The baby monitor crackled to life at 2:30 AM with my son’s cries. As I rolled out of bed, a gentle shushing and humming came through the speaker. Followed by silence. Relieved, I tucked back under the covers, then heard my husband mutter, “Thanks, Honey, I’ll get him next time.”
Jennifer Lai lives in Washington state. When she’s not reading or writing, she’s busy tending to her pet rocks and dying pepper plants.
His hand trembled as he slid the lock all the way to the right. Click. Giving it one extra, reassuring nudge, he thought, “There, now no more evil can be created.”
Scratch, scratch, scratch.
His knees weakened. From within the bolted box, he heard it: the pen, writing once more.
Elizabeth Lorayne is a printmaker, artist, and an award-winning and critically acclaimed author. Her work has also appeared in The Haiku Foundation Blog, Boston Literary Magazine, and Cathexis Northwest Press. She holds a B.S. from The New School in Manhattan, where she studied art, psychology, and creative writing. She lives in Newburyport, Massachusetts with her husband and daughter.
I think my neighbor’s a psychopath with his vacant, roving eyes. Amazon keeps leaving his packages at my door: wood planks, duct tape, a chainsaw. And then: doghouse instructions.
I call him over, laughing. (I’ve always had an active imagination.)
As he steps inside, I see the leash.
“All alone?”
Michelle Wilson graduated from Bennington College with a degree in literature and creative writing. Her words have appeared or are forthcoming in 101 Words, Literally Stories, Flash Fiction Magazine, Lost Magazine, Mr. Beller’s Neighborhood, Healthcare in America, and The Miami Herald. She lives in Miami Beach, Florida.
The aging butler placed twin goblets down, then left with a bow.
Melissa took one with a shaking hand. Her brother’s apparition took the other; they tapped glasses.
She downed the cup in one gulp.
The ghost twisted into flesh, wine splattering his skin.
Her cup clanked to the floor.
Katlina Sommerberg lives in San Francisco, where the summer nights are colder than the winter days of her childhood. She is a cog in the machine for Big Tech, where she writes software and loves to hate her company’s perks. Her work has previously appeared or is forthcoming in AntipodeanSF, 365tomorrows, and 101 Words.
Standing by the open doorway, she heard the floor creak behind her.
Too afraid to move, she tried pushing her eyes far enough to see the mirror in her peripherals.
A warm breath caressed her neck. Her pupils widened and her eyes filled with tears.
“Found you,” whispered no reflection.
James started writing at a young age as a means of escaping reality. Now his goal is to redefine the psychological and horror genres.
When I was seven I saw forks rising out of the mattress underneath me as I arched above them, terrified.
It happened again last night.
Too old and infirm to move, I lie here impaled by phantom forks through my eyes, mouth, heart, and spine.
They all think I’m dead.
Simon Clarke was born in and raised and currently resides in East Anglia, United Kingdom. He has been writing fiction for at least five years and regularly submits to UK and international publications as well as reading short pieces and poetry at open mic events. He is currently working on his first novel and continues to write short stories and poetry.
The basement was dank and stark, still, a broken window high on the wall, shards on the cement floor, spider webs as thick as fog, touching me.
I reached for the light string, where I knew it should be, and the cold hand was around my wrist, pulling me down.
Glenn A. Bruce, MFA, was associate editor for Lindenwood Review. He published eight novels and two collections of short stories, wrote Kickboxer, and wrote for Walker: Texas Ranger and Baywatch. His stories, poems, and essays have been published internationally. He has won awards, judged stuff, and spoken often. He taught at Appalachian State University for 12.5 years.
The search party had given up hope of finding any survivors of the crash. The island reeked of death and the heat was intolerable.
The only survivor had been following them for days, hunger gnawing at his belly. He attacked them that night.
Three weeks later, another search party arrived.
When not writing short fiction, Daniel teaches English in Poland.
See more at facebook.com/ponglish1.
Our ballista slams out another volley. My loader slaps my shoulder. I open up through the wire with the big Browning.
Through the fog I see burning tracks littering the wheat fields. Our main gun cycles as actinic light sears the horizon.
My melted eyes weep. Gods, please not again.
David Arnold is a former Army officer and retired academic administrator. He has recent published work in Narrative, Raven’s Perch, Microfiction Monday, and This Old Boat. He lives in the Bluegrass Region of Kentucky with his wife Rose, Bonnie the Dog, and Mosel the Cat.
Every night the windows to her bedroom would be frosted over. She sat alone in her bed waiting for the finger-traced messages to appear.
No matter how hot it got during that Los Angeles summer, she refused to open a single window at night and risk meeting their chilly author.
Danielle grew up with a passion for all things literary. She first put pen to paper writing articles for a newspaper she designed and created during elementary school. Danielle’s creative channels evolved into writing poetry, short stories, essays, and children’s books. When not writing her own material, Danielle loves reading everything and anything she can get her hands on especially mysteries, suspense, and historical fiction. Some of Danielle’s other talents include finding new and creative ways to use sarcasm, spilling/dropping things, being supremely weird without even trying, knitting, and photography.