Do you remember how thick the calluses on your hands once were?

     The way they handled every tool so deftly, laying the foundation for the growing business, desperately slopping wet concrete into place, framing and sheeting stud walls, and slinging roofing nails like an old western gunslinger? Remember the teeth-rattling vibrations of the hammer drill as sweat poured down your body, as the summer sun baked your skin into red leather? Or the bark of the chop saw, how the dust showered the air like a tradesman’s confetti?

     Do you remember running miles of wire, hauling sheetrock on worn backs as the air crisped to autumn, and mudding walls into the chill of the eve? Remember when it was finally done, pulling your truck in for the first time – turning over the steering wheel with those worn, weathered hands, just as the first flakes of snow began to fall?

     How thick your calluses had grown. With a utility knife, you would dig slivers deep out of the bedrock of your palm, or snag your wife’s shirt just by grazing her shoulder. And how your little girls would squeal if you scraped their skin too hard. Do you remember that, back when the weight you carried was merely a physical thing, when the pain you endured was external?

     All that heavy construction, do you recall doing it all over again for the addition? Because this time, it wasn't just your business that was growing, and because there’s a code etched deep into your DNA; what you were, are, and always will be.

     A builder.

     And that’s what builders do.

     Build things.

     And do you remember, precisely 10 years ago, when the scaffolding to that old world – everything you had created, and everything you planned to create after – was kicked out, and no matter how hard those weathered hands grabbed and clawed, no purchase was found? No warning. No buffer. Just a swift tumble into endless freefall?

     And maybe, maybe you’re still falling.

     Do you remember?

     In spite of everything; the time that has expired, and all that has come to pass.

     A lot has changed in the last 10 years.

     Least of all, your hands.

 

     Our first ever PRINT ANTHOLOGY is here! All the stories we published in 2026 are bound together in this absolutely beautiful anthology, and in full color! That's right, illustrations included. Pick up a copy (and view the first few pages) HERE. If you'd like a hardcover (or if you're local and want to save on shipping), send an email to storyunlikely@mailbox.org as those cannot be printed on demand.
 

by Danny Hankner

 

 

The floor of our cell is cold, the lighting dim. A small TV scratches out cable with muted sound, while a hard, uncomfortable thing you sit on rests in the corner. There’s a clock on the wall too – a large, garish piece that reminds me of when I was a child, waiting for the hour to strike 3:00 so I could rush down the hall, burst outside to the flood of daylight and the idling school bus ready to shuttle me home.

           Can I tell you a secret?

           There’s no rush now. The clock’s second hand is audible, and it ticks, ticks, ticks. Waiting is the first of two activities, making decisions the second. I am a business owner, an entrepreneur; decisions I know, decisions I’ve made. And yet here, all I want is to pass the torch. Let this be another’s burden to bear. Another’s pill to swallow.

           Next to me, she stirs. It’s hard to sleep, and she offers a tired, hollow smile, all mechanics and motor memory. Nobody wants to be alone – not here, not now.

           Not on death row.

           We have visitors: a beleaguered patchwork of friends and family offering their sympathies, anything they can do to help. The air is thick with disinfectant and irony, for nothing can be helped, nor pardoned, nor paroled – not to God or governor. There are other visitors. These are paid, and they dress in dull colors. Some float in like background noise, unannounced, wraith-like, leaving behind or whisking away the remnants of stale food. Others check vitals.

           House renovations continue endlessly on the screen. Time erodes: we eat, sleep, rotate. Eventually, there’s commotion. It comes without a warning bell or flashing signal – not even a polite, It’s time. Nurses drift in with magnetic instinct, like salmon suddenly deciding to migrate upstream. A staffer wheels in a cart full of tools. They’re arrayed on a large blue cloth and catch the dim light. I am a tradesman, a master electrician; tools are my currency, the native language in which I speak. Some are delicate and click, twist, and tweak with precision. Others strike with the weight of callused hands and traumas unspoken.

           But all tools – big and small – serve a purpose. To build. To create. To renew. These devices... they could be used for such purposes. But not here, not now.

           Not on death row.

           The tools are passed like childhood secrets, one to the next, and they go to work. Next to me, she cringes in pain. I wish I could help, but I’m as useless as the clock on the wall. Her hand squeezes mine.

           Can I tell you a secret?

           A few days before we were condemned, I had a nightmare. A friend was captured by terrorists, and they tortured him. His hair had been dyed a red much darker than mine, and these savages thought it lucky. They let him loose as if to escape, then gave chase, jumped on his back, dragged him to the ground and yanked out fistfuls of hair. The torment increased, as I knew it would, for he, too, was a man sentenced. Eventually, they stopped their games and brought out the saw. It was a jagged, two-man goliath from the 19th century. And, with sinister delight, they asked him, Shall we go front to back, or back to front?

