Mr. Burnett picks up his newspaper from his doorstep, scans the picket-fenced street, then retreats inside.
He’s a respectable, decent man, I remind myself.
His wife, Helena, hasn’t been seen for several months. Visiting her sister in Wyoming, apparently.
This is suburbia. We go about our day, no questions asked.
Mark Towers writes children’s books, short stories and poetry.
Lying on the sofa with reruns of Family Feud and Wheel of Fortune for her company, she waited for sleep to embalm her. She no longer dreamed of him. Those nightmares were now locked away in an unused master bedroom, behind a firmly closed door, under an ink-black midnight sky.
Arlene writes poetry, flash fiction and song lyrics. More of her work may be found @ I am not a silent Poet, Tuck Magazine, Little Rose Magazine, London Grip, The Open Mouse and Literary Heist.
We held hands and kissed each other for far too long, until time was mostly gone. The room was bright despite night’s descent.
We laid face down on the wooden floor, reached under the bed, and rubbed their chins, cat by cat.
It was the very end. Their eyes glowed.
Tim Cox lives in Brooklyn with his wife, Karen, and their four cats. See more at instagram.com/timcox.
The sea is a living thing: shifting, expanding, slipping, withdrawing.
In the depths below I watch him sway, caught up in the kelp. It’s wrapped around his wrists and weaves through his hair.
When I swim past him I can see my silver body reflected in his flat, murky eyes.
Nanna is an Icelandic freelance journalist and writer with her nose to the grindstone. It hurts; please, someone send medical help.
Every time I eat here, I wonder if she’s still in the restroom.
I watch the cakes orbit on refrigerated turntables, a silent waltz for the ballerinas running omelets and coffee.
Back when she excused herself to the restroom, the hostess was probably still in diapers.
“Table for one, please.”
Ryan R. Latini is a freelance and fiction writer living in southern New Jersey. His fiction and nonfiction have appeared in Funny in Five Hundred
, Red Savina Review
, and The Schuylkill Valley Journal
We were married within a month.
The first morning I woke with nausea, I felt rotten. The second: jubilation. Mere weeks had passed since we first made love, but I swore I could already feel a bump.
We laughed, kissed, hugged; fell asleep with bodies intertwined. Life was a dream.
Guy forgot to submit this story last month. This is his twentieth 50-word story.
Editor: See part 1 and part 2 of Guy’s ongoing story.
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.