After months of messages, my time was running out. Soon she’d know the photos were fake, my story someone else’s.
I emailed her from another phony account, my brother’s. Carl’s dead, I wrote. I’m here if you need me.
She responded quickly, devastated yet eager. I had my second chance.
Anna Sanderson is a writer from Nottingham, England, who writes about the world as she sees it. Her work can be found online and in numerous zines and anthologies. Follow her on Twitter at @annasanderson86.
Beneath the majestic Tora Bora Mountains he pulled the trigger, then trailed his quarry into a nearby cave. He leaned over and peered into the man’s dying eyes, and was startled when the Arab’s bloody hand rose slowly and gently touched his cheek.
He decided this was his last kill.
Henry F. Tonn is a soon-to-be-retired psychologist who once wrote an excellent novel about a woman with multiple personality disorder who became a serial killer. It had all the qualities that the reading public would presumably like. He webs at henrytonn.com
Normally she’s safe in her hutch, munching carrots, but today there’s only a swinging cage door and tufts of fur snagged on the wire. He hopes the fox granted her a quick death.
At the evening meal, he prays for her soul while his mother smirks and serves the stew.
Mark Farley is attempting to write 1,000,000 words in 2016. Please wish him luck! See more at mumbletoes.blogspot.com.
The guillotine guys handed out silk neckties and scarfs to the men and jeweled necklaces to the women. These items had belonged to previous prisoners. To the families they sold Band-Aids and iodine, steel needles and surgical thread, all in a boxed set with a pamphlet full of bad advice.
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” will be rereleased in May 2016. Visit BobThurber.net.
The silent group arrives at sunrise. A lone man herds the boys before him, his eyes the only ones unscarred.
Begging bowls are distributed before seating positions are allocated.
They listen for the sound of his footsteps, for that is what they heard the night he burned away their sight.
Mark Farley is currently writing a fifty-word bio but is just about to finish. He lives and works in the UK but misses the African sunshine of his childhood. He is working on a novel narrated by a sarcastic dragon and blogs his random attempts at creative writing at mumbletoes.blogspot.co.uk.
The caveman watched his son with pity. The boy sat cross legged, smiling vacantly at the night sky. He should have drowned him. Theirs was no life for the weak.
The boy glanced at his father with pity. How could he begin to comprehend the infinite totality of their existence?
Chris Redfern likes writing and wronging. Follow his adventures at aatwatchtower.com.
I clutch the pink note in my sweaty hand.
My heart beats furiously.
The room smells like chalk.
“Welcome, Dads!” is written on a big blue banner.
The cruel children laugh at my shoes while I hand over the note.
It reads, “Dear Ms. Wheatley, Elena’s father died last year.”
This story was submitted by Elena Agnello.