“Kill two birds with one stone,” Jenny had told me every day for a week. “Do it before it’s too late.” She grinned like a Cheshire cat when speaking these words on Saturday.
Unable to keep the secret any longer, I told her: “I already did. Took three stones, though.”
Anna is a fifteen-year-old writer, music lover, and high school student in New Orleans.
The fortuneteller strokes my hand, the callouses along my fingertips. Her brow furrows. “You have the hands of a pianist… But that cannot be…”
My nostrils burn in a dark, musty room, air of silence shattered by empty notes only I hear. She shudders at my memories, proving herself authentic.
Denise Long writes from her home in Nebraska. She works as a freelance copy editor and an English instructor. In her spare time, she is also a wife, and a mother to two young boys. Her flash fiction has appeared in or is forthcoming from Burrow Press Review, Journal of Microliterature, and The Story Shack, among others. She occupies a small bit of online space at denisehlong.com.
“If I promise to lead you down the path to darkness, will you follow?” asked the pretty brunette in the horn-rimmed glasses, a twinkle in her eye.
“I sure will,” said the blue-eyed gentleman with the diamond cufflinks.
She handed him her chocolate chip scone and a pink business card.
Recently retired, Marian Brooks has begun to write some short fiction. Her work has appeared in Word Riot, Crack the Spine, The Linnet’s Wings, The Story Shack and others.
You were at the corner of Wisconsin and M, riding a unicycle in the December rain. I was stuffed in a Volkswagen with fifteen friends. I said you looked sad and you honked a bicycle horn in reply, then squirted me with a flower.
Your orange hair still haunts me.
Tom Howard lives in Arlington, Virginia, where he spends a lot of time roaming the hills with his wife beside a funny black dog.
The moon is a beautiful thing, gleaming in the dark night. It summons the werewolf and his eternal rival, the vampire.
One must stop and think: to be fanged or to be clawed? To move swiftly through the night, purged by day, or to only be true once a month?
Vampyreness wrote this out of love for the full moon and vampires.
“Are you sure? It’s a near white out.”
“Really, I’ll be okay.”
“They won’t find your body until spring.”
“I’ll be fine.”
“Call and let me know how you’re doing.” She waited until his figure was engulfed by the storm and then dropped the cell phone battery into the wastebasket.
Ray Wirth has survived more than 30 Maine winters. He teaches English in Searsport, Maine.
While driving ‘cross country my brother asked me if I’d ever thought about killing someone.
“No.”
That same day, in the night, that store owner stayed late. He killed my brother. Had a single-action under the counter. Then I killed him.
Brother, I didn’t even have to think about it.
Anthony Saint wrote this story.
There was a collision at the intersection by our house, before you left. Your hands were above your head, making out the shape of a car.
“I could see the man as he split in two,” you said. “He was air and atoms and you and I were still alone.”
Ages ago, Gary Emmette Chandler attended college for Creative Writing. Now, he spends his spare time drinking too much, writing about failure, and generally trying to outpace a landslide of student loans. You can follow his hungover ramblings on Twitter, @TheWearyLuddite. Or not. That’s okay too.
Darling, for your arrival I’ve been patient,
And in this moment I’ve been spinning dreams.
My life is one prayer to be graced with your fingertips,
But it has become apparent that a distortion in my plea
Has melted from the ears of God
And blessed me with your bones.
Gabriel enjoys the words that form the universe while sitting everywhere.
He looked down and saw a spot of red slowly fanning out in all directions.
He finally realised he didn’t understand the meaning of anything as everything turned red. He sat down to contemplate his life while his head hung heavily towards his chest.
And the red continued to grow.
Connell wrote this in response to random and unprovoked acts of violence.