I see him. He’s large. Grey. Fat. His angry growls ripple slowly up his hairy neck, his ugly eyes glaring evilly at me.
But I’m not leaving here without a fight.
My sharp claws pierce the ground. I bare my teeth at him. Ginger fur rises above me.
I’m ready.
Issy Heath is a 13-year-old pupil at Longhill High School in Brighton, UK.
Carleton arrived at the office Christmas party sporting a black eye.
“How’d you get that shiner?” his boss asked.
“Boxing Day,” Carleton said.
“But that isn’t until the twenty-sixth and has nothing to do with fighting.”
“Tell that to the shopper who thought I’d blocked him from a doorbuster deal.”
John H. Dromey had a 725-word story, Hunger Gamesmanship, posted on the Stupefying Stories Showcase website on November 4, 2014.
Quiet ceased as the storm began. The rainfall drowned out the sounds of his footfalls as he rushed forward to his foe, knife in hand.
He slashed and tore. Wires dangled and lines leaked their fluids.
His job was done. This mechanical monster would not fell another tree.
For now.
Brandon Magruder wrote this story.
He brought her two slices of blackened toast, apricot preserves slathered on like burn salve.
“I made breakfast. Sorry about last night.”
“It smells terrible.”
“And sorry I can’t cook,” he said, perched on the edge of the bed like an uncertain sparrow.
She smiled.
They went out for pancakes.
Amy Locke received her BA in English from the University of Iowa. Her fiction has been published by monkeybicycle.net, bewilderingstories.com, and crackthespine.com. She currently lives in Iowa with her husband, daughter, and two silly dogs.
Dave expected her to acknowledge his fearless and effective confrontation of the dangerous street gang in the front yard. Praise, awe, even an exceptionally enthusiastic hug came to mind.
What came, though, was silence. No recognition. No accolades. No big hug. He didn’t understand.
Hadn’t he done as he should?
Rock Conner writes stories In Atlanta.
Out of cold blackness a hooded guy, kid maybe, waved a switchblade. “Gimme yer money, boy.”
“Got no money.” I dropped the newspaper bag and by dumb luck grappled the knife away. He got cut pretty good and ran off, howling.
I kept the knife and never saw him again.
Gary Clifton, forty years a cop has short fiction pieces published or pending on over twenty online sites.
Did you ever just stare up at the night sky? Jeez, it’s beautiful.
I wish my girl was here, I really do.
They were mouthing off, I told ’em to go to hell. Big mistake.
The stars are getting blurry.
I don’t wanna be found with tears in my eyes.
Simon is a voice over artist and short story writer based in London, England.
Jeff said it was a silly toy. It was a wooden gun from my halloween costume. I went as a pirate that year.
Jeff always laughed at me. He said the gun could do no damage. I was the one laughing when I hit him in the head with it.
John has interests that range from guitars to the Incredible Hulk. He was born and raised in St. Louis, Missouri and still lives there to this day. You can hear him on the weekly podcast at www.comicbookshowdown.com.
Mommy bought me a new pair of shoes. I am not allowed to get them dirty at all. New shoes are extra special, Mommy says.
A mean man stepped in a puddle and splashed my shoes today. I punched his face.
Mommy says faces are even specialer than new shoes.
This story was based on the prompt “new shoes” at TypeTrigger.
“When they open up that door, you’re gonna whop ’em on the knees with your shovel, okay, son?”
Little Harley nodded his freckled nose and gripped his shovel as tight as he could.
Jim leveled his shotgun. Wasn’t every year you got to do the surprising on your own birthday.
This story was based on the prompt “when they come” at TypeTrigger.