of coins and my feet, and runs down the path.

The evening steals in, gathering in the deep valleys and lurking behind corners before announcing itself with a true spectacle. Orange and bulbous, the moon rolls out of the darkness; it can’t rival the sun with its luminosity, but its perfectly round face is a wonder to behold. I’ve just finished washing up; the blue ceramic bowls gleam in the moonlight as if poured full of silver. While I set the pot over the fire, I keep listening to the sound of hooves.

The banker arrives just as the embers are beginning to turn black at the edges. His horse lets out a trumpeting snort, and starts sampling my flowerbeds. I don’t really mind: this late in the season there’s not much joy in growing things. In my mind I’m already filling the blue bowls with petals, berries and nuts, and counting how much sugar and salt to buy to last through the harvest and into the long winter.

The visitor is in his middle years—handsome, perhaps, if one ignores the quick glances he sends around him. People like him always want to know the exact worth of things. They put sums down on paper, and store their most valuable possessions in vaults. He doesn’t dare to look straight at me with those evaluating eyes of his. He knows that I will look back.

‘My doctor says I don’t have long to live.’ His right hand rests on his purse.

‘I don’t do funerals.’

He starts, then lets out a nervous laugh. ‘I was just thinking… a second opinion?’

‘What seems to be the trouble? Is there pain?’

‘The pain comes and goes. As does my appetite.’

He’s been casting wistful looks at my cooking-fire: the long ride has awakened the fickle flame in his belly. I season the stew with red pepper and late herbs, and ladle some into two bowls. He gulps the food down with the simple greediness of a child, then holds out his bowl for a second helping.

Somewhat sheepishly, he says, ‘It’s the mountain air. Always does one good. Look at you: we must be around the same age, yet you move like a young girl. Hardly a grey hair—mine went long ago. Didn’t even have the courtesy to turn white first!’

Soon, he’s cracking more jokes like that, drunk on his own good spirits. Making an expansive gesture, he tips his empty bowl over. It drops onto the flagged floor, cracking cleanly in half.

‘A thousand apologies! I’ll send you seven new ones, right away!’

‘Don’t worry about it,’ I say, although I know he isn’t listening. ‘Yesterday I had seven blue bowls, today I have six. That’s more than enough for one person.’

He leaves soon after, even though I’ve offered him a bed. The sight of the broken bowl haunts him. Is that my heart? he’s asking himself. Will that be my family, once I’m gone?

The moon skates over the sky, finally disappearing in a silvery halo down the side of the southern mountain. The last of the nightsingers falls silent. In a few hours, dew will start beading the grass: some people stay up all night to gather it in silver vials, in the hope of receiving the gift of continuing youth. In truth, it’s only water. I prefer to take my sleep between cool linen sheets, and wash my face with well-water after sunrise.

There is a secret to long life and contentment. People instinctively know that it’s not high status or money—at least not for most of us. It’s not the joy of the changing seasons or the sun’s daily cycle: not entirely. Magic potions will only take one so far, as can love. But why ask the wise woman of the mountain? My contentment is a bowlful of marigold petals. My long life will ultimately be in the mountains themselves: the cool air, the flowing water, and the black, potent soil.

About the Author:

Anne Karppinen is a university teacher, musician and writer based in Finland. She’s studied Creative Writing in the UK, and has been teaching writing – both academic and creative – for more than ten years now. Her speculative short stories have recently appeared in f.ex. Impossible Worlds and Worldstone; “The Lamplighter’s Daughter” was chosen for the Best of Wyldblood anthology in 2022. Her book, The Songs of Joni Mitchell, was published by Routledge in 2016.

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9 Questions for Tim Jeffreys

Man standing to the right of a statue of Frankenstein's monster

9 Questions for Tim Jeffreys

We caught up with Tim, author of “The Treachery of the Heart,” the atmospheric and creepy first story in our puzzle anthology, Through the Briar Patch.

