Like the rain,
A poem falls
When conditions are propitious.
Words patter down
Sometimes the flowing
Quenches your thirst
Or washes you clean.
Sometimes the flooding
Strips you bare
To your foundation.
When a poem falls
Into your heart,
It is best to listen.
Casey Laine comes from a long line of talkative women. She works as Fantasy Editor at Cosmic Roots and Eldritch Shores and publishes an annual anthology of fiction and poetry for her writing group, Writers Assembled. In her spare time, she chases butterflies with her camera. Find her on Facebook.
When that Trickster God
created beings to amuse himself,
He had an eye toward evolution,
but was certain,
whether it involved opposing fingers,
eventually walking on hind feet,
or thinking they got the joke,
whether they did or not,
they would never be free
of the nuisance of bellybutton lint.
After a lifetime of writing, Jackie has embraced the 50-word story as a life form, bringing clarity and concision to the world around her.
The curator stands next to a tall glass case filled with a dark liquid and pauses a moment, before flipping a switch to illuminate the creature inside it.
The visitors recoil in shock at its bare flesh, piercing eyes and white teeth.
“I present to you our predecessor: homo sapiens.”
Daniel doesn’t visit museums much these days.
Minuscule irritants in nasal passage of the cosmos, we insist on festering and aggravating, even destroying the dust particle on which we blew in.
While some continue solipsistic hedonism, others try to repair the sins done by action and prayer.
Watery-eyed, The Maker sneezes.
“Gesundheit!” an archangel declares.
Irish writer Perry McDaid lives in Derry under the brooding brows of Donegal hills which he occasionally hikes in search of druidic inspiration. He even finds it on occasion.
“Slide inside the crocodile carcasses,” the elders said. Bellies in mud, we slid through the werewolf fields; we moved inches as they sniffed, let us be. The wolves were entranced.
We stole their young; took them home to our pots. We ate. We danced.
Someday mankind will rule this world.
Steve Sibra grew up on a farm in eastern Montana. His work has appeared in numerous literary journals over the years including Matador Review, Shattered Wig, Jellyfish Review, and Gravel. He features frequently in the Seattle area and has read at Capitol Hill Art Walk, Lit Crawl and It’s About Time reading series. He is a participant in May 2019 at Poetry Brunch in downtown Seattle.
Winds whisper the sounds and sights of fall; fading flowers and falling leaves.
Dancing shadows slip away at dusk to appear again in the chilly dawn.
Golden wheat fields fall to the force of gobbling combines.
The Meadow Lark’s song signals change.
The harvest moon fills the night with mystery.
Charlotte McElroy is an 80-year-old retired teacher. She is finally following her dream: writing!
On Monday, the Cassie hivemind forecasts a global superflu, ninety percent lethal.
On Tuesday, Aspasia predicts five percent.
The differing projections hinge, it appears, on the mathematical solution to Rostwick’s Paradox, on which the AIs disagree, and which no human can understand.
Quite in the dark, we’re rooting for Aspasia.
Graham Robert Scott teaches writing at a university in north Texas. His stories have appeared in Barrelhouse Online, Nature, and 50-Word Stories. See more at hemicyon.wordpress.com.
Millions of microbes live symbiotically on every body, but this particular infestation was way out of control. Gaia had tried shaking them off, drowning them with strong showers, even killing them with heat, but through it all they persisted.
Finally, she stopped spinning and watched them float off into space.
Nathan Alling Long’s work has appeared in over 100 publications most recently in Manhattanville Review, Mud Season Review, and The Journal for Compressed Creative Arts. His collection of fifty flash fictions, The Origin of Doubt, was released in Spring 2018 by Press 53.
Walking the cows down the narrow road after milking, I felt protected by their company. The last light held enough reassurance.
While returning alone with the dusk pouring through the branches, the old ruin became the only presence, harbouring contrary spirits, and I ran.
Forty years later, I’m still running.
Patrick Mc Loughlin is an English Language Teacher in Ireland and 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.
Unspeakable darkness, slowly illuminating into an alley with dipping gutters. Tenement houses, three mismatched shoes on each doorstep. Girls hawk their wares, calling out over the cobblestones, flirtatious, looking for customers.
God is forever hiding somewhere among the gargoyles.
I fall in love a lot, always with the same woman.
Jim Doss has published two books of poems: Learning to Talk Again and What Remains. He also published a book of German translations entitled The Last Gold of Expired Stars: The Complete Poems of Georg Trakl 1908 – 1914. In his spare time, he is an editor for the Loch Raven Review.