You take the room in back, just sink, bed, and chair. The haggard woman unlocking the door disappears quietly back into dust.
Alone, with nothing but a ray of moonlight to talk to, you tell it your life story, then wait for tomorrow’s visit, plead with it to never leave.
Jim Doss has published two books of poems: Learning to Talk Again and What Remains. He also published a book of German translations entitled The Last Gold of Expired Stars: The Complete Poems of Georg Trakl 1908 – 1914. In his spare time, he is an editor for the Loch Raven Review.
Gladus glanced out the window and grumbled, “Those darn kids are stealing my pears and cutting across my property again. They’ve got no respect for others. Their parents should be ashamed. Things were different in my day.”
She sighed. “There must be a rule against visiting lonely old ladies now.”
Eddie D. Moore travels extensively for work, and he spends much of that time listening to audio books. The rest of the time is spent dreaming of stories to write and he spends the weekends writing them. His stories have been published by Jouth Webzine, Kzine, Alien Dimensions, Theme of Absence, Devolution Z, and Fantasia Divinity Magazine. Find more on his blog.
At first, she felt free. She’d bask in the summer evening radiance, watching the kaleidoscope of stars filling the night sky with their regular patterns. Like lights from faraway friends, watching over her.
But in winter, the pavement was cold. Clouds blocked out the stars. Friends seemed very far away.
Jo Withers hopes that everyone has friends nearby. You can follow Jo on Twitter.
We clung to each other in the dryer. Spinning socks became whirling dervishes in a passionate dance.
Unceremoniously thrown onto the hard surface. I was the only one left. Widowed now, and no one else can be my mate.
I’ve resorted to cuddling up to a lint ball.
Making people laugh, especially while they’re swallowing big spoonfuls of soup, is one of Diane Malk’s goals. She is a writer from Colorado who shudders at the sight of snow every winter and is certain she lived in the tropics in a previous life. Diane has been published in Mad Swirl, Hackwriters, and Scarlet Leaf Review. She is working on her first book and always has a craft project in the works.
A life of tangled legs in bed, like sleeping wrapped in spider webs.
First curled small against my mother,
Then later trapped beneath a lover.
Years of children’s legs cocooned, of cuddles, laughter, me and you.
Now as I lie in empty web, I dream of beds with spider legs.
Jo Withers wakes up in a tangle of kids and pets every morning and wouldn’t have it any other way. Once she’s freed herself she writes poetry, short stories and children’s sci-fi adventures. You can follow Jo on Twitter.
Rose sat in the part of the park that light didn’t reach. Around the edges, people moved like ghosts. The odd sound of laughter crossed the air, where she received it like a lost language.
Beyond purgatory, buses went to places that didn’t exist anymore; cafes, bars, cinemas, and home.
Patrick Mc Loughlin is an English Language Teacher in Ireland and dabbles in writing. He also dabbles in painting and music and someday hopes to do more than dabble. He lives in the west of Ireland where it’s hard to concentrate.
Alone on a sidewalk, a young girl dances slowly through the silent snowfall. She raises her arms, arcing them together, fingertips touching like beaks kissing. Warm grey flakes settle on her hands. She finishes with a pirouette, waiting for applause, but the world is silent.
Soon, she will start coughing.
Chip Houser’s short fiction has appeared in Daily Science Fiction, New Myths, Every Day Fiction, and elsewhere in print and online. He is a graduate of the Odyssey Writing Workshop and is currently pursuing an MFA in Creative Writing at the University of Missouri-St. Louis.
“She’s got the sight,” Mama hisses, makes a forking gesture with arthritic fingers.
“Don’t talk rubbish, woman.” Papa’s whiskers tickle my ear. I feel safe curled in his lap, until I see him make the forking sign himself, down the side of the armchair where he thinks I won’t see.
Rebecca Fraser is an Australian writer whose short stories, flash fiction, and poems have appeared in various anthologies, magazines, and journals since 2007. She holds a Masters of Arts in Creative Writing, and her fiction showcases her fondness for all things darkly speculative. To provide her muse with life’s essentials, Rebecca supplements by copy and content writing, however her true passion lies in storytelling. See more at rebeccafraser.wordpress.com
He managed to get over the stout fence with ease. The derelict hut lay waiting as a fine, light snow began to fall.
If he could just get away from the voices.
Here. It must be far enough.
Obese. Grotesque. Vile. Slob.
Here he could be himself, without their judgement.
Abbie Mapley wrote this story.
Alone again herself, she saw the loneliness of others. Stray mittens and gloves in parking spaces, on snowbanks and sidewalks.
She brought them home, washed and dried them, wore them as others wear mismatched socks.
Now when she claps her hands the soft thick sound makes her broken heart glad.
Mary Steer is a word nerd living west of Toronto, where she works and reworks stories from life and imagination. When she’s not writing or editing, she likes to dabble in physics (knitting) and chemistry (baking).