Circling Aldebaran is a small white star known as Thea. Some call it a planet. It is a refuge, a resting place, a respite where the white things can go to escape such that the black things might not destroy them.
This says nothing, of course, of the yellow things.
Kenny A. Chaffin writes poetry, fiction, and nonfiction and has published work in Mobius: The Journal of Social Change, Microfiction Monday Magazine, 365 Tomorrows, Speculative 66, James Gunn’s Ad Astra, 101 Word Stories, Star*Line and others. He grew up in southern Oklahoma and now lives in Denver where he works hard to support two cats, numerous wild birds and a bevy of squirrels. His poetry collections and other work are available on Amazon. Find more at kacweb.com.
I wanted to pet that bunny, so I followed him to his hole. Determined, I muttered a spell and shrank to the size of a grasshopper. His nose twitched side to side when I found him.
We stared into each other’s eyes. Then I learned that rabbits will eat bugs.
Eddie D. Moore travels extensively for work, and he spends much of that time listening to audio books. The rest of the time is spent dreaming of stories to write and he spends the weekends writing them. His stories have been published by Jouth Webzine, Kzine, Alien Dimensions, Theme of Absence, Devolution Z, and Fantasia Divinity Magazine. Find more on his blog.
They came in solidarity: wide nostrils, narrow nostrils, dark-brown to albino-white, humongous, miniscule, deviated septums; stuffy and clear.
Seven billion gathered at the Superdome. Seven billion counted down, then inhaled, and all over Mother Earth bad people shrieked in defiance, clutching soul to no avail.
Flames licked at Heaven’s gate.
S.A. Hartwich lives in Bellingham, Washington, where he roasts coffee to make ends meet. His work has appeared in such venues as Apeiron Review, Bird’s Thumb, and Thrush. Taleggio is his favorite smelly cheese.
The waiter set their plates down on the table. He said, “Enjoy your meal.”
The man replied, “Thank you.”
As the waiter turned to leave, the man added, almost without thinking, “Goodbye.”
When they got home, the man was still thinking about that.
Several months later, he still can’t stop.
Spencer Chou is a writer and editor from Nottingham, England. He runs the literary magazine and publisher The Nottingham Review, and his writing has been published in various places. In 2016 he was shortlisted for the Bath Flash Fiction Award. You can follow him on Twitter at @spencerchou
My aunt called, said her brother was dead and I should help pay for his funeral since he jumped from his hotel window the week after we met. You likely said something to cause it, she said.
I figured out what, but I never told my aunt or sent money.
Paul’s new collection of Flash & Micro, “Kiss Kiss” from Truth Serum Press, will be out in March.
In college I had a roommate who kept “borrowing” my clothes.
I made a salt perimeter around my closet door as a passive-aggressive joke, but when it worked too well I tested it out on the refrigerator.
I reimbursed her for the week of take-out and we called it even.
Sarah Krenicki is 90% sure all her non-feline roommates have been human.
Joe strips his first-date clothes.
Mouth open, he pulls down his tongue, unzips his skin suit, head to crotch.
He reaches inside and pulls out his heart. The heart looks like china—shattered, then glued back together. More than once.
Joe sheds the skin. A young man emerges, heart intact.
Maura gets paid to be a nerd and writes short fiction so she’ll be less of a pain in the neck to those around her. Read her publications at maurayzmore.com or come say ‘hi’ on Twitter.
The eggheads cracked it, opened a door to the afterlife. Come and go as you please. They chose me, figuring I had plenty of questions for the Big Guy. They didn’t know I’d need an appointment. Didn’t know I would have blown Him off if I had one.
Andrew Walo is a freelance writer and a hunter of wild paragraphs and domesticated monsters. He resides in Norfolk, Virginia, but he lives for jacket-weather. More work can be found at AndrewWalo.com
Alone in the office at night a slow madness overtakes me. It begins with a paperclip chain. It ends when the cleaner finds me, the Emperor of the Paper Cup People, berating the massed ranks of my subjects, my nudity covered only by yellow sticky notes. The horror! The horror!
Bill lives in Aberdeen, Scotland, where he works as a professional haggis hunter.
I hear a noise in my kitchen and come down to find Brad Pitt guzzling chocolate milk straight from the carton. He says his motorcycle broke down en route to Missouri. Brad, if you left me without chocolate milk before breakfast on a school day, I will have your head.
Maura Yzmore’s day job involves quantum mechanics, dry-erase markers, making bad puns, and lots of technical writing. She lives with her family in the American Midwest, where she also writes, draws, and indulges her love for coffee, driving, and kickboxing. See more at maurayzmore.com