She had stolen the seed pod from Kew, years ago, when “borrowing” was still considered acceptable.
Cossetting it, encouraging it, keeping it safe. It took such effort. Gardening was her solace.
He picked the best stems, laid them on the coffin, and then, afterwards, poured bleach carefully over her plant.
Janet, who grew up near Detroit, now lives in Edinburgh and works for the newest Scottish university. She is a rubbish gardener.
I kissed you on the mouth, lips desperate and soft. You married a white guy, had two kids.
I stole a man’s dog, ran away to Alaska.
The man followed but the dog died.
Evenings I walk the beach, wind bleeding my lips.
I haven’t thought of you in years.
Cinthia Ritchie is an Alaska writer, ultra-runner, and three-time Pushcart Prize nominee. Find her work at New York Times Magazine, Evening Street Review, Sport Literate, Rattle, Best American Sports Writing, Mary, Into the Void, Clementine Unbound, Deaf Poets Society, Forgotten Women anthology, Nasty Women anthology, Gyroscope Review, Bosque Literary Journal and others. She’s a 2013 Best American Essay notable mention, and her first novel, “Dolls Behaving Badly,” was published by Hachette Book Group.
We were pressed against the back wall behind a tangle of dresses and hangers, the Boone’s Farm in our stomachs rising against the reek of moth balls. Blue and red flashing lights stabbed under the bifold doors, licking my guilty socks.
She took my hand, and suddenly nothing else mattered.
Chip Houser’s short fiction has appeared in Daily Science Fiction, New Myths, Every Day Fiction, and elsewhere. He’s a graduate of the Odyssey Writing Workshop, has an MFA in Creative Writing from UMSL, and thinks cedar is the better option for closets.
Two unexpected things happened after Timmy killed the monster under his bed: (1) he ate it (and rather enjoyed it), and (2) he took to hunting the monsters under the beds of other neighborhood kids. After all, someone had to do it—and he’d already developed a rather insatiable appetite.
Ran Walker is the author of sixteen books. He serves on the creative writing faculty of Hampton University in Virginia.
Guiding the knife carefully, he cut through skin, exposing the flesh beneath. Carving a chunk off, he popped it into his mouth.
The sweet juice of the mango washed over his taste buds; a bit of heaven.
At his feet, the bloody puddle expanded inexorably outwards while distant sirens screamed.
Bill Lives in Aberdeen, Scotland. His genius is only surpassed by his modesty, humility and ability to eat extraordinarily unhealthy amounts of fried food.
Nothing but trouble was open for business at that hour.
“Grabbing a tree,” Bruce said.
“Don’t,” said Allison. “I’ll pay the fifty bucks tomorrow.”
Dawn arrived without Bruce. Allison’s texts remained unread.
She assumed either Bruce was dead or they’d use his mug shot on their Christmas card.
Iain Young still can’t convince his family to get a Charlie Brown Christmas tree.
Across the moat, the tower door stood open. What carelessness!
Klaus crouched by the black water, trying to gauge its depth. Atop fifty feet of curving stone, a guard wandered the battlements, oblivious.
Easy swim. A nearby frog croaked its agreement. Klaus eased himself in.
Around the bend, something splashed.
Jim Anderson is a retired college teacher who lives in south-east Michigan. He reads a lot, and writes a little. More of his micro fiction can be found at jimthewriter.net.
The eyes stared upwards. The blonde hair was caked with blood. The nose was cute even in death. The mouth held what proved to be a golf ball in a sock. The hands had typed a social security benefit disallowance.
“So where’s the rest of the body?” the detective wondered.
Irish writer Perry McDaid lives in Derry under the brooding brows of Donegal hills which he occasionally hikes in search of druidic inspiration. He even finds it on occasion.
The day I headed to Jupiter was a fine spring day. I’ll never forget my euphoria of anticipation and the fine sense of adventure as the blue Earth shrank behind me, our galaxy’s most beautiful jewel, full of dreams and life.
Too bad it was gone when I came back.
Sandra Siegienski enjoys writing science fiction/fantasy and young adult fiction. Her focus ranges from novels to six-word story contests.
My hands are sore. One good finger; the rest are in pain.
I swing my legs out of bed. My knees hardly work. Creak. Moan. Crack.
Once I get moving, the joints will be okay.
My latest target is in Italy.
One good finger. That’s all it takes.
Henry lives in Somerset in the UK, which is at the moment still part of the European Union. He eats a lot of toast.