“You mustn’t play in the fields between worlds,” she warned. “One false step, and whoosh! The muddy abyss’ll swallow you up.”
The children are gone, now. All that remains are the scars in the soil where they fell: a dark, infinite wasteland of holes.
Down here, we call them stars.
David-Christopher Harris published the YA fantasy short story, “Falselight”, available at dcharriswriting.com. He enjoys cranberry juice.
Navin brought the dragon to his lips and kissed her tiny nose. “It’s time,” he said.
The dragon nodded, unfolded her shimmering wings and launched. In ever widening circles, she exhaled over the frigid land.
Navin smiled as banks of white capitulated to a triumph of green and riotous color.
Mary Haynes splits her time between sailing in Florida and dirt-dwelling in Burlington, ON. She is currently writing short stories and plays.
Snaking roots snare your ankles pulling you under the mud. You grab hold of an overhanging branch and scream. More roots wrap over you and drag you deeper, down towards the underworld. You look to me, begging for help.
My hands fumble as I notch an arrow to my bow.
David Rae wrote this story. See more at davidrae-stories.com.
Emily knitted dreams into every row on the socks she made for her son Frank. Thoughts far away on palm-laced shores, she knitted and purled from toe to heel, ribbed a cuff of tropical sunsets.
Frank complained they made his feet itch.
He runs a bar in the Bahamas now.
Karla Dearsley’s stories, flash fiction, and poetry have appeared online and in print on both sides of the Atlantic. Her fantasy novels are available on Amazon and Smashwords. Find out more at ksdearsley.com
Wayward Willie was warned—woods were worrisome.
Wayward Willie walks woodward, whistling.
Werewolf wanders, weary.
Werewolf whiffs, wonders. “Whistling wimp, walking woodward? Wonderful!”
Werewolf wallops wayward Willie. Willie whimpers.
Werewolf Willie wakes.
Werewolf Willie whiffs.
Werewolf wanders, weary.
Werewolf Willie wanders, whistling, wayward.
Maura Yzmore’s day job involves quantum mechanics, dry-erase markers, and bad puns. She lives with her family in the American Midwest. Maura’s short fiction has appeared or is forthcoming in The Fiction Pool, Storyland, Microfiction Monday Magazine, The Dirty Pool, and 50-Word Stories. See more at maurayzmore.com
Her palate was broader than her father’s. On her thirteenth birthday she ate the entire cake. But she’d still not spoken. Too much sky up here?
I led her to the nearest cave and she clattered inside with a thunderous, visceral bellow. I feared it was the sound of hope.
Tamsin and Mark Farley decided to write sequels to each other’s most recent 50-word stories. This is a sequel to Fostering the Minotaur’s Daughter
to the ocean,
in vine leaves,
and throws one
from the water –
in the sun.
but all she needs
is his kiss.
writes novels, flash fiction and the occasional poem.
Every night on a crag a half-day’s climb above the foothills, a crooked little man dances by a campfire, whispering “Guess my name,” and the echo carries across fields and valleys, streaming into the dreams of children, who grow to believe they’ll someday be able to spin straw into gold.
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.
In the morning fog, the ocean bleeds into the sky like a watercolor painting. Below, Daeidra walks the sandy shore alone. She has forbidden me to accompany her.
A solitary tear trickles down my cheek as I watch her embrace the waves and dissolve into a spray of sea foam.
Devon R. Widmer is a grumpy graduate student by day, a scribbling daydreamer by night, and a sleep-deprived parent full-time.
My greatest loves have all been in my head.
Safe from failure, I dive into passion; into romance; into perfection. I know things will go as I plan; I am planning them all.
Sometimes I wake from these daydreams, longing for them—struggling to remember their lips are not mine.
Rebecca Milton is a writer from London, England who was once described as “cute like a polar bear sliding down a rainbow”. Coincidentally, that has always been her aspiration in life.