Promotional Teaser, Flash Fiction, Magical Realism

Fixing Time

What you really mean is you no longer have anyone who is willing to fix you

me and chatgpt

Rae stood under a dull streetlamp, hands plunged deep into the pockets of a coat that had seen better days. The voicemail message rang out in her head —

You’re on your own this time, Rae. Don’t call me again.

Spider was the last person she’d expected to give up on her. Others had left. They always did. But she’d trusted him to last.

Spotting an old 80s style LP shop, nestled between a vape store and a pop-in café, she crossed the street.

The windows looked to be permanently fogged over. Inside, the air smelled of dust and vinyl. The man at the counter — a tall elderly guy with too much grey hair and a mouth that curved down— looked up as she entered, his expression a combination of curiosity and suspicion.

“Hey I’m, Zacheria. You look like something’s on your mind,” he raised his eyebrows at Rae.

“What’s it matter?” Rae leaned against the counter.

“Only if you want help. Then it matters.”

She let out a sharp, short laugh, “Help’s off the menu. I’ve been informed — I’m on my own.”