I believe in vampires. I never used to but then, one day, I filed for divorce. I saw my wife turn into a blood-sucking member of the undead, right before my eyes.
We have been divorced many years, yet she still phones me to ask for money.
Oh yes, vampires.
Barry O’Farrell had a 950-word sci-fi story published in the December issue of Cyclamens & Swords.
All rights reserved. And I mean all.
No part of this text may be read,
browsed, skimmed or glanced upon
without express written consent from the author,
who, quite frankly, is a scamp and a scallywag,
a man willing to dedicate enormous energy
to flushing out careless lawbreakers like you.
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.
About to drink her non-alcoholic communion wine, Jane thought she was certain of exactly two things.
God loved her,
and
God is in the details.
However, if both those things were true, why did her husband leave her at the altar to be with Greek Leon from the HR department?
John is an English and Creative Writing graduate who splits his time evenly between writing, reading, and procrastinating. He very much hopes that one day the burden of reading his work will be taken off his family and friends and placed onto the general public.
The house had been eerily quiet. She wanted to talk to someone other than her mind.
She found him seated in the rocking chair by the window. Sitting down on the floor beside him, she leaned her head gently against the chair.
The empty chair rocked slightly at her contact.
Divya is an IT nerd by day and a blogger by night. She’s also a coffee junkie and a Cancerian. She lives in India.
Snow fell as he stared blankly at the photo of her. His other hand held an axe. One tree stood amidst stumps in glaring white.
Firewood was needed. But she planted this…
He sighed, pocketed the photo and swung the axe with tears. He’d save some for a photo frame.
Joey tries to write a little.
Edward hasn’t gone into the basement in awhile, the stairs as old and rickety as he is. He trembles, stares at the door.
Something on the other side wants out of the basement, into the house. It knocks, politely. At first.
Edward turns to run as the door groans open.
Madeline Mora-Summonte reads, writes, and breathes fiction in all its forms. She is the author of the flash fiction collection The People We Used to Be. See more at her blog.
Her great-great-grandfather was governor of North Carolina. Grandmother dressed for a tennis match and eloped, at age sixteen. And Grandfather owned half the gas stations in town.
Now her two dogs sleep on heirloom oriental rugs.
“No more Christmas turkey,” she declared. “We’ll eat barbecue with Granmama’s silver this year.”
Frank Gallivan is a thirty-something South Carolina native and long-time San Francisco resident. He is working on stimulating his creative side and shedding fixed identities.
I could go on about spirituality or a higher wossname
But this marvelous feeling I have upon finally discovering Carfury Menhir
After a glorious twelve mile walk
Can be explained away in terms that are entirely scientific
All the same I believe that I’m going to have to sing again
Philip Zunzuncito Sequoia once appeared (briefly) on the popular Channel 4 quiz show 15 To 1.
They fed the talking lawn gnome Burger King in the backseat, heads swirling. Half-hour later the radio announced an amber alert—missing two-year-old girl taken while playing in front yard. They stared at the odd being and wondered, isn’t it strange how she ate all those fries? Isn’t it strange?
Caitlin McGill is the 2014 winner of the Rafael Torch Nonfiction Literary Award, and her work has appeared or is forthcoming in 48, Crab Orchard Review, The Cypress Dome, Digital Americana, Prairie Margins, The Southeast Review, Solstice, Sphere International, and Spry Literary Journal. She is also a writing instructor at Emerson College, where her students continually remind her of the power of language.
The ticket stub for the 8:50 showing of The Grand Budapest Hotel floated onto the bathroom floor.
It lay buried in my winter coat pocket all summer; today it fell out.
A bittersweet reminder of the last date before you left without a word. I can’t bear throwing it away.
Kristin Ronzi is a freelance writer and editor living in Tokyo, Japan. Her work has been featured in EastLit, Paragraph Planet, Anak Sastra, and The Anthem.