Finally, the call came, after six months of mystery liquid
dripping from her nose–
a cerebral fluid leak originating from a hole at the base of her brain.
The enemy had been unmasked after not one, not two, but three lab samples.
No time for fear; she prepared for battle.
Vernae is a wife, mother, and grandmother who is getting off the sidelines and into the art of writing for better or for worse. Vernae is currently completing three books of poetry that reflect the joys, challenges, and hope throughout the human experience.
I watched from the doorway as she tossed around in our bed.
Her hair was tousled, and cheeks stained with tears.
I learned long ago that when she lost herself, I inevitably would lose her, too. But I wasn’t prepared for this losing battle with the demons inside her head.
Brittany Young wrote this story.
Clear starlit sky above the frozen snow, we sit unmoving, eyes scanning the fields ahead, praying for the next attack so that we can move, life sought in another’s blood.
Our breath freezing our eyes, but hands too heavy to lift, behind the eyes the mind slips into eternal vigilance.
Craig MacDonald lives in Scotland, where he has worked as a hypnotherapist and computer consultant. He loves trying new and interesting things and meeting new people.
Charging into battle astride a fat, stubborn elephant had never been high on General Coriando’s list of Things To Accomplish In Life. As arrows whizzed past his ears, he lamented, “I could’ve been a baker, or a tailor! I could’ve joined the circus!”
The elephant was thinking the same thing.
“You and me, we’re flanking, right?”
“I thought we were the vanguard.”
“What’s a vanguard?”
“The guys at the front, I think.”
“Aren’t those the shock troopers?”
“Only if they’re charging ahead and catching the enemy by surprise.”
“Like a blitzkrieg?”
“These water fights have gotten really complicated.”
This story was based on the TypeTrigger prompt “and me.”
Their sheds and bunkers were overloaded with guns, ammo, rations, reactors, and even entertainment, everything they thought they needed. For five years they had readied themselves for the invaders’ arrival.
The one thing they hadn’t counted on was the aliens’ overwhelming cuteness.
Psychologically incapable of fighting back, they were overrun.
This story is based on a title suggested by David Paye.
“You are eighteen, Ahradok. Here is your sword. Come join the fighting men!”
“Father,” said Ahradok, “I wish to remain in the kitchens.”
“Son, men work with drawn swords, not wooden spoons.”
Ahradok honoured his father’s advice, but soon found that a sword is highly impractical for chopping and dicing.
“What are you up to?” muttered Wendel, eyes narrowed.
None of the fifty-seven fuzzy orange caterpillars inching across his driveway offered an explanation.
“I don’t trust you,” said Wendel. Then he stomped one, for emphasis.
Deep underground, the Caterpillar Council murmured grimly. Casualties had always been inevitable in this war.