A blizzard of term papers settles onto the oak floor around Professor Taylor’s shattered skull.
He’d always known a student would kill him.
By gun? Knife?
Certainly not by writing a thesis so absorbing that he’d forget about the stairs.
Shame; Randy Barton wouldn’t know he’d earned his first A.
After chasing his muse from Virginia to Manhattan, Richard Day Gore settled in Southern California, where he spends his time pushing around words, paint brushes, and guitar strings. See more at richarddaygore.com.
Blaine zoomed the digital scope on the target. The clarity was impressive. Better than the scopes he was used to. He could even make out the slight creases around the man’s eyes as he smiled at his young son.
“Take the shot,” said the commanding officer.
“Sorry, kid,” said Blaine.
Rich Rurshell is a short story writer from Suffolk, England. Rich writes Horror, Sci-Fi, and Fantasy, and his stories can be found in various short story anthologies and magazines. Most recently, his story “Subject: Galilee” was published in World War Four from Zombie Pirate Publishing, and “Life Choices” was published in Salty Tales from Stormy Island Publishing. When Rich is not writing stories, he likes to write and perform music. See more at facebook.com/richrurshellauthor.
A paw tapped Dan’s face, and he cracked open an eye. The clock said 4:30. He waved a hand the cat’s direction and grumbled incoherently.
The cat softly meowed.
Dan mumbled, “Go away,” and fell back asleep.
Sharp claws tapped Dan’s forehead. The clock said 5:45.
The cat said, “Now.”
Eddie D. Moore travels extensively for work, and he spends much of that time listening to audiobooks. The rest of the time is spent dreaming of stories to write, and he spends the weekends writing them. His stories have been published by Jouth Webzine, Kzine, Alien Dimensions, Theme of Absence, Devolution Z, and Fantasia Divinity Magazine. Find more on his blog.
“Slide inside the crocodile carcasses,” the elders said. Bellies in mud, we slid through the werewolf fields; we moved inches as they sniffed, let us be. The wolves were entranced.
We stole their young; took them home to our pots. We ate. We danced.
Someday mankind will rule this world.
Steve Sibra grew up on a farm in eastern Montana. His work has appeared in numerous literary journals over the years including Matador Review, Shattered Wig, Jellyfish Review, and Gravel. He features frequently in the Seattle area and has read at Capitol Hill Art Walk, Lit Crawl and It’s About Time reading series. He is a participant in May 2019 at Poetry Brunch in downtown Seattle.
Matthew is in surgery to have a large tumor removed from his brain. Matthew hopes it’s not malignant. After the operation Matthew recovers quickly.
Matthew’s doctor comes in and briefs him.
Matthew is happy to learn it wasn’t a tumor, though he wishes the poor alien didn’t have to die.
Denny E, Marshall had had art, poetry, and fiction published. One recent credit is fiction in Night To Dawn 35 April 2019. See more at dennymarshall.com.
A man trudged from his job in the service industry—the only work he could get—when a thug held him at gunpoint.
“Don’t shoot!” he begged.
The thug fired once… and felt seven rounds pierce his own chest.
“How…!?” he protested, dying.
“The name’s Cain,” the waiter replied miserably.
E.O. thinks there are probably some people in the world who should never be poked with a stick. Ever. Like gynecologists and postal employees.
Uncle Skip came in from wood-splitting with the ax lodged in his chest, hugely panicking. The kids yelled, “Pull it out!” But I didn’t, because he’d bleed out fast.
Drove ninety to the hospital.
The Trauma Team paused visibly when Skip said he was uninsured. Then they saved his life.
Todd Mercer of Grand Rapids, Michigan was nominated for Best of the Net in 2018. Recent work appears in Down in the Dirt, The Lake, and Praxis.
Nothing would stop the Spartan Soldier from delivering the message.
Parched, hungry, weak after days of trudging through the vastness of the desert, he reached the prison.
Moans. The shackled, defeated, would not look up as he freely needled through.
He froze. He saw himself,
chained to a wheel.
Olympia is a wannabe pet owner and a student studying directing and producing TV. See more at olympia-christofinis.com.
Something wasn’t right.
Detective Tift examined his suspect. Newlywed Scott Blanchett scratched the dried blood flaking his wrists, sobbing all the while.
This case was clear-cut. They had enough evidence.
“Why don’t you just admit it?” Tift asked.
A pause. A sniffle.
“I can’t admit to what I can’t remember.”
Autumn Lala lives in Ohio, U.S.A. where she writes fiction and poetry while dabbling in nonfiction and screenwriting. While earning her M.A. in Rhetoric & Composition and teaching college sophomores English, she occasionally works as a freelance editor and graphic designer. See more at autumnlala.com.
I ate it. All of it. It was terrible.
My taste receptors burned with acid and salt. Still, my digestive system accepted it, converting the mass consumed into precious needed energy.
My next meal was twice as big, mostly blue and green, much more delicious-looking.
Third rock from the sun.
AJ Joseph gardens while waiting for inspiration to hit her. In the meantime, she occasionally writes at Words from Sonobe.