           I looked away then as I look away now. This is the nightmare you wait for – the grinding agony, the living hell, the scar tissue unseen.

           It’s quicker than I expect.

           I wipe my eyes, and there you are.

           You don’t make a sound, of course. Your sisters were bigger, louder – aren’t they all? They take more tools to you, and when they’re done, wrap you in a blanket. The doctor offers encouragement, her assistant weeps with us. Your mother holds you for some time. They fill a basin with saline and place you inside. It sounds like the gurgling of some hidden stream you would’ve splashed through in another life. This cleans you off, but also, the water offers a suspended animation, as if death were undone. You’re so young, so delicate, yet even at six months, you’re fully formed. You have big feet, your mother’s nose, and I know if you opened your eyes, they would be mine.

           Your knuckles show signs of suckling. But there’s no sign as to how it happened. Everything they could check was perfect – you’re perfect, yet even in perfection, you’re gone.

           We name you.

           Can I tell you a secret?

           That was the hardest decision of all.

           More enter. You’re fragile, they’re gentle. A photographer snaps photos as we hold you, as they weigh you, as they dab your little feet with ink and stick them to paper. Eventually, the flashing dissipates, the visitors disperse, and the nurses migrate to warmer waters. We’re alone now, just the three of us. We sit with you and speak without speaking. My head aches. My eyes are dry, red fire. I’m so exhausted I can hardly stand, which is absurd.

           I was merely the bystander.

           The worst is over, but there’s still much to be done. I will have to tell your sisters. One barely talks, but the other is older. She was looking forward to meeting you – in fact, she’s been requesting a brother for some time now. I imagine starting this conversation – closing the door to her room and sitting beside her on the bed. Light creeps in from the south window. I wrap her tightly in her Minnie Mouse blanket, and begin…

           We have your funeral as well. There’s a cemetery not far away, with a lovely pond and majestic old trees. Beyond the center statue and around the bend reveals a long view of last-century stones checkered amongst brightly colored bouquets, and a proud little oak. There’s a place waiting for you, in the shade, next to your great-grandparents.

           As the days pass, it will get easier, but it will never be easy. There will be seasons of sadness, days of grief, moments of unexpected tears – all this pain bottled up and shattered like so much poison. People who have miscarried will tell us that they’ve been there, and they understand. They’ll mean well, even if they haven’t, even if they don’t. Your mother’s milk will come in, and for a time, everyone will be pregnant. Your sisters will forget. I’ll gain weight, and lose myself in work. 

           Eventually, the world will move on, the ghost-memory of you will fade from all but those closest, and I’ll consider with a gnawing heaviness the syntax of your short life – the negligible yet infinite chasm between forgotten and unseen.

           It isn’t long before the lady from the funeral home arrives. She gives us a minute. We are husband and wife, your father and mother; what can we do but hold you and weep? I imagine briefly who you would grow into: how much would your childhood resemble mine? Would you ride your bike and skin your knees and chase your neighbors under the summer stars? Would pranks become your pastime, with fields of teenage friends ripe for the harvest? Would you drive a pickup, buy a house, and annoy the HOA with your endless antics? Would you get married? Would you have a son?

         These are the thoughts that linger in the mind, and in the years ahead will transform and catch – at every phantom birthday, every invisible milestone, every specter of a first – like bullets between the teeth.

           I’d like to speak to you now, but I cannot – and not for lack of words, but because I am simply red-lining the limits of sanity and strength. Even so, I watch with my mind’s eye as these parting words leave my will just as if they had left my mouth.

           We love you. And we’ll miss you. Goodbye, sweet child.

           And we hand you over.

           Can I tell you a secret?

           You were unexpected, both in life and in death. Our plans – not so soon, at least – didn’t include you, but when the news came, we quickly altered them. Your mother adjusted her lifestyle, taking great care of herself while locating the next round of baby essentials. I worked tirelessly to prepare a place for you. We did it gladly, if imperfectly. Although I must confess, I was consumed by the impending practicalities – too busy with work, life, and other adult nonsense. As you grew, I didn’t place my hands around you, never felt you squirm or kick or protest. It wasn’t until I was standing in my driveway on just another Monday morning, when I took the call and listened in shock as the words touched my ears, They can’t find a heartbeat – in other words, it wasn’t until they put me on death row – that I gave you the attention you deserved.

           Now we change plans again.

           Can I tell you a secret, Caleb?

