First-grade bedtime. Lights are out. A coat-draped chair turns into the mummy watching my bed. Malfunctioning WiFi turns the nanny cam’s playful green light into the red-eyed demon watching me, too.
The wee, perilous hours of the night require defensive weapons of choice: a blanket pulled overhead and Duracell flashlight.
Darnell Cureton is a middle-aged man at the crossroads of life, expressing his personality through technology and creative writing.
My neighbor Don moved up here from someplace warm, where there’s no snow. On the first snowfall of the season, he thought he was a real genius when he tried to hose the stuff off of his driveway.
I’m doing his shoveling until he gets the cast off his leg.
Sarah Krenicki is sick of Nor’easters.
Mothballs, mother’s coats zippered away in clothing bags above a field of gloves, fingers outstretched as if in bloom. Dad’s fedoras molded into the shape of his skull, various moods for each day, all nestled sleepily above the rooms where we slept, seasoned to perfection with the dust of forgetfulness.
Jim Doss lives with his wife and three children in Sykesville, Maryland, and earns his living as a software engineer. He has previously published two books of poems: Learning to Talk Again, and What Remains. In partnership with Werner Schmitt, he also published a book of German translations entitled The Last Gold of Expired Stars: The Complete Poems of Georg Trakl 1908 – 1914. In his spare time, he is an editor for the Loch Raven Review.
The author bit her lip. “Well?”
“I’m pleasantly surprised,” replied the editor. “The world’s remarkably believable, although ludicrous! Creating these human characters with only two legs! It’s absurdly wonderful.”
The author beamed. “The characters took on a life of their own. It seemed as if they believed they were real.”
Melanie Rees is an Australian speculative fiction writer. She has published over 70 stories and poems in markets such as Apex, Daily Science Fiction, and Aurealis. More information can be found at flexirees.wordpress.com or on Twitter.
The story of the week for April 2 to 6 is…
Persephone Unearthed by Anne Lindley Killheffer
I was a green girl, kidnapped, forced to marry Hades underground—that’s how my mother tells the story. But consider this. I have appetites. I broke the pomegranate open, I shared a juicy feast with my man. If you were born to unrelenting summer, you’d crave a velvet shadow too.
Anne Lindley Killheffer wrote this story.
Child of mine you are so fine
Now a Mother of two
I still look at you
As that little girl
Who changed my world
I thank you
Mother of mine
You are so fine
You at one hundred
I at seventy
Still share plenty
So true
I thank you
Mary has written poetry since age ten and continues to do so. She is also writing short stories and enjoys being a member of a writing group.
Ice crystals reflect this afternoon’s sun onto my cozy chrysalis, casting shadows onto lavender crocus buds below. Bright marigold, crimson and azure shock my dark dull dreams. A gentle breeze caresses my wrinkled wet wings. Delirious and dizzy, my tongue uncoils reaching for sweet nectar, knowing that spring has sprung.
Dr. Jeffrey H. Toney has published scientific peer-reviewed articles, news media opinion pieces, and short fiction stories. Recently he was nominated for a Pushcart Prize for his 100-word story “The Quiet Raspberry Wormhole,” published in Crack The Spine. He serves as Provost and Vice President for Academic Affairs at Kean University.
I’m sitting on the floor, looking up at a woman. She’s walking round the house picking things up then putting them back down somewhere else. She looks at me with a huge smile then goes all squeaky and high-pitched, starts telling me how cute I am.
This happens every day.
Zoe, age 16, wrote this story.
“Humanity’s greatest adventure: a footprint on Mars. We had enough to survive, but not, it turns out, to live. The rot was in our souls, sick for home, for green. Darkness took them one by one. Only I remain, marooned, looking to the stars for a final glimpse of home.”
Bill is from Aberdeen, Scotland. He is the end product of a centuries long breeding programme designed to produce the perfect human being. It didn’t work.