Short Story
Anything Can Happen
Daphne Jane Donnelly slapped the snooze button for the umpteenth time just as soon as the alarm went off, all for another 60 seconds of sweet, sleepy bliss. A risky move, to be sure, but one she was more than willing to make, for she was at her wits end with her daily life. Her soul-sucking and mind-killing corporate job can go straight to hell for all she cared. Bills and debts be damned.
By Jackie Barrows3 years ago in Fiction
Sixty Seconds to Sunrise
The hiss of the tea kettle escalated into a shrill scream, jolting Dr. Evelyn Wright awake. Disoriented, she fumbled for the snooze button, the red numbers glaring accusingly: 4:58 AM. Sixty seconds. Sixty seconds before the alarm would erupt, shattering the fragile peace of her cluttered office. Sixty seconds before she'd have to face the impossible. Evelyn shuffled to the window, the cityscape below a mosaic of twinkling lights shrouded in pre-dawn mist. It was a familiar view, yet tonight it held an unsettling weight. This was it. The culmination of years of research, sleepless nights, and relentless pursuit. Yet, doubt gnawed at her. Could it really work? Across the room, on her cluttered desk, lay the prototype – a metallic orb, shimmering with an otherworldly blue glow. Project Chronos, they'd called it. A device capable of rewinding time, a concept that belonged in science fiction novels, not sterile laboratories. The skepticism from her colleagues echoed in her mind. "Theoretical physics playground," Dr. Thompson had scoffed. "A waste of resources." But Evelyn couldn't shake the conviction, the memory of a dream – a life unlived, a path not taken. The kettle's scream pierced the silence once more. 4:59 AM. Panic clawed at her throat. She wasn't ready. Not emotionally, not scientifically. This wasn't a controlled experiment; it was a leap of faith, a desperate gamble with the fabric of time itself. Images flickered across her mind: a tearful goodbye, a missed opportunity, a love lost. The regret, a constant ache in her heart. Project Chronos wasn't just about scientific advancement; it was a chance at redemption, a chance to rewrite the past. But what if she failed? What if she shattered the very timeline she was trying to manipulate? The consequences were unimaginable. Her gaze drifted back to the shimmering orb. A single tear escaped her eye, tracing a path down her cheek. 5:00 AM. The alarm shrieked, its jarring sound slicing through the tension. With a shaky breath, Evelyn reached out and flicked the switch on the device. The room thrummed with a low hum. Fear morphed into a desperate hope as the blue light intensified, engulfing her in a blinding white flash. When she blinked open her eyes, the laboratory was strangely quiet. The piercing light of dawn was absent, replaced by the comforting glow of an evening sunset. Disbelief washed over her. Had it worked? Had she…gone back? The laboratory looked different. It was tidier, the whiteboard bare. A familiar melody drifted in – a song she hadn't heard in years. Panic surged. Suddenly, the door burst open, revealing a younger version of herself, hair pulled back in a messy bun, a worried frown etched on her face. "Evelyn, are you alright? You've been locked in here for hours!" It was her, ten years younger, the day she made the choice to dedicate her life to theoretical physics, the day she let go of love. The younger Evelyn held out a steaming cup. "Tea? You haven't slept a wink." Tears welled up in Evelyn's eyes. This was it. This was the moment. The sixty seconds that would change everything. Taking a deep breath, she grabbed her younger self's hand. "Evelyn," she said, her voice thick with emotion, "there's something you need to know…" The sixty seconds ticked by, each one a whispered secret, a shared revelation. Sixty seconds of regret transformed into guidance, sixty seconds that would rewrite a future. As the last second passed, a warm feeling settled in Evelyn's heart. The laboratory shimmered again, and when the light subsided, Evelyn found herself back in her cluttered office. The clock on the wall read 5:01 AM. The alarm clock lay silent, its purpose served. Outside, the city awoke to a new dawn. Evelyn stood by the window, a strange calmness washing over her. The past was unchanged, but the future held a different promise. The ache in her heart had softened, replaced by a quiet acceptance. Project Chronos wasn't just a scientific breakthrough; it was a journey of self-discovery, a realization that the greatest power wasn't rewinding time, but learning to live with the choices made. As Evelyn grabbed her lab coat, ready to face a new day, a faint blue shimmer lingered around the deactivated device. A silent testament to the sixty seconds that redefined her past, and the future that awaited.
