I held my whiskey and listened to the sound of melting ice fill the silence of my lonely apartment.
Cracking the window, I watched a mother bird fight thistle and thorn to find food for her babies in the harsh storm, still singing.
Maybe, I thought, things weren’t so bad.
Adam has had his stories and poetry published in numerous online and print publications. To find out more, follow him on Twitter.
The fire raged in the downtown office block.
Flames danced angrily, a seething mass of hatred,
Ruthlessly punishing with every inch they consumed.
From a distance, he watched his handiwork.
The fire raged within him. Still.
White hot and all encompassing
Equally violent, fuelling the next part of his revenge.
From the North West of England, Jon works in local government, with a background in newspaper journalism. He is currently enjoying experimenting with short forms of writing, likes to think he can do so creatively, and quite often has to delete everything he has written and start again.
I still know I was mortal once.
I don’t remember what I did to deserve this. Something terrible? Something good? A wish? A curse? Anything that goes on long enough becomes torture. Any certainty clung to for eternity eventually slips away… Or does it?
I think I was mortal once.
Angela Brett is a mathematician and linguist by training, programmer by trade, and writer by neglecting everything else. She writes at angelastic.com
I’m in the shadows, the one you rarely notice. I provide security. Occasionally I whack a guy. I don’t ask questions. That’s part of the deal.
But my employer has crossed too many lines. I may lose my life, but I must save my soul.
One shot. Bam.
I’m unemployed.
Kevin Myers submitted this story from an undisclosed location. Okay, you win, it’s Ohio.
Brass blazed, strings sang, and timpani boomed the finale to Venet’s Concerto, but when the orchestra lulled for the star instrument, there was silence.
The xylophone player lay unconscious under a fallen stage light.
“Don’t move him,” said the conductor. “He might have percussion.”
Not even the piccolo player laughed.
E. M. Eastick is an Australian writer currently living in Colorado.
For months, Calum convinced his mother there was no problem. She ignored the signs at first, the spandex stockings, the growing pile of comics, the cape he wore around the house…
But when his mother found Wonder Woman under the bed, she realised it was time to call an intervention.
Guy is still waiting for his invitation to join the Justice League. This is his twelfth 50-word story.
Telephone poles and streetlights streak past as I stare up from my bed on the car seat. Dad is driving fast. Mom has her hand on me, patting.
We stop; they fling the door open, haul me onto a gurney. The hospital doors whoosh open as they wheel me in.
Laurie is a retirement wannabe who enjoys petting dogs and admonishing children.
The story of the week for July 11 to 15 is…
White Elephant Sale on the Town Green by Matthew Eichenlaub
There’s so much character development packed into this story, for both the character being described and the narrator. Great work.
She was found in a pool of blood alongside the road.
The old Ford carrying the beast smashed an oak a half mile away.
That game he played—the game of touch—was no fun. It never was.
Eventually, she spoke to the nurse. “Where’s dad? Is he all right?”
Eric Doubek is from Brazil.
“Any progress on the kidnapping case?” the captain asked.
“No, sir. We can’t proceed until we have a consultation with Detective Eunice Murphy.”
“Why do you need her help? She’s been retired for years.”
“The ransom note is written in cursive, and nobody on the task force can read it.”
John H. Dromey has had short fiction published in Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine, Betty Fedora, Crimson Streets, and elsewhere.