It was Jo-Jo’s plan.
Break, enter, grab the artwork, drive.
But, she was home. A shot was fired.
A delay – the painting, which one?
Then sirens and a chase.
He’d had years to think about it.
Vivid in his memory, the searing heat of the asphalt on his face.
Jennifer M. Smith is a thinker, a tailor, an author, a sailor, but she’s no thief.
We watched the eclipse and the darkness that crept over the land.
No one expected that the darkness would remain.
We waited and watched in disbelief.
They emerged from the muck, the bowels of dusty towns, and neighbors’ dens, emboldened by the shadows and the promise of a new order.
Alison witnessed the solar eclipse, and wondered what would happen if the darkness stayed. Then she wondered whether the darkness has already prevailed.
Black as night and as silent as the rain he slipped over the rooftop edge.
Descending the building, he closed in on his target. Reaching the window, he peered inside and reached for his gun.
A woman appeared and the window swung open.
As silent as the rain, he fell.
Life knocks us all off a window ledge from time to time.
At twelve years old, she stood twelve feet tall. Her horns added another ten inches. The shaggy hair on her face and chest was thick and uncombed. Flies teased around her head like dark memories, darting in to nestle on her shoulders. She never allowed me to brush them away.
Mark Farley (mumbletoes.blogspot.com
) writes novels, flash fiction and the occasional poem.
A body on the floor, warm blood drip, drip, dripping onto the carpet.
He has my face. My beautiful young face.
I was going to set things right. That’s what the time machine was for. But he wouldn’t listen and I got angry.
I always was my own worst enemy.
Bill lives in Aberdeen, Scotland where, in between the odd piece of writing, he plots the downfall of humanity on behalf of his Martian overlords.
The stage was set against a spectacular backdrop. The supporting character, a slick, mossy, camouflaged rock, stood ready.
I played the lead perfectly, delivering my agonized one-word line with no hesitation. It was over quickly.
Alas: sweet death and the mountain had made me the star of my own tragedy.
Linda writes quotes, songs, poetry and short stories and is enjoying the challenge of writing 50 word stories. Among her wishes is to never star in her own tragedy.
The first thing we did was hide the body, which was not a small thing.
Then we came home, tidied up, and made dinner as though nothing had happened.
If she came home and found the house a mess—even if she couldn’t find our brother—we’d be dead, too.
Deborah Garwood is a writer from Missouri. Well, not really from Missouri, like, she now lives elsewhere. She still lives there. Forever and always. Probably.
Lune, a savage brute, smothers Sola under his tremendous weight. Everything goes black.
Determined to keep her midday throne, Sola overcomes and bites her aggressor, drawing blood. He concedes, retreating in agony.
Victorious, Sola screams her own praises with fiery breath, reasserting her position as supreme ruler of the skies.
Pontius Paiva’s interest in the phenomena of celestial bodies could only be eclipsed by his desire to make up stories about them. Find out more at pontiuspaiva.com
The storm blinded them
“Fetch your pipes!” the captain bellowed
Play and await a response
Standing upon the bow he played
And soon a droning response relayed
With hope renewed, they followed
Finally breaking through nature’s din
To face the cliffs
That echoed his song
A Sirens song
Paul Hock wrote this story.