           Tomorrow morning we’ll walk out of here, leaving behind the cold floor, the dim lighting, the myriad tools bloodied and sanitized and drying upon the rack. The world, indeed, will move on, and yet when nightfall descends and I look up at the eternal blackness of the sky, or watch with muted, indescribable sadness your mother sleep, or annually peel open the ornate box with your small collection of ‘things’, I’ll understand the tidal pull of every cliché ever uttered by the lost, the broken, the hollowed-out, empty survivors: that I would trade it all.

           For one day.

           For one moment.

           For one breath.

           I would hand over all these invisible days.

  

~~~

About the author:

     Award-winning author, editor, and publisher, Danny Hankner began penning stories about himself and his idiot friends as a teenager. Now, masquerading as an adult, he lives in Davenport, Iowa with his wife and kids, working as a master electrician for his own company. In his spare time, Dan rides and builds mountain bike trails, scrapes infinitely spawning cat hurl off the basement floor, and runs Story Unlikely, an award-winning literary magazine where he floats around self-important titles like Benevolent Dictator and Literary Spirit Guide.

 

by Rick Duffy

 

 

“So, Mr. Jones, you’re interested in the swimsuit dream?”

     Mr. Jones sits at the end of my sofa. “Uh, yes, Miss Waters.”

     His voice cracks, obviously forced down an octave. This kid can’t be more than fifteen. He wears a baggy overcoat that’s probably his father’s—overkill for early fall. And he’s trying to grow a mustache above his sweaty upper lip, but without much luck.

     I put on my business face. Juveniles don’t slip through my filters often, but it’s a risk.

     The kettle whistles, and I step to the kitchenette. “Please, call me Sarah. Would you like something to drink?”

     Mr. Jones clears his throat. “A beer?”

     “How about some tea?”

     “Okay.”

     Smart kid. Choose your battles.

     I return bearing two steaming cups. The curtains in my one-room are closed. Not for ambiance or intimacy, but because the fire escape makes me look cheap. My dream journal sits open on the coffee table.

     I hand Mr. Jones a cup and sink into the cushion beside him. “It’s chamomile.”

     “Camel meal?” He dares a sip.

     I page through the journal, trying not to smile.

     This particular dream is an old one, pressed on a pale blue page with a yellow border. The images are blurred and jumbled, like wildflowers in the rain. I’d labeled it pastoral. It’s of me and my old girlfriends back at the lake. I don’t stock that kind anymore. They’re slow movers. And allowing old dreams to pile up devalues the inventory.

     I lower my voice. “Just so we’re clear, it’s not erotic. Those are out of your price range.”

     “I know.” He sets the cup aside.

     I lean down and exhale on the page, as if reviving an ember. The images shrug and unfold with a new vibrancy—faces gain depth, water ripples, sounds of laughter echo in the sun.

     Mr. Jones leans in, too. After a few seconds, the splashing and giggling slows, flattens out, and stills.

     “This the one, Mr. Jones?”

     He gives a furtive nod.

     I smile gently. “Is this your first time, Mr. Jones?”

     His puffy eyes flash up. “No.” He’s a little too insistent. “But… can we go over everything first?”

     “Of course. Whenever you want to use it, breathe like I did, until the smells ooze out. This one is pine-scented. Lay it close, next to your pillow, and it will bloom into your dreams.”

     “Will I be someone in it? Or will I be watching, like a video?”

     “In this one, you’ll be me as I dreamt it—female, blonde, a lot younger than today. You’ll see the sights I did and feel my emotions. With enough practice, you can use it as a jumping-off point for your own dream.”

     “Wow,” he whispers.

     I close the album. “The contract is industry standard. Once I’ve signed it over, it’s one hundred percent yours. No returns, non-transferrable. Is this acceptable?”

     “Yes.”

     “Fine.” Actually, he could resell it. But second-hand dreams lose value fast. “Now, I’ll just need to see some ID.”

     He pauses. “ID?”

     “Standard procedure. I can’t risk losing my license selling to an underage client. People can get in a lot of trouble for that. You understand.”

     This also isn’t completely true. The risks are real, and the penalties steep. It’s just that I can’t get a license. Not with the kinds of dreams I sell.

     He slumps inward, his oversized coat swallowing him alive. Poor kid. His ability to dream is almost gone now. But I’d given him what I wanted in the way of an introduction to black market dreams. Still, this is as far as I’m going with a juvenile. I have my principles.

     “Oh dear,” I fold my hands. “Did you forget your ID, Mr. Jones?”

     “Uh, yeah.” He pats his pockets. “It’s in my other one. My other coat.”

     “Then why don’t we put this off for another time?”

     We lock eyes for a moment. He nods and shuffles out the door.

     I doubt he’ll be back, even with a fake ID. Damn. I need some sales.

