“With one formula, we’ve reached singularity. Those black skies will be mapped; endless mysteries will become facts.”
That was the pitch, anyway. Now, standing on this… living satellite, I shiver despite the heat.
Overcome by hostile hosts, it dawns. Now that we live faster than light,
so too we die.
James P. Spitznogle is an aspiring writer from the star-scraping hills of West Virginia.
His tattooed hands and leathered feet scale the fence around her pear tree.
With grey hairs clinging to window panes, she watches him harvest six squirrel-broken pears.
He takes one; eats. “Amen,” she whispers, witnessing his holy jacket, his ripped right pants leg, his feet returning from whence he came.
Jean Kari sometimes finds herself doing everything but what her real job requires.
Papers presented, I traveled across the Pacific. Heat and humidity attacked, but worse was the immediate detainment upon arrival. Inspected, processed, and observed; there is no freedom for my kind. They seek carriers and assume guilt.
On the 120th day it’s proved I’ve not transported the illness, and I’m retrieved.
Jennifer Miller is quite pleased she wasn’t exposed to rabies while living in Hawaii. See more at fuelandflavor.com
After eight long years and twenty-four hours of hard labour, he finally arrived at his destination. Cold, and with no clothes to call his own, he screamed at everyone in the room. His demands were food, warmth, and love.
“Come on, wrap baby up nice and warm,” said the nurse.
Chris is a Network Manager involved in many aspects of IT. He has a love of writing short stories, technical articles, photography and playing the guitar. He is from Dudley in the Black Country. He is also a member of The Oldbury Writing Group.
“If that boy ever bothers you again,” says my Uncle Tommy, “punch him.”
He shows me his prize-winning right hook, but I can’t take my eyes off his nose, spread across his face like a pancake.
“How many fights did you win?” I ask.
He laughs and ruffles my hair.
Daniel teaches English in Poland, among other things.
The hospice nurse used an eyedropper to slip more morphine beneath his tongue. The whole problem was God. God’s absence throughout. That summed it up. God at the beginning, pressing dimples into your chin. God at the end, sliding his hand over your eyelids, saying, Shush. That’s enough for now.
Over the years Bob Thurber’s work has received a long list of awards and prizes. His most recent book is a collection of brief stories titled “Nothing But Trouble.” His first novel, “Paperboy: A Dysfunctional Novel,” was recently rereleased. Visit BobThurber.net
Shelly had known they were her husband’s white socks on sight; she’d cleaned them often enough. She recognized them immediately, dangling at eye-level just past the hotel room balcony, with Roy’s feet still inside them.
What she hadn’t recognized was the voice of the girl weeping above.
Cal lives in Hillsborough, NC where he writes experimental fiction, reads detective novels, and talks to his houseplants.
The first time I jumped I was trying to impress some kids my age who seemed much older. The second time I was in college, and I led the way because I knew how. The third time I had something to prove to myself, but now I can’t remember what.
Justin Hook is a comedy writer and coder living in Los Angeles. Visit justinhook.com
“Choklat,” he demanded, his eyes glistening.
She was buying him ice cream. Again. Because she adored the way his little tongue twisted into the cone, chasing down the last oozing dregs.
And because, when he gleefully wiped his sticky fingers across his cardigan, she knew her suppressed resentment was justified.
Tamsin can currently be found poking writing with a stick, and then running away scared.
A #2 pencil.
Tiny, nervous teeth marks on six sides, identical, yellow paint flaking: sharpen it after forty years, write poems until the marks bite into your fingers, until the pencil nubs, vanishes.
Hold high the words. Declare a miracle: Look! Look what is written by the hand of God!
Larry D. Thacker’s poetry can be found in more than eighty publications including The Still Journal, Poetry South, Mad River Review, The Southern Poetry Anthology, Mojave River Review, Mannequin Haus, Ghost City Press, Jazz Cigarette, and Appalachian Heritage. His books include Mountain Mysteries: The Mystic Traditions of Appalachia and the poetry books Voice Hunting and Memory Train, as well as the forthcoming Drifting in Awe. He’s presently working on his MFA in both poetry and fiction. Visit his website at larrydthacker.com.