Pressure squeezes me to the rhythm of her heartbeat.
The warm fluid around me turns metallic and rushes past, pulling. I fight to stay until my body relaxes against smooth, strong walls.
I gasp as the womb releases me. My chest swells then releases the agony.
The silence is gone.
Sherri Ellerman is an Occupational Therapist who spends her free time writing short fiction and poetry. She has had a flash fiction story published in River and South Review, a literary journal. Her article “Five Steps to Consider in Romance Fiction” was published at Write Well, Write to Sell in July 2014. She is the Flash Fiction editor for Liquid Imagination, an online literary magazine.
“The drone marks the coming of age for Robotics, a science which suffered an overly long adolescence. Drones are here; they’re now. They are the force of the present, the power of the future.
“Mr. Chairman, Members of the Committee, I recommend you unleash the drones.
“All hail the drones.”
Barry O’Farrell is an actor living in Brisbane, Australia. He has written four short films, one of which has been produced, and is now enjoying the challenge of writing in 50 words.
The Story of the Month is chosen from the Story of the Week winners announced from the past month. The finalists for August were:
Through the Window by Alex Mascarenhas
Old Age by Catherine Mathews
There Goes Spot Again by Michael Coolen
First Impressions by Katya Duft
Burial At Sea by Jim Purdy
The winner of the August 2014 Story of the Month, and the $10 prize, is…
Through the Window
The story of the week from August 25 to 29 is Burial At Sea by Jim Purdy.
There was a lot of conversation about this story in the comments. It’s a touching tribute to a fallen friend, told in a matter-of-fact style, and despite its lack of flowery emotion it clearly resonated with the readers who have been rating it so highly. Thank you for contributing this story, Jim.
The hose barely displaced the red gunk clinging to the bumper. Liz adjusted the nozzle, her hands shaking.
The car was a mess, bonnet crumpled, lights smashed.
Just a deer, leaping out of the shadows.
The fact that it had a childlike face was merely a trick of the night.
Andrew writes flash fiction and drinks black coffee. Find out
what else he gets up to by following @imageronin
He orders for his wife. The waitress scribbles something on his napkin, slipping it under his whiskey glass.
His wife returns, applies lipstick.
“Not at dinner, dear,” he says.
His wife sips his whiskey and wipes her mouth with his napkin, smearing the phone number with her Revlon 43 lips.
Deanna Morris is a MFA graduate of Butler University (2013) with publishing credits for poetry, short stories, interviews, and freelance articles. Her work can be found in First Stop Fiction, Subtle Fiction, Clever Magazine, Scissors, and Spackle, among other places.
As the bartender prepares her a drink, he tells her how he’s a poet at heart and will publish a book of poems one day.
“Will you write one about me?” she asks, grinning.
He starts to recite something of Frost’s as though it’s his, drunk with his own lie.
Debbi Antebi (@debbisland) lives in Istanbul, Turkey, and blogs at debbiantebi.wordpress.com.
A bow in hand,
she breathes to life
four magical strings.
A canvas of sound
paints my life
in fairytale colours
of distant dreams.
Her body swings, the strings sing,
tears release my joy,
smiles in refrain.
The music pulses
within my veins.
have touched me
Patrick listened to his grandfather, father, and daughter play the violin, with great delight.
The preacher’s wife saw them selling the deep fried butter balls dusted with icing sugar at the Texas State Fair. She ate three in a row. She ordered a Diet Coke to wash them down as penitence.
Oddly, she felt worse about these sins than the affair with the Deacon.
Michael Donoghue mostly lives in his head, but resides in Vancouver, Canada.
Granny Nanny’s mean.
She dances to pounding music then oils her knees.
I hide the oil can.
She creaks and freezes, right in front of the fridge.
I’m starving. I can’t reach the handle. I’m too small to push her out of the way.
Fine. I get the oil can.
Brenda Anderson‘s fiction has appeared in Andromeda Spaceways, A Cappella Zoo, Punchnel’s, and Penumbra. She lives in Adelaide, South Australia.