There used to be an old man who walked down an old dirt road,
Passing through towns, never stopping for long.
Kids’d point and talk, and people’d spread rumors
Saying he was the boogeyman,
Saying he was a soldier left behind, a murderer.
And some
saying he was
an angel.
Vlad Barbu is a young man trying to figure things out like everyone else. His hobbies include art, music, gaming, and testing awkward paths through life. He is currently serving a 5 year sentence in the USMC.
I wore my purchase out of the second-hand store. My hand slid into the jacket pocket to find a scrap of paper. I pulled out a note written by the previous owner.
“I never want to be without you, my love.”
Apparently it was not written to the jacket itself.
Marcus Benjamin Ray Bradley wrote this story.
A hiss of smoke, and the colony began dying. The young first, then the mature as they attempted escape, choking on air as they screamed: Mercy!
No respite came—only suffocation.
Above them, Eliza stopped spraying and peered closer at the bodies.
It looked like the flies were finally dead.
Ophelia Lee is the pseudonym for Caitlin Hensel, whose short story has appeared in Eye Contact, an award-winning art and literary magazine. She spends time skulking in corners and procrastinating.
We raised our eyes to the ceiling in unison.
Thump, thump, thump.
“Storm?” my brother said.
Mom indicated the windows: dark but clear skies.
“The cat?” my sister said.
“Downstairs,” I said, my knees wobbly.
Mom drew her gun. Our family huddled together, shaking.
The clowns had escaped the attic.
Crimson Blackstone writes fantasy and horror, and is especially proud of her former students’ incurable addictions to books.
I was sea swimming when something bruised my leg. I didn’t look down because anything was possible. Rip-tide, shark, dolphin, fish, fingers of seaweed fisting something, driftwood and on and on. My mind could make it anything I thought.
Juggling nightmares and magic, I brushed it off and swam on.
Having escaped from marketing, Jacquie Wyatt writes poetry, flash fiction and novels. She was second in the Write Invite league in 2014 and a Flash Flood author 2012. Two of her poems have just been accepted by DawnTreader.
She threw me out; she didn’t like my tastes.
Flung on the rubbish heap, I was enveloped in a dark depression. I felt dead. Earth to earth.
Turning things over, I spread myself around. I met someone new, with potential. We sowed the seed.
We’re expecting a tomato this spring.
Margaret has a garden in Buckinghamshire, UK. She is currently writing
her first full length novel, while being distracted by short stories, flash fiction and her blog about all things writing.
He loved nothing more than to embarrass her.
Her face, blushing bright and scarlet, belonged in a museum: mortified among the masterpieces.
That’s why he told the security guard in the Contemporary Art gallery, when he was caught kissing his lover inside the dark art installation: “I’m painting my masterpiece.”
Ashley Naftule is a writer/performer living in Phoenix, AZ. He bears an uncanny resemblance to country singer Vince Gill.
Buddy suspected the slumbering Sadie wouldn’t appreciate playful whispers. But he often traveled the trail of wanton disobedience.
Quivering in anticipation, he cautiously nuzzled her velvety ear. It twitched violently, slapping her assailant across the face.
Let sleeping dogs lie, they silently agreed, flicking their tails and closing their eyes.
By day, Lawrence Frank sits in a psychotherapist’s chair, inhaling life’s darkest moments. In the silence of night, he locks the door, switches seats, and exhales to the page.
Twenty feet away.
He goes faster and faster.
They’re catching up.
Ten feet away.
He can hear them behind him.
Five feet. Four, three…
It’s over! He’s won!
The blue ribbon wraps around his torso as he wheels toward his wife. Who says you need legs to win a race?
Rob works with individuals who suffer from physical disabilities. They inspired him to write this piece.
Sunday I spotted an elephant destroying my cabbage garden so I shot the monster dead. Moments later, six clowns in midget cars bumped onto my lawn. They were armed with rainbow parasols.
“I’ve had this dream,” my wife said.
I cocked my rifle. “How’s it end?”
“Not good,” she said.
Over the years Bob Thurber’s work has received a long list of awards and prizes. His most recent book is a collection of brief stories titled “Nothing But Trouble”. Visit BobThurber.net.