The smoke pushed towards our home. When orange glow appeared behind the hills, we filled the car with our favourite things.
I packed the photo albums, hesitated, then added the camera. We’d need it, I vowed. The fire could have the house, not our joy.
The happy snaps would continue.
G.B. Burgess wrote this while watching a bush fire inch ever closer to her home.
The photographer captured it all in high definition: the bride’s tumble down the aisle, the flower girl bawling through the service, the cake collapsing at first cut. No one had wanted a slice, anyway, after the groom’s wet sneeze.
If only I’d remembered to give the not-so-happy couple the horseshoe.
Rachael is an English teacher in Scotland.
She smiles, legs dangling carelessly from the roof. Blue eyes reflect an array of glittering galaxies.
Another speckle dots the black.
How I wonder
Her eyes widen, stomach tightening.
Hands clasp ears over the meteoric roars
Sirens. A mother’s horrified scream.
Fifteen-year-old Megan lives in Florida with her family and her cat named Luna Petra Zane. This is her first “plunge” into the realm of 50 word fiction.
The typhoon decimated the village.
Huts were razed to ground level; palm trees had snapped like matchsticks. Rotting corpses and flooding were giving rise to disease and more death. Post-disaster survival was paramount here.
Across the globe, a starlet with handbag Chihuahua was complaining about her caviar and lobster bisque.
Melanie Cranenburgh wrote this story.
Last drop of oil
Last chunk of coal
A healing earth
Cheap power for all
He climbed into his all-electric
Entered the coordinates to the Zero Carbon Celebration
Sat back for the ride
The first solar flare hit
And all hell broke lose
Paul Hock is from Fergus, Ontario, Canada, and is a writer of historical fiction. See more at paulhock.com
My girlfriend’s face is frozen. She’s squeezing my hand like a vise grip. The screeching gets worse. Passengers press call buttons, while flight attendants buzz around like bees willy-nilly, hovering over them. I look out the window. White. Everywhere.
The screeching is deafening, and now blue smoke fills the cabin.
Debbie L. Miller writes from Brooklyn, New York, where she writes short stories, plays, monologues, personal essays, memoir, flash fiction, feature articles, and humor pieces.
I approached the director from behind, apprehensively. I had ruined his play, injured one actor, and sent the crowd screaming from the theatre and the flames.
He sensed my approach and turned, his face a melting wax figure of tears and rage. “Son, he said, hands shaking, “that’s strike two.”
Jamie Murphy works for the Toronto Public Library.
Brad thought he might find tools or supplies in the old mine shaft. The last thing he expects is a cave in. Brad knows there are other exits miles away. After two long days Brad finds daylight.
Now if only he could get his ship fixed and get off Mars.
Denny E, Marshall had had art, poetry, and fiction published, including fiction in Black Petals #73, October 2015. See more at dennymarshall.com
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.
Martin had worked hard during the night. He had to deliver his work before 9:00.
It was 7:00, and his cartoon was finished.
He decided to have a coffee before submitting to the paper.
Suddenly, a black cat crossed beside him;
coffee spilled over his work;
the sky turned black.
Miguel Fernández is a cartoonist from Guadalajara, Spain.