When I was seven I saw forks rising out of the mattress underneath me as I arched above them, terrified.
It happened again last night.
Too old and infirm to move, I lie here impaled by phantom forks through my eyes, mouth, heart, and spine.
They all think I’m dead.
Simon Clarke was born in and raised and currently resides in East Anglia, United Kingdom. He has been writing fiction for at least five years and regularly submits to UK and international publications as well as reading short pieces and poetry at open mic events. He is currently working on his first novel and continues to write short stories and poetry.
She placed the baby in the kitchen sink.
“Oh, the soap!” She walked quickly to the bathroom. “There it is,” she said, smelling the soap’s cool fragrance.
She heard the baby crying
so slowly it seemed.
The hot water was gushing cold: she’d forgotten the laundry was running.
C. Jenise Williamson is the founding coordinator of the Creative Writing Program at Bowie State University. She has published in Painted Bride Quarterly and other literary magazines as well as in the anthology Enhanced Gravity: Washington Area Women Writers. She lives in Greenbelt, Maryland.
I feel cold and see only darkness the deeper I sink, as the distant light above grows dim. I struggle in vain to move my arms and legs to swim to the surface. There’s no air
until I wake and crawl out from the bottom of the bedcovers.
Connell Wayne Regner had successfully avoided writing creatively since he wrote spontaneous lyrics to music some years ago. Although from a linguistic background, he has serendipitously succumbed to fiction. His other dabblings can be found at paragraphplanet and wtdmagazine.wordpress.com.
I thought stasis would be like sleeping: I’d close my eyes on Earth, and open them a hundred light-years away. I thought it would be an escape.
But it was more like a dream, a slow swirl of half-reality. I spent ten years inside my own head, reliving that memory.
This story was based on the prompt “that memory” at TypeTrigger.
Nights were the worst. Caffeine caught up, jittering his limbs, bulging his eyes as raw sewage gushed from metaphoric bowels, untreated memories he thought he’d repressed. Bloody flashes and screams kept any rest for the wicked far beyond his grasp.
“I’ll sleep when I’m dead.”
That would be the day.
Milo James Fowler is a teacher by day, writer by night. Stop by his blog any time: www.milo-inmediasres.com.
Kittens! Kittens everywhere!
It was terrifying. Mortifying. A nightmare.
She stifled a scream. Then she stifled a yawn.
The warm, cuddly kitten bodies, like a soft, purring blanket, lulled her, despite her best efforts, off to sleep. And as she slept, she dreamed about the tigers that ate her mom.