In this new world, the colors carried their own sounds, the air tasted like gingersnaps, and birds tweeted the blues.
A gruff gnome told Philip, “You are the chosen one.”
Nancy from HR hovered above, frowning. “We know you’re on drugs. We have to let you go. Get some help.”
L.L. Madrid lives in Tucson with her four-year-old daughter, an antisocial cat, and the occasional scorpion. Her work can be found lurking in places like Flash Fiction Magazine, Dali’s Lovechild, Literary Orphans, and in shoe boxes under her bed.
I picked my son up.
As I drove home, I peered at him. He looked like my son but he smelled different, talked different, and his smile was so wrong.
As we sat at traffic lights, I received a text: Dad, where are you?
That was how the world ended.
Steve Coverdale is an Englishman living in Nova Scotia. He keeps trying to write short stories with a happy ending but keeps on getting dragged back to the dark side.
Helm in hand, the knight revealed himself. A dying man deserved to know the name of the adversary who’d bested him. He gripped the cold, spiraled hilt of his father’s blade.
The old man’s eyes widened, not because of the pain, but because of the ghost in front of him.
AC Baldwin wrote this story.
After the queen died of consumption, we smothered the old king in his sleep and condemned his son for the murder.
We then put in place to rule our territory the speechless blind prophet who always wore a crown of sparrows, their tiny talons tangled in his coarse filthy hair.
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”. Visit BobThurber.net
“Bring me his head!” yelled the Queen. So they packaged it up in paper and string and delivered it to her on a cracked white plate.
She unwrapped it with care, then asked for the body. At night she put him back together on her bed and watched him dream.
Mark Farley lives in Swindon, UK, dividing his time between web page development, opera singing, and occasionally using the Oxford comma. He blogs his random attempts at creative writing at mumbletoes.blogspot.co.uk
She stepped onto the abandoned platform. The breeze from a nearby train forced her tartan scarf to wrap around her icy neck. Reaching inside her pocket, she pulled out the tattered and torn ticket and held it loosely above her.
She closed her eyes and let the wind carry her.
Lisa Bird is a 12-year-old pupil at Longhill High School in Brighton, UK.
My friend Lisa is scared of mirrors. She heard that mirrors were gateways to evil, alternate worlds. She feared her evil self would pull her through, take her place and no one would ever know.
I hoped she would.
Lisa hadn’t noticed when I took her friend’s place, after all.
Robyn Smith is a young writer currently working on a series of novels while attending Charlottetown Rural High School.
The Kingdom of Lost Things hides away, as you’d expect. Its borders are shrouded in fog. Shifting, fluid.
Sentinels at its gate are Time and Place, the agents of loss. Their form fades and twists, mingling and separating, allowing through only the treasures desired by their rulers, the lost Kings.
Dean Marriner is a production director at a design company in Newcastle, UK. He spends his spare time drawing pictures on old books to create new artworks.
The girl stood in the garden, staring at the strange red flower growing from the white rosebush. As she reached to pick it, its petals uncurled into wings and two small black eyes stared back.
The creature took off and disappeared into a nearby rosebush.
She laughed and chased after.
Sophia Netterfield is a university student studying Psychology because brains are bizarre.
White petals came down with each gust of wind. Under the blossoming cherry we couldn’t tell if he was a pup or a boy. Pink. Squirmed in my palms.
My husband finished the hole. “Demon seed.” He gestured to throw him in.
By next spring my heart will stop hurting.
Dana Mazur teaches theater therapy and works on her second novel.