“It’s time to go,” she said.
“In a sec,” I called back.
“No! Right now!” she said, even louder, with more than a hint of annoyance.
“Okay, okay!” I screamed back.
The door slammed and I knew it was too late.
I turned back to level two of Panda Pops.
Gordon Lysen is enjoying his retirement, filling his days with painting, carving, writing, and the occasional game of Panda Pop.
“Thought we destroyed them years ago and they were all dead,” said Caption Savoy.
“It killed the dinosaurs but not all life forms, sir,” replied Lt. Flit Duson.
“No big deal, Flit. Send another meteorite, a larger one this time. That should take care of it,” said Captain Savoy.
Denny E. Marshall has had art, poetry, and fiction published, including fiction at The Stray Branch Spring 2017
. See more at dennymarshall.com
Warren staggered out onto the porch, coffee in hand. As he lifted the mug to his lips, their eyes locked together. She examined him stoically from across the street.
Then, like a yogic guru, she lifted her leg—and licked her butt. Hot coffee spewed from his nostrils.
Kurt is a screenwriter based in Toronto, Canada.
It was peaceful in the near-empty compartment of the 22:30 to Belfast. Carrie felt so secure, with the guard’s regular walk-bys, that she could have stolen an hour’s sleep.
Yet she was fixated on the man with his finger up his nose.
That saved her life when the train derailed.
Irish writer Perry McDaid lives in Derry under the brooding brows of Donegal hills which he occasionally hikes in search of druidic inspiration.
The woman who taught the prison’s Tuesday cooking class was a caricature named Milly. She spoke in exclamation marks and block letters.
“HI!” she said, the first day, into the overweight silence. “I’m MILLY! Welcome to COOKING for BEGINNERS!”
Fiona looked down at the knife in her hand, and wondered.
Anna Ascott is an Australian expat living in rural Germany in a village where the cows outnumber the people. When she isn’t organising her colleagues’ office supplies, she writes creative non-fiction, short stories, and flash fiction.
The first thing we did was hide the body, which was not a small thing.
Then we came home, tidied up, and made dinner as though nothing had happened.
If she came home and found the house a mess—even if she couldn’t find our brother—we’d be dead, too.
Deborah Garwood is a writer from Missouri. Well, not really from Missouri, like, she now lives elsewhere. She still lives there. Forever and always. Probably.
After applying for many years he made it into Mensa. Finally, he was among the most intelligent people of his time. Cerebrally unmatched yet socially awkward, he wondered what he’d be doing there until he was told to put on some overalls, get a bucket, and mop out the toilets.
Aladdin rubbed the lamp and a Genie popped out.
“I want wealth, women, and immortality,” said Aladdin.
A caravan appeared, with camels laden with gold and silver, and thirty beautiful women.
The Genie smiled. “Now for the immortality.” He stuffed Aladdin into the lamp and rode off with the caravan.
Harry Demarest likes to write 50-word stories while he procrastinates finishing his novel.
First thing out was my suit. Next went my helmet, violently followed by my books.
She’d always had a good arm and a bad temper.
Obviously I’m next, which would be bearable if we were on Earth rather than a spaceship.
Well, at least I won’t hear her screaming anymo—
Joey doesn’t mind travelling through space even if there is a risk that she’ll blow him out of the airlock. You can visit him at joeytoey.com.
“How’d you get that shiner, Angus?”
“I visited a haunted hieland castle at the witching hour to ken what haints wear under their sheets.”
“A ghostie hit you?”
“No-o-o. In the near darkness, I lifted the wrong hem… I discovered the laird of the manor wears nothing under his kilt.”
John H. Dromey was born in northeast Missouri. Although he has some Celtic roots (in Ireland and Scotland) he does not wear a kilt.