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.
Carolyn shows up agitated, out of kilter. We feign concern and lean in for what could possibly be a delicious story.
“Mother is in jail,” says Carolyn. “She shot the neighbor’s hamster.”
We gasp. “Jail? For that stupid hamster?”
“The problem is,” says Carolyn, “she was aiming for the neighbor.”
Linda Saldaña lives in the San Francisco Bay Area and would like to assure everyone that no actual hamsters were harmed in the creation of this story.
The knock at the door came sooner than she expected. Two police officers looking concerned. Seems her boyfriend Tommy was found dead in a ditch. With damage to her car and blood on the hood, they wanted to know her whereabouts last night.
“I wasn’t cheating” was all she said.
NT Franklin writes after his real job hoping one day to have it be his real job. He writes cozy mystery short stories, nostalgia short stories, and Flash Fiction. When not reading or writing short stories, you might find him fishing or solving crossword puzzles. His work has been published in Fiction on the Web, Madswirl, Postcard Shorts404 Words, Scarlet Leaf Review, Freedom Fiction, Burrst, Entropy, Alsina Publishing, Fifty-word stories, among others.
The first thing we did was hide the body, which was not a small thing.
Then we came home, tidied up, and made dinner as though nothing had happened.
If she came home and found the house a mess—even if she couldn’t find our brother—we’d be dead, too.
Deborah Garwood is a writer from Missouri. Well, not really from Missouri, like, she now lives elsewhere. She still lives there. Forever and always. Probably.
Four AM, there’s the garbage truck. Every other morning it wakes me up. I wonder if he’s as tired as I am.
Hopefully he doesn’t notice how big that darn bag is. It’s heavier than I had expected. I always told her she should diet.
Then I forgot the T.
James P. Spitznogle is an aspiring writer from the early yet dark hills of West Virginia
She’d hummed it at home, at the park, and on date night, too.
As wide as on their wedding day, her husband’s grin dwarfed her frustration of being unable to place the song.
Realisation came on her way to work: her last victim’s ringtone, in the trunk of her car.
When someone asks Tony to stop whistling, he promptly begins humming instead.
“Oranges and lemons,” say the bells of St. Clement’s.
“Cheating and stealing,” sing church bells in Ealing.
“Didn’t she earn it?” ask three bells at Barnet.
“One fatal blow,” says the bell of Harrow.
Big Ben deafens London. “We. Know. You. Killed. Her. Jack.”
Hands over my ears, I run.
Hannah is a technical author from London. She won the Junior Author International Short Story Award in 2015 and has published work in Myths of the Near Future and Writer’s Forum.
Thump. Thump. Thump. In the dark, I lug the lumpy sack down each stair, muttering curses at the noise. Christmas lights twinkle from the living room. What a surprise they’ll get in the morning.
I peer outside. Snowing. Heavily. Perfect. It’ll cover up my footprints.
And any drops of blood.
Matthew is a secondary school teacher and studied English Literature at the University of Glasgow. His short story ‘Blue Sky’ has just been published in a Centum Press anthology and he is currently seeking representation for his first science fiction novel.
There are many ways to die on stage, but I never expected this.
Sleight of hand at the props table, the audience blissfully unaware. As the cool blade pierced my skin, a searing pain forced me to my knees.
The knife had been switched. My co-star finally had her revenge.
Anna is a performer and writer from Nottingham, England. Follow her creative journey on Twitter
There’s no time to explain this. You have to believe that the girl I killed wasn’t me. She’s the wrong me. Alternate reality me. Our realities can’t co-exist in the same timeline. Butterfly effect, inverted: murdering me doesn’t change what happened to her. Twenty years later, you’ll regret this. Don’t—
Stephanie Selander lives, writes, and teaches in Miami, Florida. Her work has previously appeared in WomenArts Quarterly Journal, Yellow Chair Review, and elsewhere.