Gus believes the strangest tales, including one that terrifies him—indeed, it’s his motive for never reading—about a pale, shroud-like thing that creeps behind you as you’re distracted, nose in a book, and which, being a courteous psychopath, waits for you to finish your sentence before it kills you.
Graham Robert Scott teaches writing at a university in north Texas. His stories have appeared in Barrelhouse Online, Nature, and 50-Word Stories. See more at hemicyon.wordpress.com.
Instead of returning home like a normal person the old witch blew the door off the hinges,
cackling as she swung her cloak, wafting the cape while twisting about.
But on this night the boy was ready, and the girl was ready,
their tripwire taut, the oven door wide open.
Bob Thurber is the author of “Paperboy: A Dysfunctional Novel” and two collections of stories. A celebrated master of Flash and Micro Fiction, his work has appeared in 60 anthologies, received dozens of awards, and been used in schools and colleges throughout the world. He resides in Massachusetts where, though legally blind, he continues to write every day. Visit his website at BobThurber.net.
My skin isn’t pleasant to look at. Ignoring the looks I get has never been easy. Living with it isn’t easy either. It itches constantly. Even without the gawkers when I leave the house, my skin gives me trouble.
Thank goodness I can take it off when I get home.
George Aitch is a writer from Blackheath whose short stories have previously been published in Massacre, Horla, and elsewhere.
She gazes into the abyss, a gnawing itch tickling the back of her brain. A wisp, a puff, a shroud of a notion keeks through the fog—before vanishing in an instant. Her eyes glaze, her mind blank.
“Why did I come in here?” she wails, glaring into the pantry.
Haley M. Hwang is a writer living in the Chicago area. Her career spanned working as a newspaper reporter, medical writer, and online entertainment editor. She has a bachelor’s and master’s degrees in journalism from Northwestern University. When she isn’t writing, she is drinking coffee, eating pastries, and thinking about her next meal.
The basement was dank and stark, still, a broken window high on the wall, shards on the cement floor, spider webs as thick as fog, touching me.
I reached for the light string, where I knew it should be, and the cold hand was around my wrist, pulling me down.
Glenn A. Bruce, MFA, was associate editor for Lindenwood Review. He published eight novels and two collections of short stories, wrote Kickboxer, and wrote for Walker: Texas Ranger and Baywatch. His stories, poems, and essays have been published internationally. He has won awards, judged stuff, and spoken often. He taught at Appalachian State University for 12.5 years.
We’ve been furloughed until the city is sure that the storm has passed. A precaution.
Nestled between two large piles of various canned and dehydrated foods, hot coffee in my hands, I am prepared to watch the rain.
A few drops hit the window, and the glass begins to sizzle.
K. Victoria Hernandez is an ecologist and writer. She is a Clarion workshop graduate, writes short stories, poetry, and is currently working on a novel. Her favorite season is storm season, with a cup hot coffee for warmth.
At the centre of the sun, the dark matter eggs cracked open. The creatures emerged, stretching their massive wings into fifteen million degree heat. They looked outwards, ready for their first meal.
The first planet was too small, the second too dry.
But the third planet…
It looked just right.
Bill lives in Aberdeen, Scotland. His most flanturbulous ambition is to create a new word that will eventually appear in the Oxford English dictionary.
The titanium cylinder arrived battered, but JonX571 recognized the Intergalactic Express logo and the date 2021. Inside were three squirming humans: male, female, intersex.
His own archived memory chips retrieved data on world leaders and nuclear war, and an electronic screen with instructions.
What he found perplexing was “Love them.”
Kim Favors chases falling stars from California.
“That’s what I would’ve done,” he said. “I would’ve asked all the same questions; would’ve been sure exactly who I was dealing with; would’ve made certain he’d done exactly what they said. But I don’t think I would’ve pulled the trigger on him. I would’ve gone looking for his sister.”
Ron. Lavalette has been widely-published in both print and pixel forms. His first chapbook, Fallen Away, is now available from Finishing Line Press, and a reasonable sample of his work can be found at EGGS OVER TOKYO.
Father flattens old photos, my boyhood hair white as snow.
He looks at my dark head, asks again if I color it. All my friends have been gray for years.
I consider the truth: I’m expelling inner darkness that beckons demons. It exits through my hair.
“No, Dad. It’s natural.”
Jeff Stone has published several short stories and many poems. He has three novels in various stages of completion and loves learning too much for his own good. Albert Camus said fiction is the lie through which we tell the truth. Dark Hair is a short piece of fiction that resides somewhere in between.