She lies on the tile floor, breathing in the chemical scent of the lab. The formula should be curing her damaged brain. Instead, it is destroying it.
Perhaps playing with life and death wasn’t her best decision.
She closes her eyes, but she still sees a light.
So much light…
KT Cherry likes writing, chocolate, the Oxford comma, and chocolate. She is working on a novel about superheroes. She blogs about writing, introversion, and more chocolate.
A witch stole our only lemon tree from the backyard. She rode on it, shoving the last ripe lemon into her toothless mouth.
A frightening, nonsensical sense of helplessness woke me up.
Auntie hovered over me and I remembered that real life is scarier than the witches of our dreams.
Azarin Sadegh, a former student of the late Les Plesko, is working on her 125,000 word novel, The Suicide Note.
“They die,” she whispered. “Everyone I love… They all die.” A tear; then she burst, unable to contain it anymore. She sobbed. “Why is this happening to me?”
My words stuck. I didn’t want to tell her, or admit I could see her clearly. “Layla, you… You’re a death omen.”
Hazel is a girl who aspires to write but doesn’t find much time for it.
The bus driver was in a hurry to finish his night shift; wife was about to deliver their baby.
A man was slowly walking towards the stop, waving his hand weakly. “Probably drunk,” the driver thought, annoyed, closed the doors, and left.
And so one life ended and another began.
Katya Duft is a translator, interpreter, and language teacher; is fluent in Russian and French; and enjoys writing stories and poetry.
What ever happened
To that little boy blue?
He grew up under the sun,
He could fly a kite high,
Climb trees,
Skin his knees,
Feel the green grass.
A cool breeze,
Under the trees,
Under the stars.
Yes you, that’s the one.
What’s become of you
Little boy blue?
Patrick loves to climb trees and fly kites.
He chose two wheels, not four, for his commutes to and from work, citing improvement in health and environmental concerns.
When he started dating a co-worker, he worried she’d find him cheap.
Instead, she embraced his philosophical outlook and their love deepened as they wheeled a bicycle built for two.
Krystyna writes poetry, fiction, and creative nonfiction. She delights neighbourhood cats with her singing.
Nobody saw the blood on her hands, as she walked out the door. She had only done him and herself a favour. They probably wouldn’t have had a “bright future” together anyway. It was for the best.
Back in the room, her inner artist child lay slain, bleeding to death.
Yassi Dooo believes the inner artist of each person is of the opposite sex. How else could one pro(actively)create?
Penny’s monkey (having graduated cum laude) threw a fit to attend the lecture.
Nettled, Penny acquiesced.
Once there, the monkey grew bored. It leapt from her lap, chattered towards the podium. Before a janitor could be summoned, the monkey had explained evolution.
Penny was expelled. But the monkey got tenure.
C. B. Auder and monkeys share over 90% of their DNA. But only when the monkeys behave themselves.
It had just turned evening when she walked out of the Bombay Café. Not in Bombay, not even close, but on a nondescript street in a posh part of Los Angeles.
Just down the street from gilt-edged mansions there stood pink stucco dwellings inhabited by drive-by invisibles.
City of Angels.
Janet Clare has published online flash fiction and essays. She is currently completing her third novel.
The alien invaders were dead.
This was our world after all. Men were once again free to work out their own destiny, for better or worse, without interference.
Man might fail, but if he does he will fail on his own terms.
If he succeeds… The universe will surely weep.
Justin Moody lives in Texas with his wife and three sons, and is a reader and writer of short fiction. Follow him on Twitter.