     Dropping onto the couch, I sip my tea and thumb through my journal, revisiting the dreams of earlier years. At fourteen, I sold my first. Commerce in unlicensed dreams is illegal, but like Mr. Jones, I’d been stretching my wings before they were clipped. All I’d received in trade was an orange soda. That, and a week’s suspension once the principal found out. Plus a month of counseling.

     Only a dream about baseball. And I never even got it back.

 

#

 

     When I was little, I’d bring my dreams to the breakfast table, first thing, before they thinned out. My parent’s retellings of their nightly dreamcasts were usually boring or ridiculous, at least to me, and sometimes I couldn’t help but laugh. Then my parents laughed, too.

     But they’d always listen closely when I told them of my own. Once in a while, they’d say, “That’s a good one, Sarah. Let’s keep it.” We’d get the brushes and paper, and they’d help me lay it down. I was careful to get all the shapes and colors right, the people and the moods, the layering, even the feel of the air, until it had depth, until it bloomed. Then we’d press the dream in a book, careful not to crush it. There’s nothing worse than a crushed dream.

     By our teens, we’re expected to outgrow such things. The dreams handed out in school pretty much guarantee it—first cartoons, then adventures and triumphs, with education mixed in, of course. All much more exciting than people produce on their own. After that, we start picking up the nightly dreamcasts, and can choose different channels. Our natural ability to dream weakens, like an atrophied muscle. We forget how.

     But I loved my natural dreams. People said they were pointless, a waste of time, unhealthy. Not me. They were each original, never seen before, never seen again. They were my dreams, my art. So I kept my journal, kept adding to it, and began to learn of the underground trade.

I spent my high school graduation money to buy my first illegal dream, from a guy in a little shop that did tattoos and painted nails. You might think the most requested ones are about revenge or violence or sex. But they’re not. They’re about lost loved ones, unresolved regrets, or those desires forever out of reach—our castles in the sky.

     Mine involved fishing.

     I’d commissioned a dream of Dad and me at the lake. My father was an old-guard type, sober and reserved, except when it came to sports. He hooked me early. By the time I was eighteen, we had stopped fishing together—or doing much of anything—but I had always wanted to land something big, a five-pounder. “This will be the day,” Dad would say. But it never was. So I gave the man at the shop some family pictures and described how I wanted it to go.

     The dream he’d delivered was perfect. The day was clear and bright, with a sweet breeze caressing the pines and a few seagulls soaring through the sky, which I thought was a nice touch. Dad and me sat quietly on the pier, the lake rippling electric in the warm sun and gulping around the supports. There was a tug on my line. I played it out. Dad dropped his reel and moved closer. “You’ve got it, Sarah. Keep going!” The fish pulled harder, and I fumbled the pole, but Dad wrapped his big, calloused hands around mine, guiding me, not taking over. A moment later, we yanked the rod, and there it was, a beautiful, plump trout, glistening like a rainbow in the sun and spray. I swung my prize onto the pier where it landed with a wonderful whomp. And we both yelled and Dad was all smiles.

     That’s what black market dream workers do—bring people what they can’t get anywhere else, and can no longer find themselves. Lost wishes, forbidden hopes, or exquisite aimlessness. When I felt the joy of seeing that fish, and of my father so proud, I think that’s when I decided to become a dream worker myself.

     Well, Mom and Dad did not approve.

     “We’re not rich,” Dad said over his newspaper. “How can you afford the training?”

     “Not in medical. You know, like an artist.”

     “I’ve seen that so-called art. Pretty seedy stuff.”

     “You can’t make a living on just your dreams,” Mom added.

     “You always said I had talent.”

     “Those ads walk a thin line,” Dad said. “‘Bring us your fantasies! Your wildest dreams!’ Come on, Sarah, we didn’t raise you to be that naïve.”

     “If you’d just give me a chance—”

     “To what?” He lowered his paper. “To help people live out their cheap little thrills?”

     “Come on. Not every—”

     He lifted his paper, covering his face. “This is not a negotiation.”

     “Why is it even your decision?”

     “While you’re under my roof, it is.”

     I dropped the topic. And I didn’t tell them as I began meeting with the underground, making connections, practicing. But Mom found my inventory, which included some fairly erotic product. And that was that. I can’t remember if it was my decision to leave, or theirs. Maybe an ugly mix. That was eight years ago. I sometimes miss them terribly, but that bridge is burned. Now it’s a card at Christmas. A call from Mom. You know. And the conversion always goes the same:

     “Is everything all right with you, Sarah?”

     “Yes, Mom, I’m doing great.”

     “She says she’s doing great.”

     Dad says something in the background.

     “Your father wants to know if you’re happy with—with everything.”

     “I’m fine, Mom.”

     Dad says something else. Mom is silent.

     “Did Dad say something?

     “No, I don’t think so.”

