to the ocean,
in vine leaves,
and throws one
from the water –
in the sun.
but all she needs
is his kiss.
writes novels, flash fiction and the occasional poem.
Her tiny fingers, entwined in mine. Soft. Delicate.
Her nod, a whisper, “It’s time.”
A click as the switch is turned off. Then…?
Darkness. No light, no tunnel, no welcome home.
Terror envelops me; tears begin to fall.
Just a fading whisper: “They never would have believed you, anyway, Mommy.”
Anita Reynolds is a writer and artist, wife and mom in the rural reaches of Tennessee. Her work is inspired by the strangeness of life, from the mundane to the magical.
Clear your mind, she said. He quietened his thoughts leaving only the crack and snap of burning logs. He gazed deep into flames.
A shape appeared. A face? Yes, his face, screaming, twisted, contorted in anguish.
Suddenly cold, he tore away. The camp was empty. Everyone had gone.
Steven is taking tentative steps into the murky lake of fiction writing. This is his first submission to the site. There may be a second.
Hezekiah was “soul” caretaker at the Mount Airy Cemetery. He liked to call himself “the keeper of the bones.”
While he prided himself in the lush, green grass and carefully groomed rows, it was the unmarked grave in Row 38 that had given him the greatest amount of personal satisfaction.
Susan Gale Wickes enjoys writing and daydreaming about where it might lead.
The funeral was an hour away but his grandmother was still in her robe in the kitchen , stirring away at a large pot. Transfixed.
Nobody said anything. The rest of the family sat in the lounge, talking about nothing. They ignored the phone calls.
Clouds gathered and parted. Grandma stirred.
PJ is a dramatist obsessed with writing the perfect short story.
Empty for eighty years, the mansion loomed over the village, and cautionary tales spread as wildfire.
She ventured in regardless, her explorer’s spirit unquenchable. To her parents’ chagrin, she returned late, yet regretted nothing.
In the mansion’s window a figure appeared, high above the village.
It watched, and it waited.
Tony is working on a research thesis. In his spare time, he enjoys playing music and writing short stories. Some of his writing can be seen at liretranger.wordpress.com
I thought it’d be an easy stab ‘n grab, but the old man didn’t flinch when I pointed the knife at his chest. Instead he grabbed the handle and thrust the blade between his ribs, past the lungs, to where his heart should have been.
He laughed and walked away.
Francisco Tutella’s fiction and poetry reflect his experiences growing up in northeastern Pennsylvania and his travels in Italy. His work has appeared in 50-Word Stories and Wilkes magazine. He holds an M.F.A. in Creative Writing from Wilkes University and teaches composition and literature in northeastern Pennsylvania.
As the dark loomed over her, she could feel her heart race.
Suddenly she could hear her own footsteps. She started to move towards a tall derelict building.
The noise of her footsteps faded away, overtaken by an overwhelming screeching like finger nails on a blackboard.
What could it be?
Erin Walker is a 9 year-old girl who in her spare time likes writing stories and singing.
As I was peeling potatoes one got away and hit the floor. It disappeared.
Einstein says when one object strikes another there is an infinitesimally small chance the vibrations of each will cause them to pass right through each other.
I checked, but the potato wasn’t in the basement either.
Ginny Giraudi is a science writer living in Mississauga.
It was her eyes that drew him to her. They were odd looking and yellowish.
He whipped the dogs and the sled leaped ahead over the packed and frozen snow.
Fleet as the wind, she ran alongside, among the trees.
She turned, vanishing.
In the distance, the wolves were howling.
William Dart is just a retiree.