Crocodile and Hippo were arguing over who was the more dangerous of the two.
Crocodile boasted, “I kill a thousand humans annually!”
Hippo scoffed, “I’m responsible for thrice that number of fatalities!”
Then a man came into view. Pointing at him, Crocodile sighed. “I think we finally have our winner…”
Melanie Cranenburgh lives in Western Australia, where a plethora of dangerous creatures make life interesting.
The on-location taping of a reality TV program was interrupted when a nearby mountain peak exploded, spewing smoke, ash, and molten lava high in the air.
The program’s producer also blew his top—figuratively. An assistant asked the distraught man what was wrong.
“That bleeping volcano isn’t following the script!”
John H. Dromey was born in northeast Missouri, a long way from any active volcanoes, but growing up on a farm, he used to use Lava soap.
A body on the floor, warm blood drip, drip, dripping onto the carpet.
He has my face. My beautiful young face.
I was going to set things right. That’s what the time machine was for. But he wouldn’t listen and I got angry.
I always was my own worst enemy.
Bill lives in Aberdeen, Scotland where, in between the odd piece of writing, he plots the downfall of humanity on behalf of his Martian overlords.
Guilt burns my gut, only slightly sated by the whisky I sip.
The affair had been revenge for all the times his eyes had strayed. Joke was, I couldn’t tell him.
So my gut continues to burn as I take another sip and watch as his eyes stray once more.
Melissa is a writer, teacher, and dog lover in the Middle of Nowhere, Michigan.
Stories written backwards really are nonsense. Unpublishable as discarded tales collecting dust. Misunderstood. Why are words tricky? How one shows irony of knowing without knowledge.
Knowledge, without knowing of irony, shows one how tricky words are. Why? Misunderstood, dust collecting tales discarded as unpublishable nonsense, are really backwards written stories.
Pontius Paiva is a lover of palindromes who refuses to kayak. Read more at pontiuspaiva.comhttp://pontiuspaiva.com
This morning, Sam left for good. Sarah’s mascara ran more than usual. Eventually, the gunk dried on her face like tea leaves in a cup. She tried to read the meanings but got frustrated and cried, ruining them.
No future is harder for a psychic to read than her own.
Carli Wright wrote this. She does a lot of stuff: films, music, photos, etc.
How to ignore her screaming as the car plunged into the river? But I couldn’t die with this on my conscience. “I slept with your sister!” I shouted above the torrent.
Kerry continued screaming, even when arms appeared to drag her out.
If she heard my confession, I’m done for.
Heather lives in the UK and writes poetry, flash fiction, and stories. Her poetry has appeared in several UK small press magazines, and her flash fiction at paragraphplanet.
He’s four. Pasty-white, squishy chubby.
I’m his patient day camp counselor.
Currently, he’s screeching while incessantly racing around the perimeter of the shade house.
He stops suddenly, begins repeatedly smashing his tender forehead against a support column.
We know not to intervene. He’s unstoppable.
He’s the son of mother’s psychiatrist.
Sadly, this is a true story. Leslie doesn’t know what became of this child. Her mother, on the other hand, thrived, despite her shrink.
Once, Harry’s big sister told him, “Earwigs creep into people’s ears at night.”
Nightmares followed of scuttling legs, tickling feelers.
Phobic, Harry took to wearing earplugs, his excuse the need for quiet nights.
Earplugs worked admirably and kept the insects out, but also, sadly, the buzzing of the fire alarm.
Viv Burgess is thinking of demanding a promotional fee as half her family and friends are now all writing 50 word stories – and to top it all, better than her own. It is giving her brain cell a good work out though, she says.
The fixed-odds betting terminal fired out an electronic pulse, causing my bio-interface implant to twitch in excited anticipation. I paused, my finger poised above the play button, and adjusted the frequency receiver to that of the sender. An incoming message.
What the machine had to say was this: HELP ME.
Matt Thompson is a London-based writer of oddball fantastical fiction: short stories, flash fiction, comics scripts, poetry, and the occasional novel. He is endeavouring to follow Ray Bradbury’s advice of writing a story every week. To date, this has been adhered to in theory more than reality.