Shoes have started to follow me around the Internet. What do they know about me already? I don’t want to touch them because I know what will happen if I do. It will only encourage them. There will be more of them. Legions of them, marching marching into my eyes.
Richard Neville is trying to write something every day. Today it was this. Only this.
The implants changed everything. She had to adjust her posture & the way she walked. Even entering a room wasn’t the same. But she had no regrets. They could look into her doe eyes all they liked, but the majesty of the antlers guaranteed they’d acknowledge her as a stag.
Jonathan Roman is a poet & storyteller. He has a book of poems titled Deeper Into Winter. You can find more of his work on Twitter at deft_notes.
“Sometimes, when I look into his eyes,” said Chloe to her sister, “I swear he understands everything I’m saying.”
“Don’t anthropomorphise,” replied Claudette. “They’re only human.”
Chloe licked the man’s hand as he scraped leftovers into their bowls. What did it matter, anyway? They were onto a good thing here.
Previously PR to a politician and PA to a rock star, Clare now lives noisily in Scotland, writing her first novel, Light Switch. Her work has recently appeared in Mslexia, The London Reader, Spelk, Cabinet of Heed, Northwords Now, and anthologies from The Emma Press and Hedgehog Poetry. Find out more at clarevobrien.weebly.com.
I wrote it at my desk in a lunch break. Couple of things they hadn’t thought of. Open source code. Update schedules for anyone who cares to look. And a numbered bank account.
Secure by design? Don’t make me laugh. Back door on the latch is really asking for it.
Jon Kemsley has been published in Ellipsis, Ginosko, the Fiction Pool, New World Writing, Neon and others. He lives and works on the south coast of England, listens to old jazz records and occasionally remembers to call his brother about whatever it was he promised to do the last time.
The morning after was brisk, quiet as ice. Each exhalation a white cloud; each inhalation, gag-inducing. As I hurled another shovelful of manure from our frost-slicked roof, reindeer bristles visible in the pungent matter, Dad grumbled on the other side of the rooftop ridge that he kind of missed Krampus.
Graham Robert Scott’s stories have appeared or are forthcoming in Barrelhouse, Nature, Blink-Ink, and Pulp Literature. See more at hemicyon.wordpress.com.
Write what you know, they say
so he writes the first draft
of the fog and gravel of Route 16
all the way to work at sunrise.
Before the sun goes down
he’s revised the revised revision
until all he really thinks he knows
is what he says he’s written.
Ron. Lavalette has been widely published in both print and pixel forms. His first chapbook, Fallen Away, is now available from Finishing Line Press, and a reasonable sample of his work can be found at Eggs Over Tokyo.
There was a low growling, buzzing sound coming from far away. Suddenly something was trying to suck the life out of me. I slapped, twisted, turned and tried to escape. Claws pierced my skin. Hot breath filled my mouth. I bolted upright.
My cat jumped to the floor and smiled.
Charlotte McElroy is an 80-year-old retired teacher. She is finally following her dream: writing!
The North Pole Police found Jolly the Elf hiding underneath a snow-covered tarp behind the old toy factory.
At the precinct they asked him repeatedly, “Why did you do it?”
Looking down at his blood-stained crakows, Jolly finally said, “Why should he get to have all the milk and cookies?”
Ran Walker is the award-winning author of 17 books, including Portable Black Magic: Tales of the Afro Strange. He teaches creative writing at Hampton University in Virginia.
It has come to an inevitable and horrific end. By the time I realized what was happening, it was too late. Even though I’ve been previously diagnosed, I ignored the symptoms and completely missed the warning signs. A rough ride from denial to acceptance. There’s nothing more fatal than love.
Pontius Paiva hopes his stories might one day go viral. Cure your boredom by reading more of his stories at pontiuspaiva.com.
She farted the color yellow. She perspired the color blue. Her most angry thoughts created a greenish aura around her head, while both her lusty imaginings and lightning-like pangs of envy created an orange fog around her feet.
Her tinder date was color-blind. It might have worked.
It did not.
There are no answers at kentoswald.com about why it is evolutionarily preferable that males are more likely to be color blind, but there are additional words.