M’s Time Machine


I sit at the kitchen table staring at my pack of cigarettes and a banana; the most important decision I’ll make all day.

I look out the window instead. It is spring, finally. After seven months of being beaten half to death with a cold wet pillow made of darkness, it is spring.

The front door clicks open. M walks into the kitchen.

“You gonna eat that?” he asks. I shake my head, hand him the banana, and light a cigarette.

“Where were you?” I ask.

“The market,” he says, dropping a bag of salt onto the kitchen counter.

“Find anything good?”

He grins. I frown, I know that grin.

He takes a small box out of his pocket and places it on the table. I give it a suspicious look-over. It’s all in Russian. I can only gather a few words.

“Time?” I ask.

“Yeah dude, it’s a frickin’ time machine.”

“Uh-huh,” I get up and start making myself coffee. I’ve given up on tea.

“What’s that other word?”

M shrugs. “I forget. it says zima, hm, ring any bells?”

I briefly try sticking my fingers into the sludge of my hungover mind before giving up, nauseated.


M frowns at it.

“Wanna try it?”

He pulls open the box and removes what looks like a cigarette lighter. It is blue. He rolls it over in his hands.

“The guy said you just push this button,” M says, pointing at it. I sit back down at the table with my coffee. I hold out my hand.

M places it onto my palm. It is lighter than I expected.

“Feeling dangerous?” M asks. I shrug.

“Do you want to ask N what zima means?”

M shrugs and pulls out his phone. “Yeah, I suppose. I’ll text him.”

I place the time machine next to the phone and we both have a cigarette. They become ash before the phone tells us anything.

“Fuck it?” I ask M.

“Yeah, what is the worst that could happen?”

He picks up the time machine, and presses the button. The world flips over twice, I keep my eyes closed. It all stops. I open them. I look at M. He is staring over my shoulder, the look of someone watching the oven get turned on in a cannibal’s house.

I turn. The sky is ink, the ground is powder. It is so cold you can feel the air struggling to survive.

“Oh god,” M groans. I turn. He is looking at his phone. He turns it to me, fearful tears in his eyes. N’s message came through:


Author: Flash-365

Author Benjamin Davis and artist Nikita Klimov created one story and one picture each day for one year. In May 2018 they published their first book, The King of FU

9 thoughts

  1. “…sticking my fingers into the sludge of my hungover mind…”
    “the look of someone watching the oven get turned on in a cannibal’s house”
    “beaten half to death with a cold wet pillow made of darkness”

    So much gold in so few words. I’m loving your style. Excellently done!

    Liked by 1 person

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