When the dreaded thing happened, a strange feeling of calm came over her. Yes, they might put her in ICU, surrounded by beeping machines and strangers in hazmat suits. She might end up on a ventilator. Or, worse, she might not.
But she would no longer be completely, utterly alone.
Donald A. Ranard’s writing has appeared in The Atlantic, Every Day Fiction, Flash Fiction Magazine, 100 Word Story, The Washington Post, The Boston Globe, and elsewhere.
I escaped his slithering hands and bolted into the night. Johnny’s malty breath followed me before giving up with a cuss; he was always skittish about the marshes.
Crouching among the reeds, a frog startled me. I clasped him in my fingers, took a breath, and kissed him.
Nicholas Katsanis lives in Chicago and writes magical realism and absurdist fiction. He is currently editing his debut novel. Follow him on Twitter at @NicholasKatsan1.
I thought he needed my touch.
He looked empty.
My hand’s warmth could provide him respite.
But that wasn’t allowed.
I could offer only a smile and wave from across the room.
He nodded, resignation wrapped with tedium.
Latex gloves announced despair, their blue color an exclamation on our lives.
Jill has been writing since childhood. She believes well-turned phrases can connect emotions and people. She’s published academic work, but her main passion is fiction.
The word hung in the air like a noxious gas, choking me.
Its consonants clattered and hissed, drowning out the rest of the doctor’s words. It cast a veil of freezing fog around me.
It hoisted me onto the ceiling, above my body. Just the word and me, floating.
Natalie is a Clinical Psychologist and aspiring writer in Wales, UK.
After the woman with the coronavirus symptoms departed, Matt Febrezed his desk and—popping an antibiotic from an old prescription—returned to writing his email to his niece Laura, about how nothing she studied in college was going to be of any help out here, not in the real world.
Graham Robert Scott’s stories have appeared in Pulp Literature, Barrelhouse, and Nature. See more at hemicyon.wordpress.com.
Should I reach out and take her hand? Will she shake it off? Can I pretend we just touched accidentally? That would be tough. Do I look at her when I take hold or do I pretend like it’s nothing? Tight squeeze or loose?
What if she holds mine back?
Richard Baigent has always wanted to write and has just started.
Raucous caws, black silhouettes against gray clouds circling without formation, guided by sky-touching spires of firs.
She remembers last year’s ravaged corn. She remembers “The Birds.” They are powerful, smart, and numerous. They inspire primal fear, admiration, and covetous love.
They arise from more vigorous and ancient stock than she.
Becky Kjelstrom adores all winged thingies, real and imaginary. See more at thenighmail.com.
Temperatures rose, sea level too.
Melting glaciers flooded more land.
Some struggled to reduce emissions.
Others shrugged, undaunted by growing evidence
Of fires, floods, and environmental chaos.
Politicians dithered, totally impotent.
Humanity stood staring at the abyss,
Desperate for saviours, but none appeared.
Look to yourselves, a tiny voice said.
Alan Kemister is a retired scientist experimenting with more fictitious writing. He’s currently working on a climate change novel. Get the gory details at alankemisterauthor.wordpress.com.
“Daddy loves you,” I say, placing my daughter in her crib with a fresh diaper.
I notice the crease in each elbow as she shakes her toy at me and laughs.
If I don’t survive the surgery tomorrow, I pray that I can take this memory with me.
Seth Pilevsky lives in New York with his wife and five kids, trying to tuck away those precious moments for a rainy day. His work has been published in the Long Island Literary Journal, Literally Stories, Memoir Magazine, Stinkwave’s Magazine and in the YA anthology What Doesn’t Kill You. Sign up for blog updates at spilevsky.com.
Standing by the open doorway, she heard the floor creak behind her.
Too afraid to move, she tried pushing her eyes far enough to see the mirror in her peripherals.
A warm breath caressed her neck. Her pupils widened and her eyes filled with tears.
“Found you,” whispered no reflection.
James started writing at a young age as a means of escaping reality. Now his goal is to redefine the psychological and horror genres.