I’ve been collecting things since I was very small. Conkers, feathers, snow globes. Then onto stamps, butterflies, coins.
It was only natural for me to progress to larger, more beautiful and precious things. Hard to find, harder to keep.
People demand their freedom in a way that stamps never did.
Charlie Swailes writes short and very short stories when not teaching English or looking after her two small boys.
Unseen eyes watched, sending a chill down my spine. Loathing enveloped me. What had I done to deserve this hatred?
My last thought before Lucifer sunk his claws into my back was that it would be a cold day in Hell before I agreed to feed the neighbor’s cat again.
Anita Roberts Soupir is a wife, mother, photographer & freelance writer. Her work can be seen in: Crack the Spine Literary Magazine and Mused – the BellaOnline Literary Review Magazine, as well as Boston Literary Magazine, Literary Juice, 50 Haikus, 50 Word Stories, and SpeckLit.
Guiding the knife carefully, he cut through skin, exposing the flesh beneath. Carving a chunk off, he popped it into his mouth.
The sweet juice of the mango washed over his taste buds; a bit of heaven.
At his feet, the bloody puddle expanded inexorably outwards while distant sirens screamed.
Bill Lives in Aberdeen, Scotland. His genius is only surpassed by his modesty, humility and ability to eat extraordinarily unhealthy amounts of fried food.
“It’s them again,” Luna hissed, grabbing Reznor’s upper arm.
He glared at the grotesque-styled ring-handle.
She scowled into his right ear.
He noticed because his peripheral vision was exceptional; the Sentry’s had to be.
“They’ll never get out!”
“Being damned breeds desperation.”
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.
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.
Thomas Summerson 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.