1. Tell us a little bit about yourself.

Tim: One-time art student, sometime creative, father of two teenagers with a day-job in the health service.  Otherwise, a solitary-type, best not disturbed, with his head in a book or hunched over a writing desk.

2. How do you find time to write?

Tim: I dedicate one day a week to writing, and on that day I aim to get at least 1000 words down.  I will be at my desk, doggedly trying to avoid all other distractions, on this day even if I get no writing done. I think it’s important to have a routine and a dedicated time to be at your desk, even if it’s only for an hour or two.  That slow drip of words will add up surprisingly quickly. 

3. What does your writing space look like?

Tim: I’m lucky enough to have a dedicated writing space, with a desk walled-in by shelves of books, records, and CDs (basically, all my shit in one room of the house). My desk contains a drawing board and my laptop surrounded by disorderly piles of notebooks.  I like buying notebooks and will write in the first one that comes to hand – a bad habit as it means stories and novels are planned across various notebooks. Now which one did I write that character description in…

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

Tim: My favourite stories tend to end up being the ones that get the best reactions from readers.  I’ve become very fond of a story I wrote called ‘Here Comes Mr. Herribone!’ for that reason.  It’s about a comedy double act that introduce a new character into their show, which involves one of them donning a sack cloth head they find lying around in an old theatre.  I had no idea at the time that I was writing one of my best stories, and I’ve since worked this up into a novella.  I’m also quite proud of a little flash fiction story called ‘Myerscough and Skelton’.   I had the title for years, and when I finally came to write the story it took me two weeks to write 900 words.  But it’s a story where every word counts. It also feels very ‘me’ for reasons I can’t fully explain.  It was narrated wonderfully on an episode of Tales to Terrify.

5. What are you working on right now?

Tim: I managed to write an entire novel last year (woo-hoo!), so I got it into my head that I could do that every year.  It hasn’t worked out so well in 2025.  I’ve started four or five novels this year.  The one that seems to be going the distance is called ‘Hollow Back’ and it’s based on one of my short stories, although as it’s set in winter it was hard to write during the summertime.  I also keep getting called back to writing short stories – irresistible as it means actually getting something finished. I also like to have a bank of stories to send out to submission calls.

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

Tim: Yes!  The past few years, I’ve been going through Tim Winton and Kevin Barry’s novels.  I also dip in and out of lots of books of short stories.  Top of my TBR pile…I’ve never read Frankenstein so I’d like to give that a bash.

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

Tim: The most challenging thing is definitely self-promotion.  I’ve tried all kinds of things with very little success.  My (probably extremely naive) hope is that readers will discover my work for themselves.

8. What do you do when you’re not writing?

Tim: Since my day job also involves staring at a screen, I like to give my eyes a break and get away from the laptop as much as possible when not writing.  I’m a big music fan and will spend a lot of time listening to music and endlessly making playlists.

9. Where can readers find you?

Tim: The best place to find me is probably at Tim Jeffreys Writer.  Either that or follow the trail of chocolate wrappers.  I’ll be at the end of it, looking regretful.

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The Orange Tree

A single orange hanging in a tree

An Acorns Flash Fiction Feature

By: Luc Diamant

Yes, child, here. Yes, I know what I have taught you. No, you need not worry. This place is different. Why? I do not think I can answer that. But I can tell you how it came to be so. It started with the sprouting of an orange tree.

***

No one knew where it came from. Oranges are not native to this region, not with the summer rains and the winter snow. What’s more, that year, no oranges had been imported to the region due to a trade embargo caused by the latest war. All the same, there it was, a tiny sprout outside the house where the girl with the deep brown eyes lived.

When the villagers asked, she said she did not remember planting it. She was not in the habit of planting, preferring to let her garden grow as it would, only maintaining the paths she needed to get around.

No one in the village remembered having had an orange seed, either. Even the boy who always lied was clearly telling the truth; his denial was not vehement but confused.

And who would lie about it? The villagers would not have punished a person for idly burying an orange seed. They would simply have been relieved to have an explanation. But no one remembered being in possession of an orange seed, much less planting it, and so the tree remained unexplained.