By Moh Amirullah3 years ago in Fiction
Ten Past Four
Ten Past Four Sergeant Ramirez swore under his breath. The bomb squad wouldn't arrive for another ten minutes, and the timer, a crude digital monstrosity blinking a malevolent red, read ten past four. Ten past four, etched into his memory like a brand. Sixty seconds. A lifetime in the bomb disposal business, but sixty seconds could be an eternity. The device was crude, a mess of wires and duct tape strapped to a rusty gas canister. It sat innocuously on the coffee table in a cramped, second-floor apartment, surrounded by scattered toys and a half-eaten bowl of cereal. A child's apartment. Ramirez felt a cold knot tighten in his stomach. He'd entered under the pretense of a gas leak, a lie that sat heavy on his tongue. The young woman, barely out of her teens, had looked at him with a desperate mix of fear and relief. Ramirez had seen that look before - the look of someone who knew this was it, the look of a cornered animal. "Where's your husband?" he'd asked, already knowing the answer. "Gone," she'd said, her voice barely a whisper. "He wouldn't listen. Said he'd make a statement." A statement. A word that often translated to pointless violence, leaving Ramirez to pick up the pieces - or worse, become part of them. Now, with sixty seconds ticking down, Ramirez had a choice: prioritize the woman's safety or try to disarm the bomb. He glanced at her again. She was huddled in the corner, clutching a small teddy bear, her eyes wide with terror. Sixty seconds. His gaze flicked back to the timer, the red digits mocking him. Suddenly, a memory surfaced. A training exercise, years ago. A similar bomb, a similar timer. His instructor, a gruff, old veteran named Miller, had barked out instructions, then thrown a wrench. "Improvise, Ramirez!" he'd bellowed. "That's what separates the bomb techs from the bomb victims." Ramirez scanned the room. His eyes landed on a metal lamp stand. It was flimsy, but it might just work. He grabbed it, ignoring the woman's whimper of protest. "Stay back!" he yelled, his voice surprisingly steady. He knelt beside the bomb, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs. Forty seconds. His hands, usually steady, trembled slightly as he used the lamp stand to pry open the back of the device. Inside, a mess of wires snaked around a circuit board. He needed to find the power source, the heart of the beast. Thirty seconds. A bead of sweat trickled down his temple. He spotted a red wire, the most common for positive current. But there was no guarantee. Improvise. He remembered Miller's words. Twenty seconds. With a deep breath, he held the lamp stand aloft, the metal tip poised inches away from the red wire. He closed his eyes, picturing the training manual, picturing Miller's gruff face. Ten seconds. Time seemed to stretch, each tick of the timer an eternity. Then, with a surge of adrenaline, he brought the lamp stand down. Five seconds. A spark. A deafening crack. The room plunged into darkness, the smell of burnt wires acrid in his nostrils. His ears rang with a persistent whine. Zero. Silence. Deafening, beautiful silence. Ramirez waited, his eyes adjusting to the dim light filtering through the windows. The apartment was a mess, but the bomb was neutralized. Relief washed over him, a wave so powerful it nearly brought him to his knees. He turned to the woman. In the dim light, she looked even younger, her face streaked with tears. But there was a spark of life in her eyes, a flicker of hope. "It's over," Ramirez managed to say, his voice hoarse. She didn't speak, but a small, grateful smile touched her lips. In that moment, sixty seconds of fear and adrenaline translated into something far more profound - a life saved, a future preserved. As the bomb squad finally arrived, Ramirez knew this wouldn't be a day he'd soon forget. Ten past four, the time etched into his memory, would forever be a reminder of the day he defied the odds, the day he improvised his way out of sixty seconds of hell.
