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.
How Dare You humanize yourself?
How Dare You leave your assigned statistic?
How Dare You plead for the rights I forget I have?
How Dare You be more than a job-stealing terrorist?
How Dare You challenge every single assumption I’ve built?
They were right.
You are very dangerous.
Gretchen is a university student grappling with understanding the breadth of hurt in the world.
“I’m going to be an entomologist,” Isabelle says. Her dress doesn’t have a pocket, or she’d have brought one of her pets. Her hands feel empty.
“Sounds great, sweetheart,” her mother says, arranging her hair on her shoulders and ushering her toward the stage. “This time, smile for the judges.”
For a year or so we lived in Boulder. One day by chance we drove by Jonbenet Ramsey’s house. It still haunts me.
Maisy watches with awe as rockets launch in the distance. They rise majestically into the atmosphere, leaving behind trails like shooting stars. The girl makes but one wish: for these mysterious, departing spaceships to revisit our planet soon.
Hours later, continents away, the nuclear missiles begin their return to Earth.
Jeremy C. North is a Melbournian writer of horror, sci-fi, and tragedy. You can catch him in the act at guyawks.tumblr.com.
“See who’s at the door, Emily.”
I notice his muddied broken boots. Then his face all lined. His widow’s peak, sharp like mine. The smile, curling like newsprint thrown in the fire.
He says, “Found you.”
A chrysanthemum blossoms on his chest. I take the gun from mom’s shaking hand.
James Geneser is a writer and an artist who doesn’t really know what he’s doing, but knows he loves telling stories.
Grandfather’s fantasy-filled tales of visits to world capitals were sparked by a vivid imagination. “See the world,” he would urge, pointing to maps pinned precariously to the wall.
We sensed he had never ventured abroad, but his gestures and improvised foreign dialects kept us enthralled.
Listening to every single word.
John B. Sinclair is a much-travelled Scot who has now returned to Scotland, where he enjoys freelance writing on a variety of subjects.
Winds whisper the sounds and sights of fall; fading flowers and falling leaves.
Dancing shadows slip away at dusk to appear again in the chilly dawn.
Golden wheat fields fall to the force of gobbling combines.
The Meadow Lark’s song signals change.
The harvest moon fills the night with mystery.
Charlotte McElroy is an 80-year-old retired teacher. She is finally following her dream: writing!
During the night, Alise often left the ground floor bedroom she shared with Matt, sleeping instead in the spare room upstairs.
She liked waking early and standing by the window. The view offered promises, lifting her hopes as high as her location.
Then Matt would wake and bring her down.
GB Burgess loves her two-storey house.
William Stanley Merwin passed away earlier today
and tonight there is something seriously wrong with the sky.
The moon is misaligned, hung crookedly low, a cockeyed smile
and all around there’s something the matter with the stars,
those that shine, those that hide, and those that blink like signal flares.
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.
The crackling campfire illuminated her birth name, carefully inscribed in large, looping cursive.
She hadn’t expected this letter. Not after the way she’d left.
A dry sob clogged her throat—or was it simply smoke from the fire?—as she dropped the envelope, unopened, into the heart of the blaze.
Devon R. Widmer is a grumpy graduate student by day, a scribbling daydreamer by night, and a sleep deprived parent full time.