Jars of lights filled the Big Top. Hanging from the ceiling, they were an illusion in themselves: no wires, no batteries.
The noise from the Ringmaster was too loud; no one heard the knocking.
If anyone looked closer—as close as they could—they’d see small, tearful faces peering down.
Ellie is a twenty-year-old student who still believes in magic.
The silent group arrives at sunrise. A lone man herds the boys before him, his eyes the only ones unscarred.
Begging bowls are distributed before seating positions are allocated.
They listen for the sound of his footsteps, for that is what they heard the night he burned away their sight.
Mark Farley is currently writing a fifty-word bio but is just about to finish. He lives and works in the UK but misses the African sunshine of his childhood. He is working on a novel narrated by a sarcastic dragon and blogs his random attempts at creative writing at mumbletoes.blogspot.co.uk.
Blood worked in refining the ritual: I stopped aging!
However, I repent these sins.
Now the only life I take is my own, ensuring the ceremony dies with me. One virtuous short life is worth a hundred long lives of evil.
Goodbye, world I have known longer than anyone else.
Fr. Kevin Pentalow is an Orthodox Catholic priest and a published writer and poet. He contributes many articles to local papers, international blogs, and magazines. Through his writing he won the NPR short fiction award of 2002, among other accolades. Reverend Pentalow is also a high-level Scottish rite freemason and has written extensively for masonic publications. He is also a well-respected icon painter, a musician, known for his diverse music projects.
I saw her today and I knew what she was immediately. After some hours of watching her pickpocket unwary airport travelers, I want to meet her and know her.
No one here knows that I’m a predator of a much more dangerous kind, and neither does she as I approach.
is a daydreamer and storyteller. He writes every day, as work and family life allows, of course. He dreams and labors toward the day when he can leave the day job behind and write full time. “Twenty years of schoolin’ and they put ya on the day shift.” It’s true Bob, it’s so true.
This shirt, this wonderful, beautiful shirt, has magic powers; its wearer, they say, will always gain his heart’s desires.
They also say that it’s invisible to those with evil in their hearts, but that doesn’t bother me at all. I don’t need to see it to know that it’s working.
One day an evil wizard turned a lizard into a goat. “I am the evilest of wizards!” he said. Then the goat kicked him. He turned it back into a lizard so it couldn’t kick him again. Then the real evilest wizard sued him for misusing the Evilest Wizard trademark.
“You fool of a henchman!” cried the criminal overlord, with a mighty sneeze. “I’m allergic to cats!”
“But he’s such an itty bitty pretty kitty, isn’t he? Such a cutesy snootsy bittle snookums…”
“You fool!” cried the criminal overlord, with a mighty cough. “I’m even more allergic to lovey-dovey gibberish!”
King Rigel watched as the ship drew out of sight.
The officials on board believed themselves bound for the Outer Lands. But the King knew: when the ship passed the base on Vallanger, the royal navy would completely destroy them.
Rigel sat back on his throne. He loved being evil.
Stephen Pester is a student from London with a completely unremarkable life which therefore leaves him stuck to find two sentences to write about myself. He guesses this counts.