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.
When I got home, my ungrateful wife wasn’t complaining. I thought hell must have frozen over as I popped a top.
Agitated, she said, “I shot him dead in the backyard.” That mole had her number for over a month.
Glancing out the window, I noticed the gardener face down.
T. R. Jordan is a civil engineer living in Dallas, TX. He focuses on vulnerability.
The gunshot echoes through the alley.
“That’s what you get for leaving me for this pig!”
She falls. He drops to his knees.
“Stay with me, baby, please! Don’t go!”
Sirens echo in the distance; too late.
His sanity is leaving him. Laughter fills the alley.
His lover is dead.
Alaina Umscheid is in 8th grade and loves to read and play her french horn.
Their eyes met. His breath caught in his throat and he realized from this moment on, his life would be devoted to her. Every future breath would be breathed for her. She would redeem him.
He’d plan their next meeting. But first things first: he needed to kill his wife.
Mandie Hines writes psychological thrillers, horror, and flash fiction in the shadows of the Rocky Mountains. She’s driven to create pieces of fiction that capture moments of human vulnerability. Find more at mandiehines.com
“I remember when we met. You told me I was beautiful. You only had eyes for me. Should’ve known it wouldn’t last forever. But her, of all people. My sister! How could you do that to me? Answer me!”
Malcolm stayed silent, the pool of blood around his head growing.
D M Day writes flash, science and fantasy fiction, and poetry. Her work can be read on her blog Musings and Daydreams
. She loves cooking and being by the sea. She lives in Liverpool, England.
Daddy left early; he didn’t say goodbye.
No, they didn’t yell this morning. Last night, though.
Mommy didn’t make my eggs. Usually I get two, with an orange juice. She’s still sleeping. I shook her; her hand is cold. Will she wake up soon? I’m hungry.
Daddy didn’t say goodbye.
After chasing his muse from Virginia to Manhattan, Richard Day Gore settled in Southern California, where he spends his time pushing around words, paint brushes, and guitar strings. See more at richarddaygore.com