Knew a dude named J. Just the letter. And I didn’t know him. Not really. Told me a theory: people become interesting when they become unknown. Not just to others—to themselves.
He left town soon after.
Maybe he’s come back since. I wouldn’t know; I left soon after him.
Colin Lubner writes (in English) and teaches (math) in southern New Jersey. His work has either appeared or will appear, temporally speaking. He is keeping on keeping on.
“Grandy, will you tell me about Hawaii?”
A pause, and then he brushes his bottom lip thoughtfully with the edge of a thumb, the blue anchor on his forearm gone soft and blurry with time. In his eyes, I catch a glimpse of metal and fire.
“Not much to say.”
Erin Gilmore is a writer and editor living in Los Angeles.
Grandfather’s fantasy-filled tales of visits to world capitals were sparked by a vivid imagination. “See the world,” he would urge, pointing to maps pinned precariously to the wall.
We sensed he had never ventured abroad, but his gestures and improvised foreign dialects kept us enthralled.
Listening to every single word.
John B. Sinclair is a much-travelled Scot who has now returned to Scotland, where he enjoys freelance writing on a variety of subjects.
A busy intersection; pouring rain. She must make a choice.
One direction offers comfort, everything she’s ever known. The other promises pain and more than a little adventure.
She steps off of the sidewalk, passing by her battered, bloody shoe, taking a turn away from the world and into eternity.
A. Elizabeth Herting is an aspiring freelance writer and busy mother of three living in colorful Colorado. She has had short stories featured in Bewildering Stories, Peacock Journal, Dark Fire Fiction, Friday Fiction, Under the Bed, and Fictive Dream. She has also published non-fiction work in Denver Pieces Magazine and bioStories. More info is available on her website and Facebook page.
She wanted that wind-rushed, wild-eyed euphoria that only a thrilling ride could bestow. Her excited shrieks reverberated through the woods. I watched my bike soar higher than ever over the mossy steep hill, my younger sister flying with it.
Even now, she claims her gnarled right knee was worth it.
Renuka Raghavan wrote this story.
A barren and merciless landscape stretched out ahead, as we kept trudging on until our mouths were parched.
We had to find water, and fast, or we wouldn’t make it out of there alive.
“Why don’t we buy water in that shop”, somebody begged, but we didn’t have any money.
Connell wrote this to comment on something or other, but lost the plot along the way… Or maybe, just maybe, he found it.
In this new world, the colors carried their own sounds, the air tasted like gingersnaps, and birds tweeted the blues.
A gruff gnome told Philip, “You are the chosen one.”
Nancy from HR hovered above, frowning. “We know you’re on drugs. We have to let you go. Get some help.”
L.L. Madrid lives in Tucson with her four-year-old daughter, an antisocial cat, and the occasional scorpion. Her work can be found lurking in places like Flash Fiction Magazine, Dali’s Lovechild, Literary Orphans, and in shoe boxes under her bed.
Walter emptied the urn into the Grand Canyon.
They’d planned to retire and travel. Now Ruth flew solo: her particles frolicked between sun and shade, lingering to say goodbye before their exodus.
He shuffled back to the truck and pondered the drive home to Minnesota—then steered south towards Phoenix.
Joe Lunne wrote this story.
My paper boats—one pink, one yellow—float in sunlight. I stand calf-deep in the lake, camera in hand.
A flood of ice cold water pours into my right boot. Do I give up and go home?
No. My laughter echoes across the lake: after all I’m seventy-five years old.
Joanna M. Weston is married with two cats, multiple spiders, a herd of deer, and two derelict hen-houses. Her middle-reader, Those Blue Shoes, was published by Clarity House Press. She has also published a book of poetry, A Summer Father, through Frontenac House of Calgary, and an eBook, The Willow Tree Girl, through her blog.
“We leave in five minutes,” he said.
Grey hairs muzzled out of his nostrils like worn felt. He smelled like ammonia. A holstered Leatherman dangled from his belt.
He was my last chance.
I glanced past him, at the smoke rising from the snowy yard.
“I can’t go,” I said.
Sean Higgins lives in an old farmhouse in Ypsilanti, Michigan with his wife and three insane cats. He works as an editor for a Research Firm. His work has been published in Bartleby Snopes.