- Preheat your heart to 37 degrees C.
Open your eyes and ears.
Don’t make selections based merely on appearance.
Mix, knead and prove. It may take years.
If friendship does not rise, mix in more dough or start again.
May require variations depending on ingredients.
Joey believes there is at least one recipe for everything but many are not easy, especially if it’s important. But at least getting to his website, joeytoey.com, isn’t hard.
Scales shed by the monster as it attacked the city are thick underfoot. We make a covering path of them to traverse the glass shards and twisted metal filling the streets, seeking safety. The memory of a reptile’s gaze, my reflection so small in its mutant’s eye, haunts each step.
Brian Maycock lives in Glasgow in Scotland. His short stories have most recently appeared in 365 Tomorrows and The Weekly News.
There is no wind, yet the curtains move by the window.
Shadows shift languidly on the moonlit wall.
The night is warm, yet I am suddenly chilled.
I am alone, my first night in my new home, yet there are footsteps on the stair.
The bedroom door is creaking open.
John Young is an old chap, grappling with themes of limits, longings, and finitude. He likes spooky stuff.
Her look was summery; the weather was not. She stood shivering in her flower-speckled sundress, staring upward as the heavens opened, and torrents descended. Colourful ribbons in her hair were soon plastered against her scalp.
The forecast promised hot and sunny, but during the pandemic, nothing unfolded as it should.
Alan Kemister is the pen name of a retired scientist experimenting with more fictitious writing. He’s currently working on a climate change novel. Get the gory details at alankemisterauthor.wordpress.com
stands a man
clad in iron skin,
sheets of copper
draped over shoulders,
taint of green eyes
barren of thought
told to kneel
before the man
would have had me in shackles
and as empty in thought
as the monument
standing before me
Eric Persaud fights for public health.
Grandfather’s messages from long ago, when words meant more.
When thoughts were embellished by dips of pen into ink and the slow, methodical placement of ornate loops and swirls onto paper.
I wonder, as I trace the lines with trembling fingers, if Grandmother did the same.
Susan Gale Wickes is from Indiana. She enjoys writing and reading 50-word stories.
He left on a fine spring morning. Then, she was still young and fair. When he returned, he found that she had aged; she was paler and her skin was wrinkled. It had only been a year, but to a person in love, a year is an eternity too long.
Vivian Leung lives in Scottsdale, Arizona, and has always held a love for music and writing. One of her goals in life is to land a career in healthcare. There are few things that are more rewarding to her than helping others.
Mowing the lawn is refreshingly mindless. Must look ahead to keep my rows straight and my cutting thorough. But I can also look back. And remember those who worked for me. One stepped in front of a train. But only one. Must keep my rows straight and my cutting thorough.
Robert Markovich spent a lifetime in what is charitably referred to as service journalism, writing and editing stories about everything from cars to toilets, most recently at Consumer Reports. He is happily and gratefully retired.
They scheduled routine check-ups, but the doctors were gone. They were tended by interns.
They sent children back to school. Half the teachers were gone.
So it went: at police stations, town halls, colleges, labs—everywhere, those with the most experience to pass on were either sick, or already gone.
Jennifer L. Freed mostly writes poems, which have appeared in various journals and anthologies. Her website is jfreed.weebly.com
It’s not your fault, Son. After all you went through, they still didn’t follow instructions.
“It didn’t work. There’s too much suffering. What can we do?”
Shut it down. Just like I started it 6024 years ago.
And God said, “Let there be no light.”
And there was no light.
Harry Demarest wrote this story.