Sue Ella Brennen stood in front of her mother’s bathroom mirror. Green, glittery dust coated the counter. Globs of mascara below her eye.
Her mother walked into the bathroom. “Susie, what are you doing with my makeup?”
Sue Ella looked at herself in the mirror. “Mama, help me be pretty.”
Gretchen Gales wrote this story.
I asked my father what he’d miss most and he talked about the odors of men, and the fragrances of women, about the distinct aromas places held for the time you were in them — crowded rooms, vacant houses, city streets after a thunder shower, country roads during a heavy snow.
Over the years Bob Thurber’s work has received a long list of awards and prizes. His most recent book is a collection of brief stories titled “Nothing But Trouble.” His first novel, “Paperboy: A Dysfunctional Novel,” was recently rereleased. Visit BobThurber.net.
Afterwards they rose to meteors scribing violet and crimson arcs across the sky.
“Too beautiful,” she said.
“Near the end, when the halo ice burns, we’ll see fire falls.”
Later, she whispered, “We’re still fabulous together.”
“Never better,” he agreed.
Together, they watched the night become the incandescence of extinction.
Jack Kogut is a mostly professional engineer and mostly amateur scribbler of mostly fiction.
Surging waves rolled against that shore, as always.
Perhaps the cliffs had receded in places, wind-battered and rain-washed, but I knew them and they welcomed me. I stood on the edge, naked as my first day, arms spread wide, ready.
It was the sun on my face that stopped me.
Garth Pettersen is a Canadian writer living in the Fraser Valley near Vancouver, BC. To date he has written children’s stories, a YA novel, adult short stories, and an historical novel, and is currently working on a sequel. His short stories have been published in Queen Anne’s Revenge, Vol. I, and Wherever We Roam, an anthology of Canadian stories. In 2016 his stories will appear in anthologies published by Horrified Press and Main Street Rag Publishing. Read Garth’s blogs on writing at garthpettersen.com.
Her body was ideal: spotless skin, flawless features, and perfect proportions. She was never sad; she never worried. She never even frowned.
They all watched her, marveling. If only they could be in her shoes!
So they looked up at her, wide-eyed, as she stood motionless behind the glass display.
Bojan Ratković is a writer from Serbia, now living in Ontario, Canada. His work has appeared in Every Day Fiction, Liquid Imagination, Great Lakes Review, Fiction Vortex, and on the World SF Blog. He is pursuing a PhD in political philosophy from the University of Western Ontario. Follow him on Twitter.
To our naked eyes, millions of pinpoints prick the night skies. They dazzle, dangling from immeasurable heights. We do not understand them.
But when our hearts resonate with theirs, they are a wordless fire, larger and brighter than anything on Earth.
The stars do not reveal themselves; we seek them.
Rhol Abisan is a a coffeeholic; a Lover of Books; a fan of J.R.R Tolkien; a Musician; an Artist In His Own Way; Melancholic yet Hopeful; a Treasure Keeper; a Wanderer but not Lost; a Follower of Jesus Christ.
The rain beaded on the windshield and scattered the light from the full moon, mottling her face with dabs of gray like an impressionist painting.
I wanted to make love to her, but how could I? She is a work of art, a masterpiece to be venerated from a distance.
Alex Markovich gets his best story ideas in the middle of the night.
This stuff on the page would never mean anything to her. And history: names, places, dates… What was the point?
Glancing into a mirror, she saw snow-blonde hair, river-blue eyes, cute ramrod nose. Remembering other eyes, other glances, she knew that these fixed constants would circumscribe her entire life.
Ruby Ray has worked as a barmaid, cleaner, kitchen porter and gardener. After that she had a career in teaching. Now she wonders what will be next.
Smoky against sky blue. Sunset orange mingled with hint of passion fruit. Brushed shadows of cheekbone hills. Golden desert dust underneath it all. Skin, flawless.
It didn’t look anything like her. But that didn’t matter. She looked perfect, they said.
She just wished she could smile looking in the mirror.
Flying Squirrel is having some identity crisis issues. She was a turtle in her past life.
On the bank of a river
she’s never known
call her home.
with twisted limb,
branches of trust
sing a hymn.
the cypress’ knee.
Within the silence,
He whispers a plea.
His metered veins,
a thousand lost stories,
a thousand beautiful refrains.
Grace Black, just another writer wearing down lead and running out of ink, one line at a time. Coffee refuels her when sleep has not been kind. Check out her blog at graceblackwrites.wordpress.com.