I’d meant to drive the hitchhiker all the way to Chicago, but she smelled bad, so I kicked her out as soon as we reached Lake Michigan. I was sorry I couldn’t take her home, but my fuel economy improved a lot without her body rolling around in the trunk.
Hannah Whiteoak doesn’t drive. She tweets microfiction at @HannahWhiteoak.
Thousands of horsemen we once were, occupying an underappreciated metaphysical niche: the ceaseless minor pains, the unending annoyances. Seasonal allergies. Multiple choice tests. Paper cuts.
Separately, we lacked apocalyptic dread, but together…
Then came the consultants, wielding their Recommendations.
“Operational efficiencies?” we mused. “We have no rider by this name.”
Iain Young once applied to be one of the Four Horsemen. Then he found out you’re always on call. Forget that.
You could set your watch by Old Man Haney’s trip to the mailbox. That’s how I knew something was wrong Thursday morning.
A sense of foreboding set in.
I was about to call 911 when I saw the widow Wilkins leaving his house.
But you didn’t hear that from me.
Susan Gale Wickes is from Indiana. In addition to writing poetry and short stories, she enjoys penning aphorisms and epigrams.
Her father noticed she was still playing with the pile of tea bags.
“Shall we put them away now, darling?”
“Leave them. They’re my friends.”
She had discovered beings that exactly resembled her true form, albeit of limited intelligence. Her next report would certainly create a stir on the mothership.
David Mark Williams lives in Scotland and writes poetry and short fiction. He has published two poetry collections to date: The Odd Sock Exchange and Papaya Fantasia. See more at davidmarkwilliams.co.uk.
The architects studied the plans for the umpteenth time. There was something missing, but what was it?
Gabriel turned the drawings upside down and then Michael turned them sideways. “This won’t work. It will fall apart,” they both agreed.
“Just get on with it,” sighed God. “It’s not that important.”
Patrick Mc Loughlin is an English Language Teacher in Ireland who dabbles in writing. He also dabbles in painting and music and someday hopes to do more than dabble. He lives in the west of Ireland, where it’s hard to concentrate.
My kitchen garbage can questions me as I open its lid.
“Is that recyclable?”
I search the packages of pasta, spinach, for the magic numbered triangle.
I no longer have the ability to determine what to throw in the garbage and what to recycle. When did I become trash-challenged?
Candace Kubinec posts her stories at storydribbles.wordpress.com and her poetry at rhymeswithbug.com.
I knew this stupid wall would be trouble. We intercepted intelligence to “Scramble.” By the time I got there it was chaos. Absolute carnage. There were militia everywhere, cavalry included. The rank stench of death hung in the air. I retched.
My initial impression was that Humpty Dumpty was pushed.
David McTigue is from Liverpool, UK. Writes flash fiction and poetry and loves music, football, crosswords, cookery, reading, and his wife, three kids, and baby grandson.
Anne held up the t-shirt. The stain still hadn’t come off. As she hung it, she heard footsteps.
Anne sighed before turning around.
He was wearing the same t-shirt, clean but somewhat creased.
“I’m… sorry,” he muttered.
“Having a time machine doesn’t fix everything,” said Anne. “Try going further back.”
Joey generally doesn’t like stories which feature time travel but he’s not going to go back and undo the few times he has made exceptions.
“Can’t you just look at what the mannequins have on and wear that?” asked Joe with disdain.
Shelly’s cold sore was back, a tingle on her lip. Her body’s warning system, telling her this guy was bad news.
He moved in for a kiss. Mouth to mouth, she pressed hard.
Heidi Lobecker writes about how the body holds feelings and emotion and how movement can transform pain. She puts her pants on and hopes they fit, just like everybody else.
Lights pulsed outside, and the bottles behind the bar clamored as a saucer-shaped spacecraft settled in the parking lot. Connor took a long, slow drink of beer as people ran out the back door and then muttered through his mustache, “Come friend or foe, I’ll not abandon an Irish stout.”
Eddie D. Moore travels extensively for work, and he spends much of that time listening to audio books. The rest of the time is spent dreaming of stories to write and he spends the weekends writing them. His stories have been published by Jouth Webzine, Kzine, Alien Dimensions, Theme of Absence, Devolution Z, and Fantasia Divinity Magazine. Find more on his blog.