By Moh Amirullah3 years ago in Fiction
The Sixty-Second Miracle
Maya’s heart hammered a frantic rhythm against her ribs. Sixty seconds. That’s all she had. She peeked through the grimy bus window, the pre-dawn Sumenep sky bruised with the promise of a violent sunrise. The conductor’s booming voice, a rhythmic singsong in Javanese, faded as the bus lurched to a stop. Sixty seconds to rewrite her destiny. Her grip tightened on the worn leather satchel, its contents a tangible weight against her churning stomach. Inside, nestled amongst well-thumbed textbooks, lay a single sheet of paper – her university entrance exam permit. It was a passport to a future beyond the monotonous rhythm of life in Sumenep, a future painted in vibrant hues that transcended the endless rows of Madura’s salt flats. The bus door hissed open, spewing a wave of pre-dawn commuters. Maya lingered, the stale air inside the bus a strange comfort compared to the unknown outside. Her gaze darted towards the front, searching for him. Pak Harun, the kindly old bookseller, had promised to be there. He was her only hope. A commotion at the front of the bus drew her attention. A young man, no older than Maya, was arguing with the conductor, his voice laced with desperation. He shoved a crumpled wad of bills into the conductor’s hand, his dark eyes pleading. The conductor, a burly man with a shaved head, scoffed, the wad of bills fluttering to the ground. “Missed your stop, kid?” The conductor’s voice boomed. “Next bus comes in an hour.” The young man’s face crumpled. He bent down to pick up the money, his movements jerky with despair. In that moment, a spark ignited within Maya. Sixty seconds. She had sixty seconds to act. With a deep breath, she shouldered her bag and pushed past the throng exiting the bus. The conductor’s surprised grunt was momentarily lost in the cacophony of the morning rush. Reaching the young man, she knelt beside him, ignoring the sting of the dusty pavement. “Excuse me,” she said, her voice barely a whisper. “Are you going to Kalianget?” He looked up, startled. His eyes, the color of strong coffee, held a flicker of hope battling with resignation. “Y-yes,” he stammered. “But I…” “I’m going there too,” Maya interrupted, her voice gaining strength. “We can share a cab.” The young man hesitated, then a flicker of a smile touched his lips. “Are you sure? I wouldn’t want to trouble you.” “No trouble at all,” Maya said, forcing a smile. “Come on, let’s find a cab before the next bus arrives.” They hurried out of the bus terminal, the morning air thick with the scent of exhaust and frying food. Maya hailed a passing taxi, her heart pounding a frantic counterpoint to the ticking clock in her head. “Kalianget University,” she instructed the driver, ignoring the bewildered look the young man shot her way. Inside the cramped cab, an awkward silence settled between them. Maya stole glances at him. He was dressed simply, a worn backpack slung on his shoulder. His fingers nervously tapped a rhythm against his knee. “What’s your name?” she blurted out, breaking the silence. He startled, then offered a shy smile. “Bayu.” “Maya,” she replied. “Are you taking the entrance exam today?” Bayu’s smile faltered. “I was supposed to. But I missed the bus from my village.” Shame flushed his cheeks. Maya understood. The unreliability of public transport was a constant source of frustration in Sumenep. But time was a luxury they didn’t have. “Look, Bayu,” Maya said, her voice gaining confidence. “I have a permit to enter the exam hall, but I…” she hesitated, then blurted out, “I can’t take the exam.” Bayu’s eyebrows shot up. “Why not?” Taking a deep breath, Maya revealed her secret. Her family, struggling to make ends meet, couldn’t afford her education. The permit she held was meant for her younger brother, a brilliant boy with a future brighter than the salt flats that stretched endlessly around their village. But he, bless his naive heart, dreamt of becoming a fisherman, just like their father. “So, I was going to sell this permit,” Maya confessed, her voice dropping to a whisper. “Just enough to get by for a while.” Bayu listened intently, his coffee-colored eyes reflecting a kaleidoscope of emotions. When she finished, a slow smile spread across his face. “You know,” he said, his voice surprisingly steady, “I might be able to help you with that.” He rummaged through his backpack and pulled out a worn.
By Moh Amirullah3 years ago in Fiction
Peanuts and Crackerjack. Top Story - May 2024.
