I was asleep, darkly dreaming. There was suddenly a scream from my little sister, whom I could hear tearing down the hallway, and next thing I knew, I was scurrying on all fours into the nearest corner, bristling with fear.
“Mom,” she sobbed, “there’s a huge rat in his room!”
Michael B. Keane is a London-based writer of dark fiction.
“Tranquil here, isn’t it?” said the voice. She’d met him after her divorce. Such a good listener! She felt a rivulet of sweat trickle down her back beneath her blouse. But the tree was wide, and his touch cool as he coiled himself around her and whispered in her ear.
Robert Markovich spent a lifetime in what is charitably referred to as service journalism, writing and editing stories about everything from cars to toilets, most recently at Consumer Reports. He is happily and gratefully retired.
The gate swung easily. The elderly couple on the porch chatting quietly. He glanced around. A perfect lawn. No weeds anywhere. Roses blooming everywhere. The house looked immaculate. Who called social services? Quick check and I’ll be gone.
“Excuse me, can we talk?”
The couple turned. Glowing crimson eyes glared.
Bob is retired and busy caring for his 5 dogs. After retiring, he began bartending but has since switched to writing. It may not yet be as financially rewarding but there’s a lot to be said about sitting and writing with a good cocktail! Bob is a big sports fan that lives outside Philly. A website is coming.
Slurping. Groaning. Mud in your eyes and mouth. Teeth aching.
Clambering onto the riverbank, you cough up a whole fish then a beetle.
Your reptile skin slithers off, glinting iridescent in the sunshine.
You shove and jostle into your human frame and shuffle on trembling legs towards the silver city.
Dettra Rose writes flash fiction and tiny poems.
Her pieces have won and been shortlisted/longlisted in a number of esteemed competitions, including: Bath Flash Fiction Award, Reflex Fiction, Retreat West, the Australian Writers’ Centre and TSS Publishing. Dettra is working on her first novel. A born-and-bred Londoner she now lives in Australia and calls both places home. Find her at Dettrarose.com.
“Why do you bleat like a goat?” I ask. “Do those sounds comfort you?”
“Yes, I believe they do,” he responds.
A month later, once again, “Why?”
“They help me to focus and think.”
Three more months, and he barely understands the question.
“They remind me that I’m still alive.”
Mary Hickey is an internationally known backgammon champion, teacher, coach and author. Her literary fiction has appeared in The Griffin, Happy, Kalliope, and other publications. She takes a break from writing if sushi, mattar paneer, or really good coffee are on offer.
I think my neighbor’s a psychopath with his vacant, roving eyes. Amazon keeps leaving his packages at my door: wood planks, duct tape, a chainsaw. And then: doghouse instructions.
I call him over, laughing. (I’ve always had an active imagination.)
As he steps inside, I see the leash.
Michelle Wilson graduated from Bennington College with a degree in literature and creative writing. Her words have appeared or are forthcoming in 101 Words, Literally Stories, Flash Fiction Magazine, Lost Magazine, Mr. Beller’s Neighborhood, Healthcare in America, and The Miami Herald. She lives in Miami Beach, Florida.
Mom, why am I not like other kids? / Because you are special. / Are you special? / I am if you think I am. / Mom, what are you made of?
I felt for a pulse — but couldn’t find one. Wanted to say dead volcanoes and lava flows, bit my tongue, said cheese.
Bojana Stojcic writes prose and poetry, and has her words published here and there. If she could fly right now, or ever, she’d most likely head for the moon.
“I’ve never seen ovarian cysts in a man’s neck before,” said the doctor, snapping his gloves off.
“Pardon me,” I said, “but I came here about the rash on my hand.”
I held up the offending appendage.
He stared at it for a while and eventually declared: “…That’s athlete’s foot.”
Harris Coverley has fiction published or forthcoming in The Scribe, Trembling With Fear, and The J.J. Outre Review. He is also a Rhysling-nominated poet, with forthcoming verse in Spectral Realms, Corvus Review, The Oddville Press, and many others.
I found a jellyfish washed up on the beach yesterday. It looked like an alien; a strange creature in a strange land. I got a shovel and helped it back into the water. It floated there before waving a tentacle and swam away. How strange to see one on Mars.
Jocelyne Gregory is an MFA creative writing student at the University of British Columbia. She is a graduate of Simon Fraser University’s The Writer’s Studio. She also reviews children’s books and graphic novels. She lives on the Sunshine Coast of British Columbia, Canada.
I was making notes when the doom opened. A strangler entered.
“Have a seaweed,” the leader said. “We’re all frenzied here.”
After listing to us, the strangler spoke. “Er…”
“I wanted Fantasy Language Class. I’m Dave, by the way.”
“Hello Dave,” the Auto Correct Fan Club chorused in unicorn.
Bec Lewis lives in Kent, England, and likes short stories, micro-fiction, and chocolate. See more at beclewisfiction.com.