Lily is 19, and already well known to police.
Calmly, Detective Carew sits beside her. Gently, he takes one of her now-bare arms, turns it over, and examines the new needle tracks.
“You’ve fallen off the wagon. You’re using again.”
“No… I haven’t.”
“What are these?”
She whispers, “Demons’ footsteps.”
Barry O’Farrell is an actor living in Brisbane, Australia. He is enjoying the challenge of writing in 50 words.
y=x³-4
This stuff on the page would never mean anything to her. And history: names, places, dates… What was the point?
Glancing into a mirror, she saw snow-blonde hair, river-blue eyes, cute ramrod nose. Remembering other eyes, other glances, she knew that these fixed constants would circumscribe her entire life.
Ruby Ray has worked as a barmaid, cleaner, kitchen porter and gardener. After that she had a career in teaching. Now she wonders what will be next.
Between measured strokes and subtle flourishes the mapmaker’s daughter dips her quill, carefully blotting the tip before proceeding.
Each night she obediently transcribes the names of fictitious landmarks—phony towns, nonexistent roads, unreachable waterways—her overprotective father designates along longitudes and latitudes that suitors unwittingly follow to God knows where.
Over the years Bob Thurber’s work has received a long list of awards and appeared in 30 anthologies. His most recent book is a collection of brief stories titled Nothing But Trouble. Visit BobThurber.net.
Soft blue light illuminated the tank as Milton watched the cells divide.
2… 4… 8… 16…
He felt like Frankenstein, high in his tower, witnessing the inception of his creation. Through the portal next to his workstation the sun crested the Earth’s horizon far below.
It was a quiet birth.
Award-winning author of multi-cultural and transgressive literature, Pavarti K. Tyler can be found with Doc Martens strapped on over fishnets, but a girlish giggle as easily and likely as a throaty guffaw.
Hector heard God, when least expected but most needed, the unmistakable voice dripping intravenously into his brainspace, booming, “Stop! Don’t end your life!”
Hector stepped back, flabbergasted, dizzy with adrenaline and rapturous bafflement as the unexpected unbalancing cocked him over the edge of CityPoint. He fell: weeping, laughing, screaming, praying.
Shark Trager lives in North London and has been writing and blogging 50-word stories erratically for five years. He is a novelist in progress as well as a jobbing copywriter and ghostwriter.
“Phooey to you!” I said to Russell. Sometimes you just have to stand up for yourself and tell someone Phooey. “You heard me,” I added, a little louder this time. “I told you Phooey!”
Russell blushed and looked down at his shoes. “You’re such a big old meanie,” he whispered.
Philip Zunzuncito Sequoia lives in England. He likes the music of The Fall. He dislikes marzipan.
My new friend, at end
of summer camp,
told me she would miss me
oh so much
and could I please
come visit her, but not
if I was
Jewish:
her mother hated
Jews.
I was ten. I held the knowledge
of such hatred
like a stone
beneath my tongue.
Jennifer L. Freed lives in Massachusetts, where she raises her children, writes poetry, tutors (writing and ESL), and likes to play with clay, which she disguises as ceramic sculpture. She has taught ESL in China, the Czech Republic, and the U.S. She has recently published a chapbook, These Hands Still Holding (Finishing Line Press, 2014). You can read more of her poems at her website, jfreed.weebly.com.
On each fingertip Papou penned dots for eyes, lines for mouths. He cut strips of colored paper to make caps, bonnets, pullover suits, and dresses. Despite his dense accent each character’s voice sounded distinct.
It was amazing, magical stuff.
When we visit, I march silent shadow puppets across his gravestone.
Over the years Bob Thurber’s work has received a long list of awards and appeared in 30 anthologies. His most recent book is a collection of brief stories titled Nothing But Trouble. Visit BobThurber.net.
The knock at the door in the middle of the night caught her off guard. When she answered the summons, the person on the other side said, “Guess who.”
“I don’t know who.”
“Guess.”
“Um…”
“Give up?” the person asked.
“Yeah.”
“Nobody.”
She pulled the door open. Nobody was there.
Kymberli Roberson lives in Illinois where she is currently hunting down the goblins of writer’s block.
He always smiled and waved when she was walking by his house on the way to work. Her heart would start beating much faster, but she wondered why he never came out to talk, and it pained her.
Until the day she saw him leaving his place in a wheelchair.
Katya Duft is a translator, interpreter, and language teacher. She enjoys writing short stories, poetry, and her blog Tales from the Bus.