“Wow! You’re one tough little lady.”
“I’m a black belt. And I’m not 16. I’m 22.”
“Okay, okay. I’ll drive you home, and we’ll just forget this ever happened. Nobody’d believe you anyway. I’m a powerful man in this community.”
“Not anymore. I’m a cop, and I’m wearing a wire.”
A long time ago, Alex married an 18-year-old.
After they pulled her, pliant, from the water, someone raced to fetch help. Her husband insisted they lay her carefully, flat and straight. This they did, their mouths swallowing the questions they no longer dared ask.
I couldn’t see the point, myself. She was already broken from too much bending.
writes flash fiction and the occasional short story, often while trying to sleep.
Newsflash: the plane has crashed; no survivors.
Gradually it dawned on her. Twenty years of tension, arguments, entrapment: over.
If he was dead, she was free!
Tears of relief welled up. Sweet release.
The front door opened. “Thank God I missed that plane!” he said, brushing away her tears.
Joan is an educator in Australia.
By the canal, she watches the drake’s savage courtship of his chosen mate, beak gripping the struggling duck’s neck.
Incensed, the woman tries and fails to loosen the male’s stranglehold.
“Bully!” she says.
“You can’t change nature, darling. Coming?”
She feels his strong hand caress her nape, and pull gently.
Viv Burgess is a bit jaded post-Christmas. Too many mince pies and not enough writing.
Some nights, you wonder if he took you to treatment with him.
Some nights, you wonder if he thinks of you. If so, he could pull out pieces he took from you and remember. Maybe he could fashion them into a hand.
That way, he’d never have to let go.
Daniel Garcia is currently a student pursuing a degree in Creative Writing. His work has been featured on or at Write About Now Poetry, Capturing the Corners, the University of North Texas, Mountain View College, Grayson College, and is forthcoming in SUGAR Magazine. Some of his favorite things to do are going to church—and by church he means poetry slams—giving as many hugs as possible, living by the words “You are all that you have,” and falling off the edge of the Earth.
She was found in a pool of blood alongside the road.
The old Ford carrying the beast smashed an oak a half mile away.
That game he played—the game of touch—was no fun. It never was.
Eventually, she spoke to the nurse. “Where’s dad? Is he all right?”
Eric Doubek is from Brazil.
The girl was sick of running, then sick of hiding once she’d run.
The only person she trusted was the man in the nearby box. She never asked for a name.
As she lay there, battered, bruised, and fighting for her life, she wished she knew his name after all.
Harriet Dyer is a comedian and writer based in the UK.
During Uncle Harry’s visits he dazzled me with magic. At six he held my nose, tapped my head, nickels tumbled out. At eight he pulled quarters from my ear. At eleven he reached up my skirt to pull a ten dollar bill from my panties just as dad walked in.
Paul Beckman was one of the winners in the Queen’s Ferry 2016 Best of the Small Fictions. His stories are widely published in print and online in the following magazines amongst others: Connecticut Review, Raleigh Review, Litro, Playboy, Pank, Blue Fifth Review, Flash Frontier, Matter Press, Metazen, Boston Literary Magazine, Thrice Fiction and Literary Orphans. His latest collection, “Peek”, weighed in at 65 stories and 120 pages. See more at paulbeckmanstories.com
“What? No! I need to go back! Please!”
“Your life savings would give you… maybe a month. Sign here.”
*Frantic scribbling.* “Yes! Take it; just get me back there now!”
The pod clicked closed. The custom Virtuatopia and life support resumed.
“Now we can afford another pod. Excellent.”
Jason was inspired by dystopian literature and the science fiction short stories of Ray Bradbury. With virtual reality at the forefront of gaming technology, Jason wonders if simulations may end up being abused. Escaping reality can be quite addictive. On a more personal note, he is looking forward to high school graduation, attending UC Riverside, and perhaps taking a creative writing course there.
Rain spat sideways while Mother tugged our hands until we were jogging.
Dad was drunk again, and he’d hit her this time. The bruises glistened like purple glass.
At a diner, Mother used the restroom.
My brother asked what I knew.
I told him, “Love isn’t supposed to be cruel.”
Len Kuntz is a writer from Washington State, an editor at the online magazine Literary Orphans, and the author of I’M NOT SUPPOSED TO BE HERE AND NEITHER ARE YOU, out now from Unknown Press. You can also find him at lenkuntz.blogspot.com.