Tonight, I’m perfumed. To you I am a shell. I am a template for beautiful paints. But I am bones, and ending, fast.
I thirst for touch beyond the surface. I want to break myself and show you my insides. Then I want to ask you, “Am I pretty now?”
Addy Evenson is a 21-year-old writer who writes magical realism, horror, and general fiction. Her fiction has appeared in literary magazines such as Prime Mincer, Bourbon Penn, and Curbside Splendor. She learns from libraries. She wanders the country, and writes to find home.
His hands touched me in ways you are not imagining but in ways I cannot forget.
Those hands were the first to touch my tiny, ten-fingered, ten-toed body; the same hands that punched a hole in the bathroom mirror, leaving only his anger and his absence to remember him by.
Madison is a MFA graduate student studying Fiction at Chatham University in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. She spends her time writing, reading, and watching too many movies, if there is such a thing.
The sticky sweet pain burns through your insides like hot treacle. It sits heavy in your stomach like too rich chocolate cake, mountains of sugar rushing like adrenaline from the sheer gluttony of pain.
They insist that pain is leaden.
Pain is sweet enough to make you sick.
Nikita Gill is the editor of lit journal Modern Day Fairytales. She has also written an ebook called Your Body is an Ocean and has been featured in Monkeybicycle.net
The soldiers made him pull the trigger, bury a bullet in his mother’s forehead, watch his village burn.
Some day, he thought, I’ll kiss a girl and see skyscrapers.
His knees collided with now-sacred ground. He gagged on the ashes of his soul.
Through smoky tears, he prayed. Some day.
Salena Casha’s work has appeared or is forthcoming in Stymie Magazine, Bete Noire, The Quotable, Silver Blade and others. Follow her on twitter @salaylay_c.
I escape the house and run, crying, into the backyard. Examining hand-shaped bruises on my small body, I notice an anthill. Yesterday, I watched these ants a long time. Today is different. Raging, I stomp the anthill flat. Ants scurry in panic and writhe in pain.
It doesn’t help much.
Sam Gem is a writer of flash fiction, short stories, and maybe a novel someday. He resides in upstate New York.
She heard the saw cease its whirring.
Her love stomped in, dewdrops of sweat lining his creased forehead, clutching a crude cedar carving of a heart.
He had suffered so much, and still laboured under the weight of the memories, but today, it seemed, his stomps fell a little lighter.
Happy Valentine’s Day!
This story is based on a title suggested by @PoshPlatypus.
“Ow! Oooooow!! Ouch! Ooh… Aah… Huuuaaaah… OH!! Woooow… Whoa! Aaaah! It burns! Eeeeek! Aaaaargh! Nyyyuuuurrgh… WWWAAAAAAAAUUGHH!! Hoooly mother of painburgersssss… GRROOOOAARGH IT HURTS SO BAAAAD!! No, why, why!?!? Ooow!! Never again! I swear on your grandmother’s grave if you ever even BHAAAAAUGH!!! OW OW OW!!”
“…I said I was sorry.”