The eyes stared upwards. The blonde hair was caked with blood. The nose was cute even in death. The mouth held what proved to be a golf ball in a sock. The hands had typed a social security benefit disallowance.
“So where’s the rest of the body?” the detective wondered.
Irish writer Perry McDaid lives in Derry under the brooding brows of Donegal hills which he occasionally hikes in search of druidic inspiration. He even finds it on occasion.
Contrary Carl is the world’s most annoying housemate.
He opens the closets,
stands in the sitting room,
works in the playroom,
plays in the workshop,
parks on the driveway,
wears shorts in the pantry,
and keeps his mistress in the master bedroom.
So I locked him in the living room.
Mark Farley writes novels, flash fiction, and the occasional poem. See more at mumbletoes.blogspot.com.
The painter painted the world black. Black trees, black grass, black clouds, black tomatoes. Van Gogh-like brush-strokes, thick with sorrow, melted around us. Even little girls smiled with teeth black as watermelon seeds. Everything so biblical we ran to the river to wash away our sins in dark, inviting waters.
Jim Doss lives with his wife and three children in Sykesville, Maryland, and earns his living as a software engineer. He has previously published two books of poems: Learning to Talk Again, and What Remains. In partnership with Werner Schmitt, he also published a book of German translations entitled The Last Gold of Expired Stars: The Complete Poems of Georg Trakl 1908 – 1914. In his spare time, he is an editor for the Loch Raven Review.
The flip of a coin: win or lose. Three dilemmas to solve. Stay in the countryside or move to the city? She relocated. Stop in or go out? She went out. Coffee shop or wine bar? She found a coffee shop and met the person who would end her life.
Kathryn Evans was born in Wales, raised in Scotland, has an Irish grandfather, and lives in Plymouth, England. She studied genetics to PhD level. Her main passion is rock/indie music.
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.
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…