Bottom of the ninth inning. The game is tied with two outs, two strikes and a man on second. I tap the bat on home plate. The rigid vibrations it creates reminds my aching digits that this isn't over. The practice swing only adds to the heft of mental burnout... Man on second, willing to chance it. Pitcher eyes him but doesn't give in to the dangerous bluff. I kick up dust, readying the peculiar stance I've had since the days of little league. The bat lays stiff upon my cramping shoulder. Pain has no reason to be acknowledged; it's a fleeting afterthought. The sun sits passed high noon, but the stadium lights are on anyway. They trick my brain into believing they are the cause of this sweltering heat. Sporadic clouds are motionless, they too, don't want to miss this exhilarating predicament. Anticipating the next pitch, intensifying roars from the crowd rumble the stadium... Behind me, the crafty catcher adjusts his stance and spits to the dry dirt. Behind him, the staunch umpire doesn't flinch or even blink; he knows how important his call will be. The pitcher winds up, his grip tells me its gonna curve. The release is fierce! Beads of sweat from his hair and face disperse in every direction as the force of his might is unfailing. My left leg lifts—an instinctual move that will increase the power of my swing. It's all down to my two, bloodshot eyes. They lock onto the speeding, white dot as it instantly becomes the target I intend to destroy. The swing is late, but I manage a solid tip. The ball is taking a fast bounce toward the pitcher who is recovering from the almighty throw! Man on second leaves in a desperate rush! I fling the bat to the side with a sense of urgency and make a mad sprint to the only destination I have—first base. Three defenders race inward to be the first to retrieve the skidding ball. Man is almost on third! I watch the open glove of my adversary, wondering if I’ve done enough to win this race. I switch my attention to his eyes, looking for a clue, some kind of reaction that tells me the ball is in the air and heading his way. All I see is frustration. The deafening roar of the crowd spikes! Something happens that I can’t see! My opponent abandons his post right as my left stride touches the bag. I waste no time turning my head to see the pitcher laying on his stomach, pounding the mound with an open glove. He misses the opportunity to out me and the ball has quickly bounced past him. Excitement grows! This isn’t over yet... It's become an imperative fight to tag out the runner heading homeward. The catcher falls to his knees in obvious despair as he watches my teammate make the run of his life. He knows it’s going to be close when he sees the shortstop fumble the ball a second too long. I jump up and down with no plans on leaving first base. All my chips are on the speed and agility of the active runner. His cleats dig into the dirt, trailing a dust-filled cyclone from the rapid and strenuous strides. With a thrusting dive and an outstretched arm, he lands on his chest to begin the crucial slide to home plate. The shortstop fires the ball to the catcher! It immediately begins closing the gap! Nail-biting doesn't begin to describe the anxious vibe permeating the stadium. The bench begins to celebrate even before he reaches the plate. Forty thousand cheering fans reach maximum crescendo, filling the air with a glorious sound. Everyone knows how this story will end… My teammate is met by the entire bench as his fingers inch across home plate, instantly followed by the unmistakable motion of the catcher's glove attempting to tag him out—its milliseconds too late. The ump swings his arms outward, officially calling him safe.
By Lamar Wiggins3 years ago in Fiction
Da Bomb.Com
At the First National Bank of NC a bomb has been wired into bank’s vault located in the rear of the building. Carter Whitsett, a senior member of the Warren County bomb squad has arrived on site to diffuse the bomb. The bomb was planted in the building by a group of heist-men who initially just planted the weapon as a diversion after they robbed the bank for $800,000, but after they were intercepted by responding police units the bomb was triggered in the melee. With Carter prepping to diffuse the bomb chaos ensues as there is only one minute left to disarm the weapon.
By Joe Patterson3 years ago in Fiction
Around the Wall
First published in The Atherton Review, April 2021 “Hugo, what’s that on your face?” asks Daniel as he looks a little closer. Hugo sits upon the canvas bag he was sleeping on last night. Paz reaches over and peels the piece of rough fabric off his cheek. “Wow!” she responds. “You have a tattoo of this miserable place right on your cheek.” A small grid remains imprinted on his cheek. “It may be miserable, but it kept us alive another night,” Daniel proclaims so the rest can hear.
By Tony Martello3 years ago in Fiction
