Grandpa was terminal. My flight was tomorrow, the tickets were booked; I had delayed telling him until now.
He looked at me, but his gaze spanned a thousand miles. Then he smiled, smoothing wrinkled cheeks and pulling ridged scars taut across his jaw.
“…Long time since I been to Texas…”
It’s been two years, three months, and nineteen days since Guy was in Texas. This is his fifteenth 50-word story.
Standing on the footpath the cyclist had just been removed from, small pools of blood seeping brown into the asphalt, he noticed tiny red specks on his suede shoes. He heard another onlooker say something like, “Holy, this is horrific.”
He nodded his agreement; he’d bought the shoes in Florence.
Chris Connolly wrote this story.
Rounds chambered. Safeties off.
We face the wall.
No one’s innocent. Still, one looks twelve, another an old padre… Their stares tear through the blindfolds.
Our weapons rise. I glance at a fellow corporal. He looks away.
Wars are messy, but I didn’t expect to shoot—
Joey thinks he’ll probably be the one to be lined up against the wall when the time comes… Meanwhile, you can visit him at joeytoey.com.
If she had known,
she might have answered her telephone,
let the dog out one more time,
refilled his bowl.
She would’ve worn a newer nightgown.
As it was,
she was just so
tired, so bone-heavy
She turned on the television,
crawled beneath her comforter, took
Jennifer L. Freed writes mostly poetry, and occasionally some micro fiction. Other work can be seen at jfreed.weebly.com.
After the World Science and Ethics Commission (the W.S.E.C.) discovered the answers for the annoyances of old age, disease, war, and famine, the population—over time—grew beyond humanity’s control.
I smiled broadly at the prospect of coming out of retirement, unpacking my black hooded cloak, and sharpening my scythe…
J.D. Lone Bear wrote this story.
From his chair, he watches the cellar door. His hands folded patiently along his lap, each knuckle stiff and cold. Eyes glazed over, witless.
The door hasn’t opened for three days. Only the smell has made the ascent. Fetid bloat, sweet with decay. Ripening, ever since he died down there.
Kyle Cortright is from eastern Pennsylvania. He is a pretty rad dude.
My love lies with her head on a silken pillow, hair brushed, hands gracefully over one another. Not at all like she used to sleep, one arm over her face, the other across my chest.
Her favorite dress stretches taut across her belly; another love, forever entombed inside the other.
Alexandra Keister is an executive assistant and writer hungry for success, and on most days a good maple bar.
It’s hard understanding what a child feels about losing a loved one. She’d waited by the window for days, watching the racing rain droplets.
Now, the first beautiful day since it happened. Blue suburban sky, bright sunshine.
She smiled as she looked up, seeing the criss-crossing of aeroplanes’ vapour trails.
Jon is from the North West of England and works in local government, but has a background in Newspaper Journalism. He is currently enjoying writing for fun and experimenting with short written forms.
Eddie was dead. All completely dead.
The coroner signed the papers.
Only seven people heard the preacher’s words, six hired pall-bearers and a homeless guy looking for a cup of coffee.
The workers buried the box.
Some say Eddie died too soon. Truth is, Eddie never lived, only died.
John Fowler served twenty years in the US Air Force before retiring and starting a second career in the IT field. He is also a Lay Pastor serving a small church near his home in Texas. His hobbies include reading, golfing, and writing.
Spotlights irradiated the skeletal forms striding down the catwalk. His calciferous teeth gritted.
One donned a polyester coat. Too short. Insufficiently dark.
Another wore a black bikini. Ribcage was barely covered.
He swept out, his thick cloak fluttering, the scythe in his ossifying grip. At least nuclear war was approaching.
Joey tries to write a little. You can find him and abuse him at joeytoey.com