I had been holding the hammer too long not to use it.
The urn shattered as I brought the hammer down, and fragments of porcelain exploded amidst a cloud of ash.
Mommy cried something about grandma when she saw it. Daddy just told her to move grandpa up a shelf.
Chris Griglack was born and raised in Massachusetts where he has lived for 23 years. He graduated from the University of Massachusetts Dartmouth in 2012 with a degree in Writing, Rhetoric, and Communications.
“I love you but you can be a real pain.”
Marmaduke ignored this.
“I feed you. I clean up after you. You demand my affection and you get it.”
Marmaduke looked away.
“I treat your worms. I scratch behind your ears.”
Marmaduke yawned.
“Marmaduke, you’re my husband, not a dog!”
Joe Malone is living in a mud hut in South Sudan. Read more from him at http://joem18b.wordpress.com/.
I wandered out of the house, naked beneath the leather jacket imbued with your musky scent. Wet footsteps followed me down the path to the pond. I settled on our boulder and sipped the coffee you refused to drink.
When the sun rose, I dialed 911 to report your murder.
Suzi Harris is a retired technical writer working on her first novel with the support of her crazy Canadian husband and two psychotic cats.
She hated sneaking around in the dark. She could barely hear the children’s breathing over the pounding in her ears. Each creak of the floorboard caused her heart to skip a beat. Her hand reached toward a sleeping child’s head, slipping beneath the pillow.
She hated playing the Tooth Fairy.
Alisia sometimes likes to write things and posts them on http://eurasianflavour.wordpress.com.
Fresh cut grass smell. Saturday morning. Cheerios and cartoons, pajamas until lunch. Dad came in, sunburned and glistening. He made lunch, turned the game on.
“Dad! I have two more shows!”
“Go take a bath,” he said, pungent.
Mom used to let me wait.
Monday’s bus still one day away.
Ryan Cicak has published poetry and creative non-fiction before, primarily through the award-winning American River Review, once winning an award for a sestina about zombies. “After Her” originally appeared on his website, Etceterocity.tumblr.com.
One day Henry was updating his iTunes.
He told Apple that he read and agreed to the terms of use.
Henry did not actually read anything.
The next morning Henry, to his horror, found that all his music had been replaced.
With Michael Bolton.
Henry had agreed to the terms.
Brady Gerber is a current student at Indiana University studying business and music who also loves to write. Some of his favorite writers include Kurt Vonnegut, Henry Miller, Ernest Hemingway, and Bob Dylan. Brady does most of his writings on his blog (Headphone Nation, @headfonenation) and on his Twitter (@BradyWGerber).
“You’re not an artist, you’re a psychic,” the man in black said, walking around the easel.
Lee’s shock turned to horror as he studied his canvas with new eyes.
“What’s the name of this?”
Lee swallowed and whispered, “Grassy Knoll.”
The man nodded.
“Right. We have a job for you.”
Alex loves to write flash-, short-, & novel-length stories in horror, crime, suspense & fantasy genres. Visit ALK’s full portfolio at alexlkerr.com!
I kissed her forehead. She frowned a delicate apology and laid her head back on the pillow. Our eyes met and we knew we were not alone, would never be alone again.
Death took her and I stood by, unable to fight the invisible, unable to take the permission back.
Merideth Grue jumps at her own shadow, but it jumps too, so that’s okay. More Grue can be found at http://gravatar.com/lsadeness.
The alien vessel landed in Time Square.
Thousands gathered. Press clamoured. Cameras flashed.
Hiss. A hatch opened.
Two green, tentacle-covered creatures emerged. They looked, evaluated.
Silent, telepathic communication passed between them. “What a dump!”
They got back in their ship and decided they would go to Alpha Centauri next vacation.
Leo Norman is a teacher and part time writer. He lives in Southampton, England with his wife and child.
Every night, she twists and turns, dashing through those mangled brambles she calls “dreams” and those searing nightmares she calls “part of life”.
Yet… She cannot help crying.
About that one piercing gem of knowledge that shines dim in a dark room. Forever paralyzed by the knowing of painless morning.
Miranda Last is a girl who prefers pancakes over waffles. She also loves to write.