We brought a dead fox into our house.
My sad mother said, “We can’t leave it there, not like that.” She tidied it up, sweetened its death mask.
I felt sick but sad too, just like mother said.
The fleas thought, “This is the best thing that’s happened to us.”
Richard lives in England and enjoys wondering where his readers are.
You say they’re a beautiful sky blue—
that may slow your tumors.
You take the sky
into your body
with your morning tea.
I imagine you
in today’s snow, making angels
as we did when small—
____ice-crusted fringe of tree-tops,
____glint of winter sun, the dazzling
Jennifer L. Freed mostly writes poems, which have appeared in various journals and anthologies. The above was originally published in The Worcester Review (at 57 words), but someone inspired her to see if she could trim it and send it here. The above-mentioned pills worked for about ten months. See more at jfreed.weebly.com.
They stopped listening when the truck hit us. From the back seat I’d been explaining Three- and Five-Act Structure.
The side door crumpled and I realised my mistake: this was Act Five of my story, not Act Two.
Maybe the Midpoint of the lorry driver’s arc, Point of No Return.
Tom O’Brien is an Irishman living in London. He’s been published in numerous places across the web and has short stories printed in Blood & Bourbon, Blink-Ink, and DEFY! Anthologies. His novella Straw Gods will be published by Reflex Press in 2020. He’s on Twitter at @tomwrote and his website is tomobrien.co.uk.
Sleeping outside, away from the din of the city, they had a window into the glitter of a million worlds, and all it took to blast their minds free of Earth-bound problems was to stare into galaxies just hanging there, waiting for the next trillion years to come and go.
Linda Saldaña is an escaped tech writer now addressing the meaning of life 50 words at a time – or maybe a little more. Recent work can be found in Poydras Review and Every Day Fiction.
In the morning she takes fresh bearings,
assessing the terrain, gauging the distance.
Night rain has left a low-lying mist distorting the landscape.
Maybe there exists, just beyond the farthest hill,
something else, something more to view
than lowland haze hiding steep rocky hills.
The wind blows right through her.
For C., of course.
Bob Thurber is the author of “Paperboy: A Dysfunctional Novel” and two collections of stories. A celebrated master of Flash and Micro Fiction, his work has appeared in 60 anthologies, received dozens of awards, and been used in schools and colleges throughout the world. He resides in Massachusetts where, though legally blind, he continues to write every day. Visit his website at BobThurber.net.
The child therapist gave me a box of Crayola markers, told me to match the colors to my emotions.
“This is stupid.”
He said, “I know.”
I grabbed the black marker and discarded the rest.
He sighed. “Your mother is going to die.”
Without looking up, I said, “I know.”
Avra Margariti is a queer Social Work undergrad from Greece. She enjoys storytelling in all its forms and writes about diverse identities and experiences. Her work has appeared in Wolfpack Press, The Writing District, Dime Show Review, and Page & Spine.
They argued more and more. She said it was a temporary thing; he wasn’t so sure.
Pooh sticks off the bridge would determine their future.
From the other side of the bridge, only one stick appeared. She said they were now one; he said they needed to go separate ways.
Stuart is a retired teacher living in Christchurch New Zealand. He has never let Pooh sticks determine his life choices. Perhaps he should have.
I’m sitting on the floor, looking up at a woman. She’s walking round the house picking things up then putting them back down somewhere else. She looks at me with a huge smile then goes all squeaky and high-pitched, starts telling me how cute I am.
This happens every day.
Zoe, age 16, wrote this story.
“Play it, Sam.”
I play it, sing it, my black fingers aching to caress your white face.
Do I have any chance with you, Ilsa? I could at least profess to you. See what happens.
Rick swoops in. My boss.
“Sam, I thought I told you never to play—”
David is a professor at Seton Hill University in Greensburg, PA, and a student in Seton Hill’s MFA in Writing Popular Fiction Program.
The typhoon decimated the village.
Huts were razed to ground level; palm trees had snapped like matchsticks. Rotting corpses and flooding were giving rise to disease and more death. Post-disaster survival was paramount here.
Across the globe, a starlet with handbag Chihuahua was complaining about her caviar and lobster bisque.
Melanie Cranenburgh wrote this story.