This did not bother the villagers too much. It was spring, and strange things sometimes grow in spring. The tiny sprout of citrus would live through the summer if it was lucky, then freeze to death in the winter, along with the herbs and the wasps and the villagers’ hopes of the war ending the next year.

***

But the tree did not die. Deep snow covered the village, and when it melted, the orange tree was still there, right among the snowdrops.

The girl with the deep brown eyes did not seem surprised by this—but then she rarely seemed surprised by anything. The villagers did not act surprised either, though they were. It must have been a fluke, they concluded. The winter had been somewhat less harsh than usual, come to think of it. Next year, when the real cold came, the tree would surely perish.

But the real cold came and went, and the tiny tree remained. And grew. And by the third year, the villagers no longer expected the orange tree to die. Some decided that it was not so strange, after all—that perhaps orange trees were hardier than they are generally given credit for. Others suspected that there was something unusual about this particular tree, but they mostly kept these thoughts to themselves.

***

Either way, the tree did not bear fruit, even after three more years, and the villagers all agreed that this was bad. The trade embargo held, and if an orange tree was going to grow here against all sense, this should at least result in oranges. Now, the villagers whispered, it was just a useless, discordant thing at best, a painful reminder of all the war had taken from them at worst.

They told the girl to cut it down, but she shook her head. The villagers tried to argue. The tree looked out of place, they said; it was the wrong shade of green compared to the other things that grew there. The tree grew too slowly. The tree was in an inconvenient spot, so that she had to reroute her small garden path. Surely, the villagers reasoned, she would be happier without it.

But the girl with the deep brown eyes shook her head, and the tree was on her property, so that was that.

***

That was that, until another three years later, when the tree—still small, but no longer tiny—grew a single orange. The villagers did not believe it at first, but as the fruit grew, there was no denying it: the orange tree was growing an orange. It was not the size of the oranges the villagers remembered from before the war. It was not even the size of a plum. It was, in fact, barely bigger than a grape. But it was an orange nonetheless.

Those who had previously whispered that there was something unusual about the tree now began to murmur it. This orange, small as it was, might well have special properties. The tree’s appearance and its subsequent refusal to die had been odd, but this was beyond strange. No, the villagers speculated, this was no ordinary fruit.

***

One day, some of these villagers went to the girl’s house to try and buy the orange. They offered good money for it, more than one could reasonably hope to sell a single citrus fruit the size of a grape for. More, frankly, than they could afford to buy a single citrus fruit the size of a grape for. But the girl with the deep brown eyes shook her head, and the tree was on her property, so the villagers slunk away.

The other villagers, upon hearing this, wondered. Many had been skeptical about the orange’s alleged properties, but this lent credence to the theory. After all, why would anyone turn down good money for an ordinary piece of fruit, in times like these no less? No, the orange must be special after all.

***

More villagers went to the girl’s house to offer more money. Each time, the offer increased, and each time, the girl refused. And the more money she refused, the more convinced the villagers became that the orange must be magical.

One by one they came to make offers, and to demand an explanation when their offers were refused. What powers did this orange possess, that the girl must keep it at all costs? And why was she hoarding the secret of this magic? Before long, the entire village was gathered around the girl and her orange tree.

***

The girl with the deep brown eyes looked around, sighed, then reached out and plucked the tiny orange from the tree. As the villagers watched breathlessly, she peeled it with delicate fingers, revealing the flesh of the fruit within. She held the small orange up to the crowd before putting it in her mouth and swallowing it whole.

Instantly, her eyes widened. Her breathing grew ragged. The villagers saw her hands reach up to her throat, but none dared to move until she fell to the ground. By the time someone rushed forward, the life had already left her deep brown eyes.

Among the villagers, the conclusion spread first as a whisper and then like wildfire: The orange tree was not just magical, it possessed the strongest kind of dark magic. Its own defiance of death would come at the cost of the life of whoever dared to come near it. This turned from theory to truth in moments. If anyone suggested that the girl with the deep brown eyes might have simply choked on a seed, no one heard.

