“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.
The breeding program has gone spectacularly. The few ultra-intelligent humans created technologies that moved the entire species forward. Lifespans were expanded; machines and medicines allowed the rest to become lazy, compliant, and complacent. Their minds softened along with their bodies.
They will be easy to harvest, just as we planned.
Suzanne Reynolds-Alpert writes science fiction, horror, dark fantasy, and the occasional poem. Her short fiction has appeared in the anthologies The Final Summons, Killing It Softly (Vol.1), and The Deep Dark Woods. Read her poetry in the anthology Wicked Witches, the websites Tales of the Zombie War and Eternal Haunted Summer, and in The Wayfarer: A Journal of Contemplative Literature. Suzanne is a freelance content creation expert and editor who writes in between meeting the incessant demands of her feline overlords. Find her on Facebook or follow her on Twitter @SuzsMuses.
I turn off the news, hands shaking.
Park two doors down, then shoulder through a chaos of cordons and police and media imps to reach home.
Place is in shambles, ransacked by people wearing disposable shoe covers.
Master closet door’s ajar—Swallow fire—the lockbox cracked open—Breathe ash—empty.
Tim Boiteau writes and lives near Detroit with his wife and son.
The new guard was familiar with most of the devices the curator showed him. He was experienced. He had worked, with the utmost discretion, at some of the highest security vaults and museums on the continent.
The only difference? Here they were all on the other side of the glass.
Daniel Galef collects those little metal clips they give you at the door.