She watched him as he slept, how the moonlight spilled across his
body, sliced by venetian blind shadows. She eased her hand into his
He didn’t stir.
She pried open his hand. Pulled the ring over the hump of dry knuckle.
It slid off easily.
He didn’t stir.
Tim Boiteau lives near Detroit with wife and son. He’s a recent
Writers of the Future Contest winner.
My mother’s memory of the poems surprised me. I’d sit with her and listen to her recite, after years of never hinting that she knew any poetry. I wonder if she was reminded of the young farm girl she once was, standing in front of her father, practicing until perfect.
Janine lives and writes in Portland, Oregon where she can’t help but be influenced by the leafless trees shrouded in fog. Winter has its beauty.
Fifty years, my love, fifty years ago. We barely knew our outer selves, but joined at inner core.
From stolen moments in the fields, we followed separate paths.
The years grew long my love, with bodies wrinkled and grey. Now space and time have disappeared, sweet love evolved to more.
Eileen is a grandma twelve times over, who, now retired, has switched from writing as part of her employment for others to writing along her own creative path. She has a poem recently published in Mothers of Angels 2.
The stockings were hung with melancholy.
There had been three stockings in the decorations box. Mr. and Mrs. Jones hung up two. They dropped the third into the trash, almost sickened.
Mrs. Jones turned on the radio. Elvis Presley was crooning, “I’ll have a blue, blue, blue Christmas… without you.”
Tylor James is a twenty-five year old writer living in New Richmond, WI. He writes dark fiction and has had stories, poems, and essays published in such anthology books as ACCURSED: A Horror Anthology, Emerging American Horror Writers: Midwest Region, Emerging Wisconsin Writers: An Anthology of Non-Fiction, and Willow River Writers Anthology. Tylor is prolific, having written forty-five short stories and one novel in the year 2019 alone.
How I remember the day we met: my beagle strayed into his yard; Christmas lights; strains of music!
We became friends. Then lovers. He promised more.
Years later, his eyes welled as he took wedding vows. I stood behind his bride; relieved at not being deceived by promises twice over.
Mandira Pattnaik writes in India. Her work has appeared in Eclectica Magazine, Lunate, Runcible Spoon, FewerThan500, 50wordstories and elsewhere. She tweets at @MandiraPattnaik.
Travel had been costly, the funeral a blur.
He couldn’t recall why they’d become estranged.
A tug on the lead prompted him to release the Yorkie to belt along the lane and off into the snow-trimmed shrubs.
Movement snatched his eyes to the starkly camouflaged magpie.
Its croak seemed commiserative.
Irish writer Perry McDaid lives in Derry under the brooding brows of Donegal hills which he occasionally hikes in search of druidic inspiration. He even finds it on occasion.
The scream rips from my mouth, taking dark shape, all hairy legs and teeth and talons. It lands on the bed, gutting the mattress. It assaults the walls, clawing chunks of drywall away. Then it shatters the window, escaping.
I stand in the wreckage, horrified.
I long to escape, too.
Kristin Fast likes the shape words make in her mouth, and enjoys corralling them on the page.
He comes home late, breezes through and reminds me of that song. He smiles; this is how it’s done. How he’s always done it.
You are my trophy, that smile says. You are my possession.
I try to remember the day but I cannot. Time is endless. Back, forward. Now.
M. Blackmars is a writer in New England.
He took a can of beer from the fridge and shook it. In the living room, concealing a smirk, he handed it to Nora. She pulled the tab. The beer exploded. He licked it off her face, neck, shoulders while she giggled, and that was the end of their argument.
Kay Rae Chomic is a published novelist (A Tight Grip). She has flash writings published in Crack the Spine, Five:2:One’s The Side Show, Writer Advice, Two Sisters Writing, Hysteria 6 (UK), and The First Line. She had a story shortlisted for the flash fiction contest sponsored by Hastings LitFest-2019 (UK). Kay lives in Seattle, loves to travel, has a passion for ping pong, and is a Motown fan forever.
It was the color of fall, when the gilded sun rises warmly in the southeast corner of the sky. It was the time of beautiful death, when all the trees catch fire, awaiting the spiteful winter chill to put them out.
I didn’t always hate the fall. Not before her.
Andrew is an unpublished fiction writer in the Washington area. In his spare time he enjoys pens, pads, word processors and pudding.