When we found a body under the conservatory, my husband and I disagreed on what to do.
We should call the police (me).
No, definitely not (him).
We inherited the house from his parents. His dad, actually, who’s living in a care home.
Now I know why we don’t visit.
Laura Besley writes short fiction in the precious moments that her children are asleep. Her fiction has appeared online, in print and in various anthologies. She tweets at @laurabesley.
Doomsayers warned of apocalypse. “Disaster from the sky will destroy the world and the entire species!”
“Ridiculous superstition,” trumpeted Tyrannosaurus and Brachiosaurus. “We rule. Always will.”
The prophets were right.
A puny bunch with no claws or sharp teeth took over and wreaked havoc.
But their end, too, would come.
Marilyn McFarlane is a travel writer and the author of Sacred Stories: Wisdom From World Religions. She also writes poetry, memoir, and fiction. She lives in Oregon with her husband, a sizable garden, and maple and fir trees. See more at marilynmcfarlane.com.
The pistol tucked in my waistband is a constant reminder of my vulnerability, the reason that I can never feel safe.
Sometimes I forget it’s there. Sometimes everything feels normal. But then I remember all at once: the gun, the people I’ve hurt, and the retribution that’s sure to come.
Ethan Noll writes short stories and poems. He hopes to have as many published as possible.
Vicious attacks plagued the sleepy town.
Victim after victim, each unable to defend themselves.
I made the journey to walk the darkened streets alone.
Finally it was my turn to face the flashing blade,
but the paltry criminal did not count on my maniacal nature
and rapacious taste for blood.
Kristyn Mass lives in Iowa with her husband and three cats. She is a professional voice actor and aspiring writer.
Mom warned me not to look in the mirror between the hours of 2 and 4 A.M. “If you do,” she said, “don’t ever look your reflection in the eye.”
I caught my eye and she winked, and yanked me by the collar. My head cracked the glass.
Olive Richardson is an unknown but human adjacent creature made of spite and caramel lattes.
The zombies falter. Flesh becomes corrupt. Limbs are shed; animation a struggle.
Yet the fiends still pursue us. Onto our fields we stagger; new furrows disrupted by frantic feet.
Spades raised, we strike; the dead fall, cleaved into pieces. Good fertilizer, for our crop.
We live on, another winter assured.
Paul Lewthwaite, who hails from Scotland, hopes to start writing again after a ten-year hiatus.
“Where’s your darling husband?” asked my neighbour, peeking above our shared hedge.
“Travelling,” I replied, juggling the parcels I held while struggling to open the boot of my car.
“Oh? Where to?”
I wiped one of the parcels that was slightly blood-stained and pushed it further into the boot. “Everywhere.”
AJ Joseph occasionally writes at Words from Sonobe and tweets very short stories as @sonobeus.
I warned them. The book stays locked in the attic for a good reason.
That attic had gathered dust for three generations, weakening the wood and strings of the instruments.
I warned my sons not to play those haunting melodies, not to summon those ghosts, but they did it anyway.
Zack Smith is a Senior English Major at Salem State University. He has been published in the Dead River Review. Zack is an aspiring Book Editor who writes creatively in his spare time.
I was sitting in my office cleaning my .38 when in she walked. High heels. Legs for miles. Lipstick.
“You Mickey Lewis?”
“That’s what the sign says, sugar.”
I cracked a deck of Luckies, dug out a jug of Jack.
Lousy time to be cleaning a gun. She shot first.
Bradley Harris is a Canadian freelance writer and editor. He is a two-time winner of the 3-Day International Novel competition, with ‘Ruby Ruby’ (Anvil Press: 1999) and ‘Thorazine Beach’ (Anvil Press: 2013). He loves and lives with his wife Liz Deeley and their fictitious dog Webley in Memphis, Tennessee. He despises and refuses to live with semicolons.
The metal frame lay across the pasture, its ironwork rusty red. Edward mused that it had once stood erect, envisioning a tower that would have pierced the very sky.
“To have seen such a thing!” he marvelled.
The wind howled its agreement, as it roared through the ruins of Paris.
Bill lives in Aberdeen, Scotland. He doubts his sanity all the time, and sometimes it doubts him right back.