In the event of:
1. Flood – Assemble food and first aid kit. Be ready to evacuate.
2. Fire – Leave immediately. Once out, call emergency services.
3. Earthquake – Stay indoors. Prepare for cracks to appear in foundations. Do not involve passers-by. Subsidence is inevitable.
4. Marriage – Follow procedure in step 3.
Jo Withers writes micros, flash, and poetry from her home in South Australia. Recent work has appeared in Molotov Cocktail, Ellipsis Zine, Flashback Fiction, Spelk, 24 Unread Messages, and Mythic Picnic.
“I don’t know. Everything was fine and then nothing, no calls, no messages. She’s ghosted me.”
“You must have done something to upset her.”
“Well, she didn’t like me driving fast.”
“That must be it.”
“Anyway, I’m going out.” Then he walked through the walls to the street.
Connell still writes a bit from time to time.
Dolly squinted up, stolen from her busy holopad by the boisterous burst of blue-hued starlight. Her pupils adjusted. She caught her breath.
Her Comet-class space train, cantering along the networked velocity gates, weaved a shimmering silver thread through the dense asteroid cloud.
“…I’ll need celery for soup,” she remembered.
Ben Toovey is a Brit living in Germany, and a keen procrastinator.
Margo used to wonder about her friend Ellen’s strange requests.
“Would you mind picking up some industrial-sized trash bags?”
“Can I borrow your duct tape?”
“Wanna hold my new pistol?”
“Just take my phone.”
Now, sitting here in prison, it all made perfect sense.
Ellen wasn’t her friend after all.
Susan Gale Wickes is a writer from Indiana. She claims nobody was harmed in the writing of this story.
“Not getting to really know each other before marriage is like bypassing a game’s tutorial, y’know?”
“I agree, but that’s your tenth gaming analogy in the past three minutes. Please stop.”
“You want to skip the dialogue?”
“I can’t do this. Goodbye.”
“Can I call you later?”
“No. Game over!”
ToJo probably uses too many analogies.
“You wear earplugs?”
“You know, so’s you don’t lose your hearing. I mean, it’s real loud, right?”
“When you do someone. It hurts your ears, the bang.”
“You think I use a gun?”
Legion shook a smoke from the pack. “You gotta lot to learn, kid.”
Willie Carr wrote this story.
Down on one knee, I produced the ring. “Will you marry me?”
My heart raced as I looked up at her perfect features.
Her face went blank as her eyes rolled back inside her head. “Please stand by,” she said. “Software update in progress.”
My timing has always been lousy.
Bill is from Aberdeen, Scotland. Read more of his scribbles at northeastnotesblog.wordpress.com.
A State trooper approached a stalled auto with caution. The stranded motorist—already outside of his vehicle—was walloping a highway marker with a tire iron.
“What’s going on here?”
“When I called my roadside assistance provider, a recorded voice told me to enter my membership number and pound sign.”
John H. Dromey’s short fiction has been published in Mystery Weekly Magazine and over one-hundred-fifty other venues.
“Dr. Mettels, as my great-great-grandfather told you when he was the chair of this committee, you have not discovered the cure for death!” said the current chair of the International Science Verification Committee.
Dr. Mettels sighed. It would probably take another 85 years to convince the world that she had.
G.D. Konstantine is a Toronto design engineer, maker, and writer.
“Bless you,” the stranger said.
“Take it back!” was my response, as I sniffed and wiped my nose on my sleeve.
Her eyes widened. “What? Why?” Her disgust and disapproval at my rudeness danced in her eyes and voice.
“It burns,” was all I could say.
Then I sneezed again.
Chad Bunch writes speculative fiction from the suburbs of Saint Louis. He is currently trying his darnedest to publish two novels and several short stories.