KEVIN G BUFTON: The Flesh is Weak

Odd, Submissions, ,

They call it astral projection. Plane-walking. Body-jumping. I’ve been doing it for years: I’m the master, the sensei.

To float above your body, your anchor to the world, is quite the trip. Most of the time…

That’s me down there, lying so still.
That’s home.
And I’ve lost my key.

Kevin G. Bufton has been writing flash fiction for nearly eight years and still hasn’t got it out of his system. He lives in Birkenhead with his wife and kids, who seem to tolerate him. He writes his darkest stories wearing his brightest shirts, and believes the world could do with more rum. He blogs on an irregular basis at kevinbufton.com.

JUSTIN HOOK: The Bridge

Artistic, Submissions, , ,

The first time I jumped I was trying to impress some kids my age who seemed much older. The second time I was in college, and I led the way because I knew how. The third time I had something to prove to myself, but now I can’t remember what.

Justin Hook is a comedy writer and coder living in Los Angeles. Visit justinhook.com.

JON NIXON: Up the Aisle

Amusing, Submissions, , , , ,

Ceremony? Booked.
Flowers? Done.

I was working my way through the wedding checklist, making sure I had thought of, paid for, and arranged everything.

Cars, reception venue, meal, gifts. I’d cracked it. A job well done… and with days to spare!

Now I just needed to find someone to marry.

Jon is an aspiring writer from the North West of England, currently boring himself to tears working in local government. He is looking forward to getting wed himself in the next month, but fears his own checklist is never ending… You can read more of his ramblings on the new web presence he has finally gotten round to creating at writingsonthewall645.wordpress.com

STEVEN FOWLER: The Camp

Adventure, Odd, Submissions, ,

Clear your mind, she said. He quietened his thoughts leaving only the crack and snap of burning logs. He gazed deep into flames.

Watching. Waiting.

A shape appeared. A face? Yes, his face, screaming, twisted, contorted in anguish.

Suddenly cold, he tore away. The camp was empty. Everyone had gone.

Steven is taking tentative steps into the murky lake of fiction writing. This is his first submission to the site. There may be a second.

JOEY TO: Too Bad For Nick

Amusing, Submissions, , , ,

Nick was the lazy type but he did put on his best suit to chair the Orbital Station’s OH&S meeting on Tuesday which was just too bad because the station suffered an explosive decompression that day and he was the last person sucked out right before the emergency force-fields activated.

It may not be good for your health and safety but you can visit Joey at joeytoey.com.

ALEX MARKOVICH: Lunch Break

Amusing, Submissions, ,

As she was leaving the office, she bade her coworkers farewell. “The end of days is coming at 12:27,” she reminded them, “and I’m stepping outside to witness the glory. I pray that one day we’ll meet again in a better place.”

Everyone was tactful when she returned at 1:00.

Alex believes that one person’s truth is another’s heresy.

TAMSIN SEYMOUR: Mothering Sundae

Artistic, Submissions, Top Stories, , , ,

“Choklat,” he demanded, his eyes glistening.

She was buying him ice cream. Again. Because she adored the way his little tongue twisted into the cone, chasing down the last oozing dregs.

And because, when he gleefully wiped his sticky fingers across his cardigan, she knew her suppressed resentment was justified.

Tamsin can currently be found poking writing with a stick, and then running away scared.

LARRY D THACKER: Relic Making, #1

Artistic, Submissions, ,

A #2 pencil.

Tiny, nervous teeth marks on six sides, identical, yellow paint flaking: sharpen it after forty years, write poems until the marks bite into your fingers, until the pencil nubs, vanishes.

Hold high the words. Declare a miracle: Look! Look what is written by the hand of God!

Larry D. Thacker’s poetry can be found in more than eighty publications including The Still Journal, Poetry South, Mad River Review, The Southern Poetry Anthology, Mojave River Review, Mannequin Haus, Ghost City Press, Jazz Cigarette, and Appalachian Heritage. His books include Mountain Mysteries: The Mystic Traditions of Appalachia and the poetry books Voice Hunting and Memory Train, as well as the forthcoming Drifting in Awe. He’s presently working on his MFA in both poetry and fiction. Visit his website at larrydthacker.com.

ARLENE ANTOINETTE: S.O.S.

Poetry, Submissions, , ,

We speak in code. Fake smiles
accentuate our encryption
as we avoid truthful confessions.

Lips spread wide
over camouflaged terms
as tongues stutter and tangle
without grace.

The look in your eyes forces me into
deeper deciphering.
We calculate our positions and
plot our next move.
We speak in code.

Arlene is a novice writer who enjoys writing flash fiction and poetry.

CONNELL WAYNE REGNER: It Really Doesn’t Matter How We Met

Amusing, Submissions, Touching, , ,

I only married her to get citizenship, paid 15 grand and thought that was it. Then I couldn’t forget her.

She once asked me if I liked blondes or brunettes and I said, “Any colour, as long as she smiles like you.”

Five years later we got married for real.

Connell writes again.