Newsflash: the plane has crashed; no survivors.
Gradually it dawned on her. Twenty years of tension, arguments, entrapment: over.
If he was dead, she was free!
Tears of relief welled up. Sweet release.
The front door opened. “Thank God I missed that plane!” he said, brushing away her tears.
Joan is an educator in Australia.
In the shadow of a lesser mountain under thick pine camouflage by pond of melted snow, I sleep, impervious to the calls of well-meaning search parties, content to finally feel free, at home, exhausted from trial and error improvisations, making good, making up for time spent so wildly off course.
Lee DeAmali resides in the Los Angeles area.
Cool grasses cradle my back. Fireflies flicker. I inhale the sweet, damp air, at peace for the first time in five years, three months, and nineteen days.
I could lay here beneath the black sky for eternity. Instead, I rise and kiss my husband’s tombstone before slipping into the shadows.
Mandie Hines writes in the Rocky Mountain region. She’s driven to create pieces of fiction that capture moments of human vulnerability. Visit mandiehines.com for more.
She is a dancer, twisting her lithe grey body through the air as rivulets of water streak along her slender flanks.
At the peak of her flying pirouette, she can just make out the other dolphins playing in the distance.
Then her vision falls behind the stalls.
The audience applauds.
Jordan is a twenty-something writer and MA student from Telford. He has lots of aspirations, half hobbies, and musical instruments, but not enough time. If you like this, why not check out his blog
A cockatoo gnaws at the twisted wire holding his cage shut. Upstairs, humans hurl insults and furniture. Again.
These bars, their anger: a prison within a prison. Enough.
Snap! A puff of feathers, an open window. The sky, foreign but irresistible, challenges his wings to embrace a new, dangerous freedom.
After chasing his muse from Virginia to Manhattan, Richard Day Gore settled in Southern California, where he spends his time pushing around words, paint brushes, and guitar strings. See more at richarddaygore.com
“How much?” the hairdresser asked. Delilah remembered how Sam would run his fingers through her hair. Never cut it, he’d say.
When it was done, Delilah smiled at how strong she looked. As she walked outside, cool air caressed her nape. The world breathed as if for the first time.
Kristen VanBlargan lives in Queens, New York. Her fiction has appeared in Timeless Tales, and she blogs at kristenvanb.wordpress.com.
His fork clatters against the plate. He lets out a choking sound, then grabs my arm. His fingers dig in too hard. More bruises to add to my collection.
Ever so slowly, I raise my darkened eyes to his. Panic keeps him from speaking, and I smile.
I am safe.
Growing up, D.C. Menard was always fascinated by the strange and fantastic. She spent her days lost in the worlds of her favourite authors. Her greatest hope is to create worlds that her readers can get lost in.
The chauffeur dropped Lila off by the barbershop with the twirling pole, next to Daddy’s law office. Her lunch money was still in her pocket.
She hated her long chestnut hair, the tangles, the velvet hairbands from Grandmother.
Mama would scream.
Lila went inside. She gave the barber her money.
Megan Abrahams is a Los Angeles-based writer / art critic and artist. A contributing writer for Art Ltd. Magazine, ArtPulse Magazine, Fabrik Magazine, LOST WKND and WhiteHot Magazine of Contemporary Art, she is currently writing her first novel. Sporadic updates appear on her blog.
They drank coffee together every day of their marriage. It had always been a part of their routine. Like the evening shows. Like the dinner parties. Like the slaps to the face when she got out of line.
She looked across the table to his chair, empty now, and smiled.
Melissa is a writer, teacher, and dog lover in the Middle of Nowhere, Michigan.
He watched the ladybird crawl up the blade of grass. He pitied the beetle, its perspective confined to the soil; its miserable existence regulated by the basic needs to eat, defecate, and reproduce; its life dependent on the man’s whim.
He did not envy the ladybird… until it flew away.
Francisco Tutella’s fiction and poetry reflect his experiences growing up in northeastern Pennsylvania and his time spent studying and traveling in Italy. He has written for Wilkes magazine, and his poetry was included in the Luzerne County Transportation Authority’s 2014 Poetry In Transit program. He holds a Master of Fine Arts in Creative Writing from Wilkes University and teaches composition and literature in northeastern Pennsylvania.