Heading south through the ruins, I startle three deer. Their barks echo through the concrete canyons as they run.
I see ever more plants breaking through the tarmac; a green infection. I pause to watch the sunrise. The morning light has a golden quality.
Manhattan has never looked so lovely.
Bill lives in Aberdeen Scotland. He is considered a pioneer in the art of slacking off by many, but he can’t be bothered seeking accreditation.
“With one formula, we’ve reached singularity. Those black skies will be mapped; endless mysteries will become facts.”
That was the pitch, anyway. Now, standing on this… living satellite, I shiver despite the heat.
Overcome by hostile hosts, it dawns. Now that we live faster than light,
so too we die.
James P. Spitznogle is an aspiring writer from the star-scraping hills of West Virginia.
The elephant in the living room
led us to the skeletons in the closets
so we overturned the rug
finding all the things you’d swept there
and in the backyard
beneath a bed of twisted thorns
from which a single rose had bloomed
we dug up every truth you’d buried
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,” was recently rereleased. Visit BobThurber.net.
Call comes when he’s twelve stepping, dancing through a scripted apology delivered with unwavering nerve.
Voice spins me back: to the safe house, emergency room, places and events I’ve done a fine job forgetting.
Dropped receiver bounces on twisted cord, and I’m left frozen, knowing he knows where I am.
Lee DeAmali has a land line she never answers and an outgoing message that gives nothing away.
It had been preserved for ages, licked and leathered into the sediment. They flexed their nimble digits and unscrewed the module, marveled at its state of preservation, and they hinged their necks for a closer look.
It had actual skin. They felt dirty, ashamed.
They dimmed the lights, and processed.
John M. Bellinger is the former Managing Editor (2006-2009) and a current staff editor of The Comstock Review. He has been published in The Comstock Review, Blue Unicorn, and Ekphrasis. He also has upcoming work in Cottonwood, America Magazine, and One-Sentence Poems.
I watched, awestruck, as my baby daughter’s chubby little fingers slid across the surface of my smartphone. Roads and landscapes shifted beneath her touch. She pinched, and the map zoomed out.
A photo of my husband drifted past, betraying his GPS position.
Wait… That’s not the location of his conference.
Karen doesn’t claim to be Wonder Woman, simply a wife, mother, writer and roller girl, in addition to a day job as an Electronic Design Engineer. You’re invited to draw your own conclusions. Her debut release, an eBook titled “Trapping Honey’, is available now. See more at karenpomerantz.uk
He called me at work. “The house is flooding!” he said, then laughed.
I rushed home, panicking. He was wading knee-deep through black sludge in the living room. “It’s crude oil!” he said. “It’s coming in through the bathtub! We’re rich!”
In retrospect, I shouldn’t have lit that celebratory cigarette.
This story was based on the prompt “it’s crude” at TypeTrigger.