     “Well, I have to go. I have a client coming.”

     Pretty much like that. They don’t ask me back. I don’t ask to come. And we never mention my dreams…

About the author:

      Best known for his fantasy series, The Sigil Masters, Rick Duffy writes to discover new worlds and wander from the familiar. He lives in Colorado, is never far from a biking trail or a cup of tea, and hopes we all find time everyday to explore.  Connect with him at rickduffy.com.

 

 

--Cartoon caption by Lindsay Foyle

 

I've been writing for nearly half a century since my first professional sale. I've been in a number of writing groups over the years and lead my own group as well. I've watched writers buckle down and do the work and, in time, rise to success. But I've also seen a negative pattern with some as they send their stories out and the rejections keep coming in.

 

Being discouraged by rejections is normal. Rejection infection isn't.

 

You can tell the infection might be showing symptoms when a writer gets their first "no" and they voice a familiar question: "I worked hard. I thought this was good. Why did they reject my story?" They're disappointed, coughing out the hurt, ready to try again. It's a normal response. Just a sniffle.

 

But when the rejections pile up, the symptoms can spread to Stage 2. The tone sharpens. The questions get darker. "I've seen the stories they publish. Don't they know good writing? Are the editors blind?" And suddenly it's no longer about the story—it's about alleged unfairness, justification, and faultfinding.

 

If the writer is new to the group or they're a new writer, we might say we're sorry and offer consoling words. Rejection stings for all of us, but it's especially hard on those just starting out. We get it. That's a normal cough, a minor head cold: clear your throat, take your medicine, learn what you can, and go back at it again.

 

But some don't get better. The infection spreads as more rejections arrive and that writer's complaints become increasingly strident. Stage 3: "Those idiots! This is better than anything I've seen them publish. Why do they keep rejecting my stories?"

 

That's a sign of deeper infection. True, we expect to get better the more time we've spent practicing a skill. It can be confusing when we feel we're doing all the necessary things to advance, and yet it appears others are moving up the line and we're stuck behind, staring at their butts. Doubts roll in. Why aren't we moving up? How come that guy just got the nice sale, that new agent, that great publisher? We're working just as hard as them!

 

And if we aren't careful, we can become plagued with rejection infection. Our attitude can sour and we could become bitter. Jealousy kicks in. We could use our precious words to tear down the successful efforts of others instead of building them up. We could blame those "stupid editors" who can't discern between great writing and a crumpled grocery list. As the fever consumes us, we could even become delusional, loudly and proudly telling others our writing isn't selling because these "professionals" aren't able to see our genius. That's when rejection infection moves to Stage 4: it spreads throughout the writer like sepsis, and their negativity not only drives the people that could have helped them away, it can become catastrophic--they quite writing altogether.

 

Game over.

 

Stage 4 is rare, but I've seen what happens if the Stage 4 infected writer doesn't get help and remains stewing in the group. The infection  becomes an outbreak.

 

But why let rejection make us sick? Why allow it to take us out? How can we initiate preventative measures so that scratchy cough doesn't advance through the stages to Stage 4 illness and kill our writing joy?

 

Let's consider the realities of why our stories might be getting rejected, how we can inoculate ourselves by knowledge and building coping skills, and how we can improve our writing health so that we can stay the course and make those healthy sales…

This article is for Members only. To keep reading, simply click HERE. Haven't yet become a Member? There's no better time than NOW to take advantage of the many benefits, all for one low annual price! Go ahead and sign up today!

Moon teaches the award-winning Super Secrets of Writing Workshops and is the author of The Illustrated Super Secrets of Writing and the runaway bestseller, How To Write a Howling Good Story. He invites you to join his free Wulf Pack Club at www.TheSuperSecrets.com

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     I'm writing to you from the Bluegrass region of Kentucky - a wild, rolling hinterland famed for its race horses, bourbon distilleries, and the eponymous genre of music. Poking around your page, I was immediately struck by the eclecticism of the published works and the commitment to quality, regardless of genre. More than anything, I'm happy to have found a community dedicated to uplifting and sharing works made by humans (a curious thing to say, and surely a sign of the times). I'm very excited to subscribe and thus receive a monthly diet of real art and literature to help offset the barrage of AI and predatory media hurled my way. Thanks for doing what you do - your work is a welcome respite from a paradoxically dull and dangerous world.

 

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