***

The girl with the deep brown eyes was buried under the orange tree—or as close to it as the villagers dared dig. In the year that followed, the tree seemed to grow much faster than before. And the next summer, it grew not one but three small oranges. In another three years, thirty mid-sized oranges. Another three years and the oranges were too big and too many to count from the distance the villagers kept from the tree, and more tiny orange trees were starting to spring up. Over time, what had been the property of the girl with the deep brown eyes became an orange grove that to this day none of the humans dare touch. Even in the final years of the war, those faced with the choice chose starvation over the oranges.

***

And this is why we have come here, my child, so close to a human settlement. You are quite right: Normally this would be far too risky. You have learned very well how we only eat the fruit that grows in the very depths of the woods where the humans do not venture—or if a single one does get lost there now and then, who is to believe their tales when they come back? But this, my love, is the exception. The humans in this village are more afraid of this orange grove than of what lurks in any forest. They would not enter it for the world. And if they hear our laughter or catch a glimpse of the fluttering of our wings, well, it will only convince them further that this place is not for them. In fact, in a hundred years or so, when you are grown, there may not be a village here at all. Look: Already the orange grove has taken over some of the houses. And its fruit—why, it is the sweetest you will taste in all your life.

About the author:

Luc Diamant is a Pushcart-nominated writer from Amsterdam, where he lives with his partner and child and their imaginary pets. By day, he teaches Dutch as a second language. His writing has appeared in Small Wonders, Canthius, and Clarkesworld, among others. When not writing, he enjoys spending time with his family, watching the plants on his balcony grow, and thinking about lemurs. You can find him on social media @lucdaniel94.

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Yellowing

An Acorns Flash Fiction Feature

by: Amanda Pica

              Mabel wished the window would open farther, to let in a better breeze. She tapped her fingers along her collarbone, feeling for the fabric there that stifled her skin, but when she found nothing to tug on, she let her arm fall back into her lap.

            Evening light cut a line across the floor tile and bathed Cliff in marigold and amber. Mabel wished to embrace him. Wished for his arms to circle her waist again, carefree and weightless like those after-school days in the apple grove. She’d been slight and wispy, and he’d hoist her up with such ease she’d swear for a split second she’d taken flight. Mabel’s frame had filled itself out over the years, first through her baking skills and then through menopause, but had once again become slight. Had ground the life out of itself. Had once again become wispy, but this time, without the sun-kissed strength of youth.

            A single butterfly squeezed into the room through the small gap where the window should have met the sill. It fluttered around Mabel’s face, patterns of lemon and butter laced with black webbing, and she giggled, then rubbed her nose where its wings had tickled her.

            “She’s a sweetheart, isn’t she?” said the butterfly.

            “That’s my Mabel.” Cliff patted her knee and she turned her face to him to warm herself in his glow.

            The butterfly flapped, a papery sound followed by scratching. Mabel tilted her head but didn’t follow the sound.

            “Can she bathe herself, Cliff?”

            More scratching. Mabel furrowed her brow and let the smile on her face dip before pulling it back up. Inquisitive little insect. Cliff’s voice rumbled on in his beautiful butterscotch baritone, overlayed by a slight waver that had started a few years ago. She wished to talk to him about how some things should remain private, between a husband and a wife.

“How about toileting? Can she do that on her own?”

Mabel blinked a few times. Such an intrusive insect. The evening light shifted and the bright splotches on the butterfly’s wings shifted too, morphed with the light until they shimmered. Translucent now. Elongated.

            Mabel froze, not that she’d been moving much before. The warmth of the evening sun had tricked her. The 5 o’clock angle had been wrong, wrong, wrong. 6 o’clock. That was the time of fact. Even more? 6:30. Once the sunline had crossed to the opposite wall, that was when the canary sun sang its truth. That had been no butterfly. All this time, flitting about their room, masquerading in a beauty that didn’t belong to it. It was a mosquito, with too many skinny lines and not enough color, and a proboscis the size of a garden hose. Two drinks and Mabel would dry up into one of those mummies Cliff had taken her to see in Chicago.

