He walked to the exit escorted by his plaintiffs; those to whom he had entreated. He beheld the brilliant sun. He walked toward the stairs, then climbed beyond; a shroud now covered his head. The floor fell away, he plunged, and his neck snapped. His soul beheld the black sun.
Paul H. Yarbrough is a novelist, short story author and free lance writer of political and social topics. He lives in Houston, Texas. His third novel is coming out later this year. See more at paulhyarbrough.com
Margaret understood what was expected of her. She had been raised properly and was skilled in etiquette, poise, and all things ladylike and mature.
However, there was a certain satisfaction in watching the knife plunge repeatedly into the body of yet another lifeless, unappealing, and unsympathetic excuse for a turkey.
Hillary hopes you enjoy your holidays despite whatever sinister fantasy may surface.
Inflation hit everybody hard, Santa included.
Carrot prices had skyrocketed, and hungry reindeer could hardly pull a sleigh.
Santa emptied his sack into the reindeer pen, ignoring the crunch of tooth on bone. Rudolph emerged, snout matted with fresh, red blood.
Freddy’s bad behaviour would never be a problem again.
Guy is twenty-four years old, and still afraid of being on Santa’s naughty list. This is his sixth 50-word story.
The eagle danced upon the high current. Powerful muscles soared through the leaden cloud. Ocean-drenched rocks loomed closer. The wind gained momentum, whistling through mountain peaks, down to the battered shore.
Swooping upon broken rigging, his golden talons clutched ruined wood. He perched, waiting on the spoils of the shipwreck.
is a dark romance writer and author of the Ravens Deep Trilogy. Her fourth book is soon to be published. Jane lives in Sarasota, Florida.
The magic was long gone and left pesky murmurs, wretched smiles behind.
Before consulting a psychologist, I decided to cook dinner for us. We sat on the table; she examined the meat vigilantly.
“It’s the left ventricle of my heart,” I explained. “Or at least, whatever is left of it.”
George S. Karagiannis
is an aspiring science fiction author whose love for writing never decays.
You’d think you’d be able to tell when her demons are emerging, when
her hair covers her face and her sleeves are pulled right down to her
You should be able to tell by the look in her eyes, but oh, honey, she
learned that trick years ago.
Mykala Constable is a high school student who has a bit of an obsession with the darker side of writing.
The silence was deafening. The icy water made his lungs burn and the pressure became unbearable. He knew he was dying. He would soon be dead.
“Strange,” he thought as the world slowly turned black. “I’m almost dead and the fact that I left the oven on still bothers me.”
Ryan is a student at Coventry University currently studying English and Creative Writing. His hobbies include being the greatest musician to have ever lived, winning the Nobel Prize seventeen times, and being the first man to go to Mars (without a rocket). Oh, and he’s humble, too…
It’s midnight and I still can’t sleep. I imagine lying down beside you, your arms around me. You slowly lull me to sleep, making me smile all the while. But in the end, it’s just an imagination. You’re still ten feet below me, sharing an eternal embrace with your mistress.
Le-an Lai Lacaba is an eighteen-year-old girl from Tacloban City, growing up in between everyone pressuring her to grownup and wanting to be a kid. She fills her blog, Imperfect is Beautiful, with her poems and short stories. Le-an has won multiple essay-writing contests in both local and regional competitions. She is studying for a B.A. in Communication Arts at the University of the Philippines, and struggling to become the writer she dreams of being.
Of course it was not a sensible thing to do. To switch or not to switch, that was the question.
Horatio’s successful twin brother suffered from dementia. Heartlessly watching his brother’s decay, Horatio wished he could be pampered, fed, lullabied and tucked in bed.
Just for a day. Or two.
Read more of Melanie Taylor’s writing at melanietaylorherrera.wordpress.com.
It was handwritten, the song on her son’s unmade bed. The lyrics flowed. There were verses, a chorus, and guitar chords.
She googled snippets. No matches. She was amazed and impressed. He was only thirteen.
It began with ‘Save me’ and ended – well, it ended.
She was scared, so scared.
Anmari lives in Sydney. She writes more in her head than makes it onto paper. She is scared of what might come out, but is taking small steps and getting braver every day.