My Time Machine


I am constructing a time machine. It’s not a complicated thing. And you may be disappointed to know I don’t have grand plans in store for it. In fact my reason for building it is quite simple. I want to see a certain home at a certain time. 

I will park my time machine midway down the block and clamber out. Everything I see will be exactly as I knew it. Old homes will seem modern. Trees will be younger, shorter, thinner. Shrubs newly planted. Cars will be large, boat-like things you see in films from those days, but not gritty like in those films. They will be shiny and new. Or newish, anyway. Anyway, they won’t look like they do in films.

I will walk up the concrete driveway into the garage. There will be unpacked moving boxes on the right, a baby blue Monte Carlo on the…

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No Remorse In A Wife Beater Eyes.

Stories from Nigeria

No Shame in a wife beater Eyes.

I live in a house with four flats. On the flat above us lives a man with his wife and three children.

He is the nicest neighbour, the one who greets you first and smiles at everybody.

He helps you to change the meter for your light and never hassle the guard.

He comes back home on time and plays with his children.

I was always praising him and saying he was a good neighbour. Imagine my surprise when on a Monday was watching TV when the sounds of‘’

‘’Help my daddy is killing my mumming ‘’ filled the was mixed with a cacophony of cries, the nine-year old, six-year-old and the baby were all shouting.

I rushed out of the house with no sleepers. The sand was hot and their was an I-pad and a phone on the floor. I entered…

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Because of Your Bowels, None Shall Read

Ethan Yarbrough Writes

The Ancient Mariner“Go to the men’s room,” my wife says.

We are at our neighborhood library, Saturday afternoon. My sons are in the children’s section looking for adventure novels appropriate to their ages, my wife had been at the computer studying the online catalogue for books about the Washington coast. I am sitting on the bench beside the Staff’s Pick’s shelf lost in a short story about a young couple dismantling their marriage while brushing their teeth. Life drama exploding in a bathroom. The juxtaposition of tragedy and plumbing. Brilliant.

But now my wife’s finger tapping on my shoulder.

“Go to the men’s room.”

She tells me our eight-year-old is in there. She’s worried. “He’s pooping,” she says.

“He’s old enough to take care of himself,” I say.

My wife shakes her head at me. “There are people out there. In the hallway by the bathroom. Go stand guard.”

I sigh at her. That never works, but I…

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