It wasn’t a typical summer day that David woke to. Silence was the most obvious difference and it was stifling.
A glance through the window and fear replaced confusion. Trees, infrastructure were nonexistent.
He felt no sensation as he rose effortlessly and stared at his bedroom mirror. It was empty.
Gordon Lysen enjoys retirement, passing the time with writing, painting, carving and carpentry.
I pulled over, rolled down my window.
“What’s up?” I asked my mind.
“Waiting for a bus. Can’t wander far enough by foot.”
“Where are you headed?”
“Good luck.” I drove away.
That evening, I returned. “Done waiting?” I asked.
“The Boston bus doesn’t stop here, does it?”
Iain Young doesn’t let his mind wander without a round-trip ticket.
The memories all came flooding back. The screams. Blood. Lots of blood.
Her dreams lingered… two black butterflies flitting about on a warm day, dancing just for her.
I awoke, resigned to their presence. Ours was an uneasy alliance, here in this darkness behind my eyes.
Dave James Ashton favours short fiction as he has a bad memory and poor attention span.
The memories ripple as you wade in, the concrete beneath your toes cushioned by abstract thought. Your fingers trail the surface, silver swirls of emotion patterning in your wake. Pause for a breath, then plunge down, losing yourself in memories even as they nibble away the edges of your mind.
Jenora Vaswani would like to think of herself as a lightfoot halfling, nimbly toeing the line between fantasy and reality. In actuality, you’re more likely to find her at her desk poring over various literary theories, surrounded by biscuit sandwiches and red velvet cookies. If you’d like to see more of her work, feel free to pop over to her website
“You can reach the stars if you pump your legs fast enough,” she said.
So he kicked and flailed until his swing broke away from the wooden frame. When he soared through the troposphere, he tucked a star in his pocket for her.
He’s still waiting to be pulled down.
Jamie Brian is a college student who enjoys thunderstorms more than the average person.
I am an anchor. I keep you moored, while I plumb the depths. You are the thing that matters. I am just the slowly rusting passage of time. You are my love and I am your anchor. I sense a new undercurrent. I want to drag you down with me.
Gary writes poems, short stories, and novels. Some can be found on his Scribophile account, others on his somewhat neglected Tumblr.
Was used to be a bouncer. Before it stood stupid in sentences, neither adding to nor taking away meaning, it slouched outside nightclubs, blending in with bricks. If Was kicked you out, though, you were blacklisted. Because Was never forgets mistakes. Instead, it lords the past over us. Even now.
Francisco Delgado lives with his wife in Queens, where he has taught at various colleges. In the fall, he will begin his doctorate studies at Stony Brook University. He appreciates you reading.