You rounded the corner and stumbled across a shrine, all candles and teddy bears. Then you saw the photo posted.
It was the first boy you kissed. You had wrestled tongues before he retreated and called you ugly.
But that was 12 years ago. Your dealer waits for no one.
Christine Stoddard is a writer and artist and the founding editor of Quail Bell Magazine. She lives in Brooklyn.
Editor’s Note: Bed-Stuy is a neighbourhood in Brooklyn.
“Till death do us part.” I smile at the thought.
We are made of stronger stuff. We won’t be parted. Your body is still cradled by the armchair opposite me. Your blood has melded with the fabric and with the floor.
Nothing will separate us. I will not allow it.
Patrick is a researcher, father, keen and constant reader of fiction, and occasional author of short stories.
My mother gave me an enchanted copy of Goodnight Moon. Late at night, in my blanket tent, I’d shine my flashlight on it. Somehow, one day, its letters began to dance into words, its words into sentences. So strong was the magic, it’s transformed every book I’ve picked up since.
Ingrid Jendrzejewski grew up in Vincennes, Indiana, and studied creative writing, literature, and physics. When not writing, she enjoys cryptic crosswords and the game of Go. Links to Ingrid’s writing can be found at ingridj.com and she occasionally tweets @LunchOnTuesday.
Thump. Thump. Thump. In the dark, I lug the lumpy sack down each stair, muttering curses at the noise. Christmas lights twinkle from the living room. What a surprise they’ll get in the morning.
I peer outside. Snowing. Heavily. Perfect. It’ll cover up my footprints.
And any drops of blood.
Matthew is a secondary school teacher and studied English Literature at the University of Glasgow. His short story ‘Blue Sky’ has just been published in a Centum Press anthology and he is currently seeking representation for his first science fiction novel.
In the darkness,
only his face is illuminated by his laptop’s glow.
From another room comes that old Saturday night hop-along music,
Gun Smoke. Matt Dillon fires second, but more true.
The bad guy drops in Dodge City’s dusty main street.
And for a brief moment, the darkness is gone.
Matthew lives in Maine.
The Crossing Guard stands her vigil in the rain. Sign held high, she shepherds the helpless ones against the harried, cell phone-obsessed masses.
She is always watching, but you will never see her. She was struck and killed last year, blood seeping into the crosswalk. Still, she watches.
Will you?
A. Elizabeth Herting is an aspiring freelance writer and busy mother of three living in colorful Colorado. She has had stories featured in Dark Fire Fiction, Bewildering Stories, New Realm, Friday Fiction, Peacock Journal, Speculative 66, and Under the Bed. She recently completed a novel called Wet Birds Don’t Fly at Night that she is hoping to find a home for one day. See more at her website or Facebook page.
Their mouths searching for the perfect angle. Their lips a breath apart. Their first kiss a heartbeat away. Finally.
A buzzing noise; cell phone. “Sorry, just need to check this one thing… ‘Hello,'” he says.
She knows something he does not. What he really said was, “Goodbye.” And that’s final.
Lou Romero submerged his toe into the tranquil waters of the art called writing. He discovered a raging, grinning tempest lurking there. It was a good place to search for peace. He takes creative writing classes at the University of New Mexico.
I was a childhood insomniac. Sometimes in the middle of the night, the quietest hour before dawn, I’d slip out of my bed and drop out the window to the spongy dew-grass—and under the wan light of the moon I’d twirl, my night dress lifting like a gypsy dancer.
Jane Hertenstein is the author of numerous short stories and flash. Her work has been included in Hunger Mountain, Word Riot, Flashquake, and Rosebud as well as earning an Honorable Mention in Glimmer Train. Her literary interests are eclectic, evident in the titles she has published: Beyond Paradise (YA), Orphan Girl (non-fiction), Home Is Where We Live (children’s picture book), and two self-published eBooks: 365 Affirmations for the Writer and Freeze Frame: How to Write Flash Memoir. Jane lives in Chicago where she blogs at Memoirous.
Laughing under the bright sun, my hands are appeased, my pen can’t write. But come night, black ink spills from my past, disfiguring page after page. My past claws itself out, hideous and raw, writing off who I used to be. Then day breaks and my head is calm again.
Gretchen Ivers is 16 year old who loves Jesus, laughter, and unicycling. She is currently teaching herself Braille.
The tiny hand was lost within its father’s. Each gripped tightly, softly to the other. Within that touch, free from language or misinterpretation, resided the very essence of love.
The small hand slowly went limp; the larger paused, then released. One now free; the other chained eternally to that moment.
Adam Mitchell is a teacher, mostly, and a learner always. Current published work can be accessed in his dreams.