He set the bottle down at the door, grunting as his back popped. He wiped the troll blood off his sword, toed off his muddy boots, and shook leaves out of his hair. Satisfied, he picked up the bottle and entered.
“I’m home!” he shouted. “And I brought the milk!”
Anthony Lora is a serial and short fiction writer living in Orlando. Follow him on Twitter at @AnthonyLFiction and find a free set of his flash fiction on Patreon.
One of the strongest of his kind, Jude was one of only a few left. He had resorted to means of survival he’d never even considered centuries before.
But the humans weren’t the only race to ignore the dangers of climate change. Now the vampires were nearly out of food.
Chad Bunch writes speculative fiction from the suburbs of Saint Louis. He is going to publish a novel this year if it kills him! You can find some his other nonsense at diaryofmadness6719293.wordpress.com
Nell waits, anxious for sunset. Charred towers silhouette against orange sky. Rusted leaves line her runway.
Burning equinox rays make the castle briefly whole; she prays this time she’ll make it through the door.
Her fiancé waits inside. They’re both still twenty-six years old, though it’s been a hundred years.
Cathy is a UK-based writer who has loved words for as long as she can remember. You’ll find her scribbling in a notebook. You can read more of her work at cacharlton.com or on Twitter at @cathyannewrites.
The sounds of the forest dull around me. My eyes no longer focus in this gloom, making me squint and blink. Separated from my pack, cursed to walk on two legs.
In the ditch water a pink, hairless face, flat and round, stares back.
One bite was all it took.
Tracy Fells has over 85 stories published in online and print journals. She won the 2017 Commonwealth Short Story Prize for Canada and Europe. Tracy tweets as @theliterarypig and is seeking a publisher for her short story collection.
As the clock struck midnight, ushering in my fiftieth birthday, the friends I’d been playing D&D with since middle school learned I was no longer the same person.
To be fair, one of them wasn’t surprised. I absorbed him first, while the others thought we were still playing a game.
“Slide inside the crocodile carcasses,” the elders said. Bellies in mud, we slid through the werewolf fields; we moved inches as they sniffed, let us be. The wolves were entranced.
We stole their young; took them home to our pots. We ate. We danced.
Someday mankind will rule this world.
Steve Sibra grew up on a farm in eastern Montana. His work has appeared in numerous literary journals over the years including Matador Review, Shattered Wig, Jellyfish Review, and Gravel. He features frequently in the Seattle area and has read at Capitol Hill Art Walk, Lit Crawl and It’s About Time reading series. He is a participant in May 2019 at Poetry Brunch in downtown Seattle.
You cut your heart into the shape of a rose and fill your chest with acorns. We eat the rose with some chianti on your birthday.
Afterward, you say this is the best birthday you’ve ever had and stuff your mouth with cake as squirrels braid your hair for winter.
Erik Fuhrer is the author of Not Human Enough for the Census, forthcoming from Vegetarian Alcoholic Press. His work has been published in Cleaver, BlazeVox, Softblow, and various other venues. See more at erik-fuhrer.com.
Nothing would stop the Spartan Soldier from delivering the message.
Parched, hungry, weak after days of trudging through the vastness of the desert, he reached the prison.
Moans. The shackled, defeated, would not look up as he freely needled through.
He froze. He saw himself,
chained to a wheel.
Olympia is a wannabe pet owner and a student studying directing and producing TV. See more at olympia-christofinis.com.
“Where were you on the evening in question?”
Robert stared at the officer. He’d been in his car, waiting and dreaming. He’d been a musician giving a concert in Naples, a mechanic fixing engines in the Sahara, and Superman taking a short trip to Mars.
“I was everywhere,” he replied.
Patrick Mc Loughlin is an English Language Teacher in Ireland who dabbles in writing. He also dabbles in painting and music and someday hopes to do more than dabble. He lives in the west of Ireland, where it’s hard to concentrate.
Father flattens old photos, my boyhood hair white as snow.
He looks at my dark head, asks again if I color it. All my friends have been gray for years.
I consider the truth: I’m expelling inner darkness that beckons demons. It exits through my hair.
“No, Dad. It’s natural.”
Jeff Stone has published several short stories and many poems. He has three novels in various stages of completion and loves learning too much for his own good. Albert Camus said fiction is the lie through which we tell the truth. Dark Hair is a short piece of fiction that resides somewhere in between.