She watched the woman named Stella adjusting her wedding veil in the mirror. Moving beside her, their eyes met in reflection.
“Please don’t marry him or you’ll be unhappy the rest of your life.”
Stella turned to her. “Are you a distant cousin?”
“I’m your granddaughter,” she said and disappeared.
Susan Cornford is a retired public servant, living in Perth, Western Australia. To date, she has (co)won only one competition but has been short-listed or made finalist for numerous others. She has pieces published or forthcoming in Antipodean Science Fiction, Ghost Parachute, Switchblade, The Fable Online, The Gambler and The Vignette Review. She now considers herself an emerging flash writer.
Heading south through the ruins, I startle three deer. Their barks echo through the concrete canyons as they run.
I see ever more plants breaking through the tarmac; a green infection. I pause to watch the sunrise. The morning light has a golden quality.
Manhattan has never looked so lovely.
Bill lives in Aberdeen Scotland. He is considered a pioneer in the art of slacking off by many, but he can’t be bothered seeking accreditation.
The moon’s surface was bleaker than I’d imagined.
From here the Earth looked lonely. Most of the land was gone, overtaken by melted icecaps and nuclear war.
We all lost in the end, but here we were, waiting for salvation in the moon’s welcoming arms.
The tides might yet turn.
Nathan Hystad is a writer from Sherwood Park, Alberta. He has been published by Saturday Night Reader and Kraxon Books. He also has a story in Tickety Boo Press’s anthology Malevolence: Tales from Beyond the Veil and in North 2 South Press’s Whispers from the Past: Fright and Fear anthology. He enjoys writing micro-fiction and has been published at Micro Fiction Monday Magazine, Fifty Word Stories, and Horror in a Hundred by Hellnotes. When he isn’t writing short stories, he is working on a full length novel. You can see his writing blog at nathanhystad.ticketyboopress.co.uk.
I didn’t believe in time travel until I met myself one rainy Tuesday. Back from a world unknown to me.
Despite the shock, we drank tea and laughed about our mother. For a few moments I was happy with myself.
Until I told me not to look forward to much.
Shark Trager lives in North London and has been writing and blogging 50 Word Stories erratically for five years. He is a novelist in progress as well as a jobbing copywriter and ghostwriter.
The alien invaders were dead.
This was our world after all. Men were once again free to work out their own destiny, for better or worse, without interference.
Man might fail, but if he does he will fail on his own terms.
If he succeeds… The universe will surely weep.
Justin Moody lives in Texas with his wife and three sons, and is a reader and writer of short fiction. Follow him on Twitter.
The time machine shimmered and was gone. She looked at the space it left and thought of the man she had just spoken to, gone to his fate in a destroyed world.
As he now kicked inside her she knew what might become of him.
She had better get started.
Steven Lee wrote this story.
Pesca slithered onto the mud and gasped for breath. He was the first. He foresaw it all.
His children and descendents would become Reptiles, mammals, primates, and hominids. Civilization, weapons, and war would follow, and then nuclear annihilation.
Pesca slithered back into the water. He would be the last amphibian.
Harry Demarest has retired after careers encompassing scientific research, teaching at a university, software development, web application development, and voter database compilation and distribution. He is now spending his time with his grandchildren and writing memoirs and short stories.
2184: Earth’s survivors occupy government-controlled cells provided with oxygen, power and sustenance, or OPS.
Number 215296045 activates his TV to discover he is live on screen.
“Tonight’s randomly chosen contestant on ‘Dying to Live’ is 215296045. Your task is to survive one hour without OPS. Understood?”
“What’s my prize?”
“Another hour without OPS.”
John B Sinclair is a much-travelled Scot who has now returned to Scotland, where he enjoys freelance writing on a variety of subjects.
Her desk was littered with scraps of paper, each scrawled with its own collection of words, representing a thousand grasped-at memories.
It wasn’t working. They wouldn’t come back.
She stoked the fireplace and began dropping the papers in, one by one. Forget the yesterdays: time to start working on tomorrow.
This story was based on the prompt “scraps of paper” at TypeTrigger.
In fair weather or foul, the mail must get through.
No one knows why anymore. It has been possible for a decade to send any message electronically and to replicate or actuate any object that might previously have required physical transportation.
I suppose the mail carriers have a good union.
This story was based on the prompt “in fair weather” on TypeTrigger.