It’s cold here, and bleak.
They say not even love is real anymore. Some of them anyway.
There’s so much noise here it’s hard to hear anything.
As the TV blares the day’s grand dramas, I hear you sneeze.
Who knows what’s real?
Either way, I have what I want.
James P. Spitznogle is an aspiring writer from the bright and hopeful hills of West Virginia.
The author bit her lip. “Well?”
“I’m pleasantly surprised,” replied the editor. “The world’s remarkably believable, although ludicrous! Creating these human characters with only two legs! It’s absurdly wonderful.”
The author beamed. “The characters took on a life of their own. It seemed as if they believed they were real.”
Melanie Rees is an Australian speculative fiction writer. She has published over 70 stories and poems in markets such as Apex, Daily Science Fiction, and Aurealis. More information can be found at flexirees.wordpress.com or on Twitter.
Taking off her eponymous heels, Spanx, push-up bra, contoured make-up, doll-face lashes and hair extensions, she complained bitterly that he wasn’t honest with her, while, oblivious to irony, he admired his reflection in his favourite mirror, applauding his own insight on the importance of artistic integrity in the New West.
A breeze scuttles through the jostling limbs of the coppiced chestnuts, and they clatter like masts in a marina.
In my imagination, when the hill is stripped bare, these trees will be crafted into green-winged ships, thrusting proudly towards the broad horizon.
In reality, I know they’ll become fence posts.
“Do you know who I am?” I ask her in a gentle tone.
“I don’t know who you are, but there is one thing I’m certain about.” As she answers me, a sweet smile appears on her face. “You are not real. You are in my dream.”
I wake up.
The streetlight and trees conspire to turn my ceiling into a dance floor every night, a masquerade of ghouls and long-limbed shadowy dancers flailing arms and legs. His legs drape across me, stop me from floating to whirl with them, my bedsheet a bridal gown, the pillow my swelling belly.
Mohini Malhotra is from Nepal and lives in Washington, DC. She runs a social enterprise that promotes contemporary women artists from emerging markets and invests profits to better women’s and girls’ lives. She loves words, she loves flash, and she has had several stories published (in Blink-Ink and 50-Word Stories, amongst others) and several forthcoming.
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.
An animated Lion raises one eyebrow while staring through him.
Does he run? Does he glare back?
Reality is always contorted for his abused, fragile mind. Even the Lion is dubious of his capacity.
Against the odds, he makes a dash to safety.
Maybe soon he will open his eyes.
Two rectangular prongs and one round prong. Perfection.
Joe had worked at Hob’s Hardware long enough to know that, at least. These three prongs were the holy triumvirate, the electron bearers, the voltage senders, the ohm inducers.
In these troubled days, that was all he was truly certain of anymore.