Meet me where the setting sun kisses the roof of the lighthouse, I said, that familiar place where we whispered secrets at two in the morning. I needed to be there because I remembered all the things that we had said. She didn’t show up, because she remembered them, too.
L.S. Engler writes from outside of Chicago, though she grew up chasing dragons in Michigan. She is the editor of the World Unknown Review and is currently finishing up a trilogy about zombies called The Slayer Saga.
He had been arrested and brought to the Precinct. In the cell he received a black eye in silence. Outside a crowd bayed for his blood. Inside a guard said, “We’re moving you for your own safety.”
As they entered the basement car-park Jack Ruby stepped forward and shot him.
Michael D Hill is a Londoner who has lived in Dorset for more than half his life. He enjoys reading, writing and breathing.
The ink keeps smearing.
Johann, dinner! Kommst du hier! His wife’s voice, sweet notes on spring breeze.
The ink hides in the whorls of his fingertips.
Just one more try. A finer sheet, smooth but dense.
He leans into the crank. There’s an art to the turn of the handle.
Juliet Hubbell teaches English Literature and Humanities at Arapahoe Community College. Her short story “The Owl” won the 2015 Montana State Fiction Award. Rick Bass called the story “mysterious and powerful.” Her work has appeared before in Hektoen International: Journal of Medical Humanities, Workers Write, JAMA: Journal of American Medical Association, ACM: Another Chicago Magazine, Progenitor, and Midwest Quarterly. Her rendition of a medieval Black Forest fairy tale, “Saarbrucken Witch”, won the 2013 British Fantasy Society’s Short Story Contest. She is an active member of both the Lighthouse Writers and Rocky Mountain Fiction Writers and attends writing and publishing conferences annually, including the Association of Writing Professionals conference.
Sunday afternoons are the worst.
The stillness brings flashbacks of the tv dinner / hard eyes / swirling cig smoke combo. Suffocation.
I keep rolling. Stepping through the trees. Logging miles on the decades between me and that.
When I finish it’s dark and heading into Monday. I’m still here; escaped again.
Petra lives, works, and writes in the Philadelphia area. She is in the process of publishing her first book. Her days are spent selling Real Estate, planning jaw-dropping travel itineraries, and awaiting the birth of her first grandchild. She has (and always will have) a little white dog. The current one is named Bindi.
“I don’t like this alternate universe, Lucy.”
“Why not, Jerry?
“I’m afraid I’ll be bored to death. The only web browsers here are spiders.”
“You want excitement? Did you look closely at the steam-powered train?”
“What about it?”
“Forget cows and buffalo; the locomotive is equipped with a dinosaur catcher!”
John H. Dromey recently had short fiction published in Saturday Night Reader and a novella in Weird Western Yarns Vol. 3.
Just before he’d left the room, he’d commented that he thought he knew her, but couldn’t think where from.
She’d smiled and said that she couldn’t think of anywhere they may have met before.
But now she was scared.
If he worked it out, if he remembered, there’d be trouble.
Mark plays the ukulele, rides a motorcycle, and likes monkeys. He can easily be lured into a trap with the promise of chocolate.
Joe Sykes said the nametag of the dapper old tour guide who’d enlightened us about Applebloom Historical Mansion’s antiquities.
His eyes twinkled toward lively satyrs carved on the headboard. “It’s said Mr. and Mrs. Applebloom enjoyed their respites here.”
Later I notice ballpoint ink on Grandma’s palm:
Dee Maselle writes steamy romance. She makes her home in infinite alternate universes.
I came of age in a time of no heroes.
The wars we knew to be right are now the history we learned as children.
The wars we believed were right became the history we wished hadn’t happened.
The wars we are fighting now? We pretend we’ve already won them.
Stuart Turnbull is absent without leave from the majority of life and finds that writing helps him remain that way — he occasionally blogs a story at diamondsanddross.blogspot.com.
The cave wall is covered with our story, but the little ones sneak in,
draw, and interfere.
One might think we kill to eat. We tried. Our stomachs revolted.
They just like making blood pictures with that red clay. But clubs
and animal death?
Ack, who will know the difference?
Beth is an estate planning attorney in Chapel Hill, North Carolina. She has an M.A. in English from the University of North Carolina in Chapel Hill and spends her spare time writing a blog at sideglimpses.blogspot.com and sorting through her tangible goods for lost earrings.
The Hatfields and McCoys destroyed each other’s families. They tweaked the law and made the rules.
Two powerful leaders fought their own civil war. Killing and saving face, these patriarchal rulers let no one stop them.
Peace came, but at a considerable price.
Family histories differ as to who won.
Pat St. Pierre is a writer of fiction, poetry, and nonfiction. Her 2nd poetry book “Theater of Life” was published by Finishing Line Press. You can find her fiction work published in a variety of places. Some are: Fiction 365, Dew on the Kudzu, Fifty Word Stories, The Feathered Flounder, Daily Love, A Long Story Short, etc. Her blog is www.pstpierre.wordpress.com.
Editor: Based on a true story!