Three million years entering R.E.M. A dreamy rendezvous with a handsome-beaked mollusk. Wasted.
She half-awoke fully enraged. Fleshy apes. Again. Transmitting waves embedded with trains, rockets, and cream pies. Again.
She hit the snooze, propelling an asteroid toward Earth.
She hoped, vainly, to rejoin the mollusk before waking for work.
boomer trujillo knows it’s not Mondays; it’s really any day without the automated, communist utopia from Star Trek. Check out more of his stuff at boomert.info.
Twinkly blue eyes, shiny brown hair and a Hollywood smile… Swoon.
Flowers, hearts, teddies and chocolates strewn all around.
“Be my Valentine” proudly displayed.
How are you today, he asks?
Our eyes meet as he announces for all to hear: “Price check on lasagna for one.”
Lynn Cliff wrote this story.
No one at the reception was more surprised they’d survived 25 years together than the couple themselves, Mr. and Mrs. Frank (“I should’ve married your sister. She had all the looks”) and Cindi (“And smarts enough not to marry you”) MacIntyre, except for maybe Fr. Steve (“One year, tops”) Rodriguez.
Tony Jasnowski teaches at Bellevue University and has been happily married for 33 years.
They came in solidarity: wide nostrils, narrow nostrils, dark-brown to albino-white, humongous, miniscule, deviated septums; stuffy and clear.
Seven billion gathered at the Superdome. Seven billion counted down, then inhaled, and all over Mother Earth bad people shrieked in defiance, clutching soul to no avail.
Flames licked at Heaven’s gate.
S.A. Hartwich lives in Bellingham, Washington, where he roasts coffee to make ends meet. His work has appeared in such venues as Apeiron Review, Bird’s Thumb, and Thrush. Taleggio is his favorite smelly cheese.
When Timothy’s mother bought the microwave, his father insisted they wear tin foil hats to protect their brains. Timothy, ever his father’s son, went one step further: he lined the whole thing with foil.
After the funeral they brought out baked potatoes, hot from the oven. As it should be.
Gaynor Jones is a writer of micro, flash and short stories from Manchester, UK.
He’d treasured that winter. Record snow. Briskly cold.
Mother had carefully arranged a scarf around his neck while he watched the children’s snowball fight. He stifled a chuckle when father clumsily slipped on the ice.
Only when his charcoal eyes slid down his melting frame did the reality set in.
Alison treasures the winter and loves lots of snow.
“Ah, an organic bergamot iced tea with rosemary mint.” She ordered it.
I tried not to look at her.
“I am not a hipster,” she said, too defensively. “Everyone’s a hipster nowadays, being all pretentious and stuff. I just really like bergamot and rosemary mint.”
Pretentious, I mused. Point proven.
Nadja Tang is a twenty-something English teacher who loves to read and hates to write.
The waiter set their plates down on the table. He said, “Enjoy your meal.”
The man replied, “Thank you.”
As the waiter turned to leave, the man added, almost without thinking, “Goodbye.”
When they got home, the man was still thinking about that.
Several months later, he still can’t stop.
Spencer Chou is a writer and editor from Nottingham, England. He runs the literary magazine and publisher The Nottingham Review, and his writing has been published in various places. In 2016 he was shortlisted for the Bath Flash Fiction Award. You can follow him on Twitter at @spencerchou
Step one, turn on the lights. Two, install ceiling.
Three, make something to stand on; add plants.
Four, hang some twinkle lights; five, fill fish tank.
Six, create humanity—no wait.
Crap, this isn’t gonna work.
Maybe a horde of giant lizards is the way to go here.
Occasionally EO wonders if God is ever tempted to wail on the reset button.
It could’ve been a sofa ad. “Second-hand, some surface wear, but generally in good shape.”
It made Keith chuckle, like Ann used to, before they got sunk by two kids, twenty years, and brutal familiarity.
Waiting, twisting her napkin, Ann wished he hadn’t picked this restaurant. It was Keith’s favourite.
Tamsin isn’t even sure that lonely hearts ads still exist, but would like to think that they haven’t been killed off by Tinder.