The filament flares of our violet sun act like milestones of the day; less so, the red night sun that chases—it’s too weak to emit much of anything.
A lot like my father and I.
I wiped the knife. “You won’t call me your red son anymore, I suppose.”
E.O. figures that people on other worlds probably still have daddy issues and bad blood. But they also have space cars, e.g. a flying Maserati. And that’s pretty cool.
I was paid in old change. Ancient change. Gold drachmas engraved with ancient marks, no two alike.
Rubbing the coins between my fingers, the flakes of red stained my soft flesh. The stink of copper held fast as I washed away what I hoped was paint.
I can’t quit anymore.
Isaiah grew up in California and has been looking for any reason to become anything but a writer for as long as he can remember. Writing won’t pay the bills, but it sure is fun. He wishes he could name this story “Blood Money,” but his love of horror and puns probably shouldn’t mix.
“Would you like another?” she asked, her devilish eyes sparkling mischievously. A sickening smile was plastered on her face. A couple of broken hearts dripped in the palm of her hand.
She watched him slowly sip away his last heart beat, slowly tapping her blood red nails against her glass.
Allesha E. wrote this story.
Pulling barbed wire buried in the scrub,
it lightly flicked and nicked the skin.
Found the blueish pulse. Drew the brightest reds.
The colour and size of ladybirds.
And wiping in afterthought onto shirt cloth,
It darkened the sleeve while I carried on.
Alive for a moment, slowly becoming dirt.
Patrick Mc Loughlin is an English Language Teacher in Ireland and dabbles in writing. He also dabbles in painting and music and some day hopes to do more than dabble. He lives in the west of Ireland where it’s hard to concentrate.
Every night, Reginald tossed and turned in his bed, covering his ears with his pillow, but the slurping and sipping and smacking just wouldn’t stop.
He never said anything, though; the rent was too good to risk a conflict.
He eventually began to wonder about all the “Missing Pet” posters.
This story was based on a title suggested by @ugotpauld.
One shot is all it takes. He is dead.
Her blouse is wet with blood. Her cigarette rests between her swollen lips as she drags him through the dead leaves with a shovel in hand. She doesn’t cry until she drops his limp body in the hole.
His collar jingles.
Adam is a student at Rowan University and plans on graduating in December 2010. He is an avid writer, concentrating on contemporary adult fiction and concrete poetry. He is currently working on a collection of selected poems, revising and perfecting the prose. His website is adamgpoetry.tumblr.com.
Fleeing my prison, driven by the hunger, I found my victim. I struck. His blood flowed. The hunger was satiated, but then: panic.
The body was stuck on my tusks, and my flippers were too short to remove it.
The zookeepers apprehended me, ending the reign of Chumley, Vampire Walrus.
Josh Anderson is an amateur filmmaker and writer from Lubbock, Texas.
Our Hero stood resolute in the middle of the rain-soaked, corpse-littered asphalt.
They inched closer, exuding sinister inevitability, crushed, broken, bloated, wasting away, and hungry.
Our Hero calmly set a bowl of oatmeal on the ground, flavouring it with his own blood.
That should keep them. For now.
I asked, on Twitter, what I should write a fifty-word story about today. @dotsam wrote, “Saving the universe with a bowl of oatmeal.” @RacoonResidue wrote, “Zombie earth worms.”
With a bang, the door swung abruptly open.
She stood in the open doorway and said, “I’m home.”
He leaned against the wall. “I missed you.”
“I know,” she said. “But I didn’t miss you.”
“I know,” he said, clutching his heart as his handgun fell from his blood-soaked fingers.
It was raining.
I had spent years dreaming of and working towards that day. My creation was blood, sweat, and tears mingled with iron, wires, hope, and steam.
I had great plans for the technology I had built. I was all set to change the world.
But it was raining.