Dolly squinted up, stolen from her busy holopad by the boisterous burst of blue-hued starlight. Her pupils adjusted. She caught her breath.
Her Comet-class space train, cantering along the networked velocity gates, weaved a shimmering silver thread through the dense asteroid cloud.
“…I’ll need celery for soup,” she remembered.
Ben Toovey is a Brit living in Germany, and a keen procrastinator.
Margo used to wonder about her friend Ellen’s strange requests.
“Would you mind picking up some industrial-sized trash bags?”
“Can I borrow your duct tape?”
“Wanna hold my new pistol?”
“Just take my phone.”
Now, sitting here in prison, it all made perfect sense.
Ellen wasn’t her friend after all.
Susan Gale Wickes is a writer from Indiana. She claims nobody was harmed in the writing of this story.
“You wear earplugs?”
“You know, so’s you don’t lose your hearing. I mean, it’s real loud, right?”
“When you do someone. It hurts your ears, the bang.”
“You think I use a gun?”
Legion shook a smoke from the pack. “You gotta lot to learn, kid.”
Willie Carr wrote this story.
It wasn’t my fault. The kid went over the side all by himself. Being an idiot, I went in after him. Hit the water like a sledgehammer; seemed more fun when I tried it as a boy.
Anyway, he didn’t say much while we waited. Just as well. Some cruise.
David is 67 years old and lives in Victoria, B.C. He started writing a year ago and enjoys posting poetry and vss on Twitter as @DavisLunnThe3rd.
I looked through the thick, slightly dirty glass. I could sense the large shadows of creatures passing around me. After a while, an alien-looking face moved up to the glass. Its heavily layered scales glistened momentarily in the light filtering down from above.
I guess I never really liked aquariums.
Susanna Cahn von Seelen wrote this story.
The monster under my bed whispers to me in the dark. Says I’m small, scared, so easy to pull down and rip apart and chew up until I’m nothing but two knuckle bones hanging from a string.
I listen, frozen, until I scream, run.
Mom sighs, says: “Ignore your brother.”
Catherine Ann Fox lives in Indiana with her husband, and enjoys writing all sorts of weird things. Logically, she knows there’s nothing under her bed but boxes, but one can never be too careful, can they?
She pushed me to the door. I said, “Before you say your piece, heed this; hearken to the sages: words said are words written on the fabric of your soul. They cannot be unsaid. A soul cannot turn back.”
She said, “Get the hell out of my house.”
Why there’s the very fellow. See Peter: in Dublin does he lurk, all beard and books. Perhaps today he is an extra on a film set, perhaps tomorrow he plays freelance with a camera, the day after that a writer. Wherever he is, whatever he is, he is most likely having coffee or thinking of his next one.
It was nearly the best moment of my entire life.
I was sitting in the sun,
drinking a wonderful cocktail,
and suddenly the most handsome man
looked me directly in the eyes
and gently said,
you are sitting on my towel.
And you are drinking my wonderful cocktail.”
Leydi Cuesta wrote this story.
The doppelganger couldn’t fool Bracken. She knew it wasn’t her master. Wasn’t even human. The scent was off, alien.
The rest of the family didn’t notice, but she knew.
However, the creature seemed happy to walk her as much as she wanted, so maybe she wouldn’t miss Bob after all!
Bill Cox is from Aberdeen, Scotland where he has been procrastinating for the past forty-nine and a bit years.
Dante Bernthall knew he was dying, and went on a farewell tour to say goodbye to his beloved fans. He sang songs they loved; they cried together, gave thanks, and exchanged goodbyes on stage.
And then he just didn’t die. Actually, he got better.
His fans were kind of disappointed.
Alex Colvin is a Canadian humourist who works in Real Estate. Sorry. Find out more at alexandercolvin.wordpress.com.