Folks at church think it be a sin just to pause by the basement doorway where that type music flowed raw. Our hymns was crumbs compared. But I took me a sip of saxophone, a gulp of jazz piano, and drank myself to heaven. Was blind but now I see.
Beverly C. Lucey prefers to write short pieces because she is always getting interrupted. Her work has been published online and in anthologies.
Bring me all the pretty things that forgot to develop a personality.
Bring them to me and I will build myself an army.
They will hover over the masses,
and whisper like sirens in the night:
This is what you want to be.
You’ll never be good enough.
Matilda Harjunpää has a complicated relationship with social media.
He was lost in thought again. Someone took over his mind, someone with a heart able to enjoy every single moment as if everything was special.
He stared at her and she smiled back happily, unaware of her own uniqueness. That ignorance, he pondered, was also part of her beauty.
José Jaime is from Spain and is studying at university.
We stared at the sky through broken roof and windows as blue turned to swirling black and back again. The rain would rage, water weeping down walls, filling shoes.
Between each downpour, a run for it would be discussed, but always the storm was back before we dared the attempt.
Michelle Podsiedlik blogs at michellepodsiedlik.wordpress.com
and won’t be offended if you can’t pronounce her last name.
I stayed up all night. The stars kept their promise. I thought all I could think, and yet I could think of nothing except how I was deeply changed, as the light of the slowly rising sun subtly transformed the blindness of the dark horizon into something more than morning.
Todd is an amateur Writer and Poet, and an aspiring Artist; he often times finds himself awake in the wee hours, hoping for some sort of inspiration.
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.