The note on my door said I had passed away yesterday and my memorial service was tomorrow.
“What is going on?” I wondered. My neighbor had passed me without speaking.
I opened my door and the house smelled of roses. Everyone knew I loved roses.
I sat down and cried.
Linda’s dream is to do nothing but write but she has to eat so there goes the dream.
Andile could trace his family back to an eighteenth century shaman, but he was sure this was a first. Torso and abdomen were insectile; gonads mammalian in defiance of bio-mechanical laws. But the brain…? It phased in and out. His scalpel hovered…
The attackers were advancing to claim their dead.
Irish writer Perry McDaid lives in Derry under the brooding brows of Donegal hills which he occasionally hikes in search of druidic inspiration.
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.
“If I promise to lead you down the path to darkness, will you follow?” asked the pretty brunette in the horn-rimmed glasses, a twinkle in her eye.
“I sure will,” said the blue-eyed gentleman with the diamond cufflinks.
She handed him her chocolate chip scone and a pink business card.
Recently retired, Marian Brooks has begun to write some short fiction. Her work has appeared in Word Riot, Crack the Spine, The Linnet’s Wings, The Story Shack and others.
Cynthia theatrically flung open the wardrobe. “Well?”
After an awkward pause, Greg said, “It’s…”
“I know! Isn’t it?” enthused Cynthia.
Greg paused. He wasn’t actually sure what he had been going to say. “It” was some kind of all-of-the-neons polka-dotted dress thing. “Yes,” he managed at last, “it really is.”
“There’s a monster under my bed!” whimpered Sophie.
“I know,” said Mom. “I put it there. It likes dark places.”
“Won’t it come out at night and eat me!?”
“No, it’s a vegetarian.”
Sophie put fresh heads of lettuce under her bed every day for the rest of her life.
Modest Maude was a very proper woman.
No one had ever seen so much as Maude’s ankles or wrists, not even her doctor.
She had married a blind man, and still made him keep his eyes closed while she was getting undressed.
But her laughter made the stars come out.
Sweet, but a little dull. He liked YouTube and drawing crazy stuff; could have been an artist if it weren’t for me.
We thought the food of the gods was cute stuff like ambrosia. It’s not. I ate Jack. Not all of him, just that bloody, soppy heart.
Claire Martin is an almost-graduate student who must get a job, or learn to eat dust.
Ramone had a very diverse selection of friends. He enjoyed spending time with Havarti, Provolone, Mozzarella, and Brie.
He didn’t get along that well with Cheddar or Feta, but Gouda was fun.
Ramone’s mom told him, “Cheeses can’t be real friends,” but he knew better.
Oh yes, he knew better.
A monster slouched past my apartment window last night, its shoulder on the thirty-fifth floor. I tried to get its attention, but it just skulked onward towards the west.
This morning I woke up early to check the news. There was no mention of my monster. I was sadly disappointed.
Andrew Black is a writer of weird fiction and has had stories featured in anthologies by May December Publications and SNM Horror Magazine. Andrew has a blog with news of the weird and tips for writing at maskofreason.wordpress.com.