            Sandpaper raked up the inside of Mabel’s throat and a dreadful noise filled the room. The mosquito in butterfly’s clothing focused its horrible eyes on her. Lens after lens after lens, layered like fish scales, glimmered a sickened chartreuse with the setting sun. 

            “Is this the beginning of one, Cliff?” asked the wretched mosquito.

            The beginning of what?! Swat it, Cliff! Swat it before it bites!

            The words stuck tight. Mabel shoved at those stone monoliths in her brain but they refused to slide toward her mouth where she could speak them. Instead, they slipped toward the ever-growing drain hole in her mind, where thoughts got eaten up and never came back. She threw herself at the immoveable words and her body trembled in response. The horrid noise infected the air, filled all the cracks and footholds between her and Cliff and left nowhere for her to grab on. She couldn’t get to him. Mabel flung her head back in a desperate try at dislodging the stubborn words, and when her head struck the back of the chair, golden sparks shot across her vision.

Cliff stood next to her now, one hand pressed to an ear and the other, somewhere else.

Where?

            Missing. Missing.

Cliff’s arm was gone, melted into nothing, digesting in mosquito bile. Mabel twisted in her chair and her arms flapped up and down, left, right, left again. She had never been good at swatting insects. Cliff would laugh at her unseemly pliés and leaps, rolled newspaper in hand, until he’d finally take it from her and with one whack, splat the offending bug into a jaundiced smear of guts.

            Her breath came in bursts and her own hands flitted about her head, sometimes bouncing off her own cheeks. How could he save her this time? One hand wasn’t enough. A newspaper wouldn’t be enough.

            The mosquito flew close and Mabel struck out, missing it like always, the clumsy ballerina who never hit her mark. And then, through the screeching noise, something else.

            Something doleful and sweet, a bite of mango sorbet that soothed her aching throat.

            “…you make me happy, when skies are grey. You never know, dear, how much I love you…”

            Cliff’s lovely voice didn’t waver, not even once through the song. He’d taken his hand off his ear and tugged her saffron dress back down over her knee. The terrible noise faded and when she felt Cliff’s other hand on her back, the screeching cut off entirely. He rubbed her spine with a light touch, just enough to know he was there. His arm was there. A miraculous touch, as he’d reattached it. He’d saved it. Saved them. Her Cliff could move mountains.

            “…please don’t take my sunshine away.” Cliff’s voice hitched on the last phrase of her little song and Mabel smiled at him. A breeze outside blew through the black-eyed susans that covered the trellis just off the window, and with it, the mosquito had blown away.

            Cliff met her eyes and her thoughts pooled together into a pot of warm honey.

“I love you, my dear. With all my heart. Excuse me for a moment? I need to attend to something, but I’ll be just outside the door.”

            Mabel smiled at Cliff, and wished to say she loved him too, just as she had in the apple grove that first time, when the words had brought lightning with them. She turned her head again to the window, where the buttercups danced in the grass. Someone spoke outside the room, but the muffled words wove into straw and cornsilk and caught themselves in the doorway.

            “I think she’ll be content with us, Cliff. We can manage her care, and she’ll grow to know our facility as home.”

            “I’ll miss her.”

            “Of course you will. You’re welcome to visit as often and for as long as you want.”

            Cliff’s voice wavered, in bigger swoops than before. “Could I paint her room yellow? It’s always been her favorite, after all.”

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Short(b)Reads: Fiction plus Food

Remember reading the back of the cereal box as a kid? By the time we were almost finished with a box, I’d be desperate enough to read the ingredients, just for some new content. 

*squints* Tri-sodium-phos-phate. Red dye #40. 

As I type out possibly fake cereal ingredients, I’m wondering why I never brought a book with me to breakfast. How did that never occur to me? Add this to my list of things I’ll tell my past self when I invent that time machine.

