I hovered above the students as they gathered around my frozen body.
“The tumour was here,” said the professor, “but the heart was the problem.”
She reached in with gloved hands, pulling aside my ribcage to reveal the hole in my chest. Nothing there but thorns and soft white dew.
Mark Farley is attempting to write 1,000,000 words in 2016. Please wish him luck!
I sing to my mirror. And it sings back. We harmonize, match our lip movements perfectly.
I pull out the medicine cabinet mirror, and we are four. We look at each other and smile with one-half of our faces.
Once I’m done, we leave. All except the one with horns.
Brandon Scott is a man of Florida and a freelance writer with a love of dark fiction.
I hear a knock at my door. It’s my stalker, Kurt.
I call out, “I’m not home.”
Kurt says, “When will you be back?”
I say, “Not for a week.”
You might have guessed: Kurt is not too smart.
After all, I gave him my new address three weeks ago.
Kent V Anderson writes a variety of stories, most of of them rather whimsical. Lately he has been writing even shorter short stories, to conserve his vocabulary. These have appeared in 101 Word Short Stories, Flash Fiction Press, Short Humour Site, Espresso Stories, Nailpolish Stories, The Story Shack, A Story in a 100 Words, and elsewhere.
People bought his flowers. Then they laid them at one of the many tombstones outside.
Over the years, he noted their duration and frequency of visits.
They often left quickly.
And so, as soon as they left, he took back the perfectly arranged flowers and replaced them in his store.
Joey doesn’t like flowers although he doesn’t mind buying them for others. You can find him at joeytoey.com.
“So when wood burns in a closed system,” said Ms. Gribbons, “it creates gas, liquid, and ash. Nothing’s ever truly lost; it just changes form.”
Michael raised his hand.
“Yes, Mike?”
“My Dad says that, but I never believe him.”
“Why not?”
“He says it when I miss my Mom.”
Jennifer L Freed usually writes poetry. She uses her middle initial in her bios because people have Googled her and landed on another writer with the same first and last names. For more, please visit jfreed.weebly.com.
“I read she passed away. Your plump little neighbor with all the cats.”
“So sad. She tripped on the stairs and broke her neck, poor woman. She lay there, dead, for two weeks before they found her.”
“Poor lady. Poor cats. Alone. Trapped. Starving.”
“Oh, no. Her cats didn’t starve.”
Allen Lang, a recently resurrected member of the Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers of America, was born the year the first Yo Yo factory opened.
Her golden hair flirted with the stars as she skipped barefoot across the beach.
We spoke for hours, laughed at the sun blushing as it peeped over the horizon. I felt myself stir, hurriedly scrawled my number on her hand…
I wake and turn off the alarm.
My phone rings.
Guy is a law student by day and a law student by night. Writing helps him cope with the workload. This is his eighth 50-word story.
He was brushing his teeth when he noticed he’d misplaced his thumbs. He spat green toothpaste and bloody saliva in the bathroom sink, looked around, then shrugged and kept on brushing.
Oh well, he thought. If they’re gone, they’re gone. No need worrying. Besides, I’ve never needed to hitchhike anyway.
Willem Myra, 24, lives on a satellite of a city gravitating around Rome, Italy. Sometimes he thinks he makes less sense than Google Translate.
Years after retirement, he had become old and weak. With the onset of Alzheimer’s and partial loss of hearing, he was now a burden to his children.
Irked by his illness, his sons threw him out of the house. The same house that he had once mortgaged for their education.
Sanchari Pait is a budding hotelier by profession and a writer by passion. She loves food and travel and is enthusiastic about quizzing and cookery. An avid reader, she believes that the pen wields power to change the world.
The story of the week for February 1 to 5 is…
S.O.S. by Alison Cooper
The intensity of the story sets up the twist really well.