Author: Marianne

Peaches

, 0

(Honorable Mention, 2025 BWR Short Story Award)

The Kind Who Soar and The Kind Who Weave weren’t always so different. Before there were legs for climbing and wings for flying, there were just thoughts for thinking. Therein dichotomy commenced.

We developed eight tiny eyes, well-suited for scrutiny. The other kind couldn’t resist attempting to take everything in, all at once. Their greed earned them two enormous eyes instead. Just like that, two different thoughts evolved into two opposing worldviews. Over many lifetimes, our differences and animosities grew. But The Kind Who Soar went too far when they claimed the skies on incandescent wings, and we never forgave them.

Continue reading

Delivering A New Perspective

, 0

(Honorable Mention, 2025 BWR Short Story Award)

Alto was not having a good day, though not many had been since his Master forced him to work for a magic delivery app to get some “perspective.” Alto felt the entire thing was dumb and frankly beneath him. When Alto found out he had magic, he thought he would be working at a high-end Mage Academy, or a major firm, like Merlin’s Mastery. His Master had other ideas. Apparently, Alto was “not ready” and “too immature.” So here he was, doing gig work for tips like a street magician.

Continue reading

The Singer from Akrotiri

, 0

(Honorable Mention, 2025 BWR Short Story Award)

Paolo Alteri gasped and leaned against the Rialto Bridge’s southern balustrade. He reeled with a sudden dizziness, running a trembling hand through his long brown hair. A sensation of . . . displacement gripped him as if he no longer existed in 1678 Venice but in a different place and time.

Why . . . why would I think that?

Continue reading

The Fish Man of Mahoney Creek 

, 0

(Honorable Mention, 2025 BWR Short Story Award) 

Milt Wurtzman didn’t think anything of it when he saw Larry Gaines’ boat missing from the dock the day he disappeared. It was just past dawn on a Sunday morning in September, when the trout in Mahoney Creek were revving up to spawn and ready to lunge for anything that looked like food. And this particular morning was perfect for fishing—air crisp but not too cold, a low overhang of clouds threatening rain, and the Steelers didn’t play until four. Plenty of time to get in a few hours on the water and get anything he caught ready to throw on the grill at Donnie Puett’s house when he went over to watch the game.

Continue reading