Anyway, I could go on and on about my common-sense shortcomings from childhood. I’ll save that for therapy and move into my announcement: The newest book from Hollow Oak! 

Coming this September is our new anthology of speculative short fiction, Short(b)Reads. Each deliciously entertaining story features food so enticing, we’ve brought it to life. Every tale was paired with a chef, cook, or baker who developed a recipe for what you’ll read—making this fictional food a reality.

Your job, reader, is to create the food. Teamwork.

You’ll find a forbidden ground beef burger that’s out of this world, savory green onion pancakes shared with love and longing, and a darkly sweet coffee cake woven from the magic of generations.

Follow the recipe (or trick a neighbor into cooking it for you—creativity takes many forms) and then eat your masterpiece while reading the story. Or enjoy it afterward, while reflecting on the story. Know other people who enjoy short fiction and delectable cuisine? Have yourselves a book club feast. It’s a little bit of dinner entertainment with a side of immersive experience.

I promise it’ll be much more entertaining than the fine print on a cereal box.

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Introducing Hollow Oak: Our First Chapter

Woman wearing an orange shirt and a brown blazer lying on the floor, holding a speculative fiction anthology book called The Wordsmiths in front of her face

Welcome readers and writers and everyone in-between! I’m Amanda, the founder and editor-in-chief of Hollow Oak Press, and I’m addicted to what-ifs.

I’ve always liked stories, and being creative is as much a part of me as my left arm. The rush of a story idea, when that character or situation crosses into a new what-if scenario? There’s little that can match it.

I haven’t always known that about myself, though. I lived a big portion of my adult life creating nothing at all. I’d thrown myself headfirst into graduate school and then into my non-creative career, and I let that work consume me. I helped other people learn how to solve problems and to heal their relationships, and I pretended that work fed my energy, but really, it drained me. I used the sunk-cost fallacy as motivation to work harder and climb higher on a ladder where my feet never quite felt comfortable on the rungs. When I eventually paused to take in the view, I realized I didn’t want to go any higher. I didn’t particularly want to be on that ladder at all.

So I jumped. I threw myself into creative hobbies like community theater and this wonderful scavenger hunt called GISH (ask me about it, but only if you have an hour to listen to me sing its praises and show you photos). Being creative scratched an itch I didn’t realize I’d had. I wanted more and more and more.

And then, I bought a Chromebook and picked up something I hadn’t done in far too many years. I began writing again.

Flash-forward a couple of years to a chilly late fall evening, when my dog and I were out for a walk. I’d dedicated the previous year to the chase of traditional publishing and the heartache of querying agents with a novel. The online writing communities had called out “self-publish!” and I’d gotten DMs and emails from sleazy vanity presses trying to siphon money out of me. I’d also gotten back into writing short stories, my first love, and had a couple pieces accepted amongst easily a hundred rejections. I’d been watching online literary magazines and learning what markets existed for short fiction. The sheer number of plucky little publications that couldn’t afford to pay their authors dizzied me.

Mostly though, I was taken aback by the juxtaposition between the wealth-fueled Goliath of traditional publishing and the penny-scraping idealism of independent publishing, and it’s that very thing I ruminated on while on our daily constitutional.

My dog and I crunched through the leaves on the ground and the duskiness of the evening seeped into my very being. Dawn and dusk, two liminal times of day, straddling what is and what will be. I filled my lungs with the kind of autumn air that’s tinged with the promise of winter and steeled myself for a thought that had been trying to form itself for weeks.

What if I could provide a platform for authors like me?

What if I started a publishing company?

Now, three years later, I’ve taken that what-if and made it a reality. At Hollow Oak Press, we stand at a publishing crossroads. We’re a scrappy indie publishing company, and we believe that new and emerging voices in fiction have entertaining and impactful stories to tell. We want to help those authors find their readers. Details about our submission process can be found here.

We publish anthologies that immerse a reader beyond the story’s words. Our titles are available directly from us, from major online retailers, and select independent bookstores.