When I was seven I saw forks rising out of the mattress underneath me as I arched above them, terrified.
It happened again last night.
Too old and infirm to move, I lie here impaled by phantom forks through my eyes, mouth, heart, and spine.
They all think I’m dead.
Simon Clarke was born in and raised and currently resides in East Anglia, United Kingdom. He has been writing fiction for at least five years and regularly submits to UK and international publications as well as reading short pieces and poetry at open mic events. He is currently working on his first novel and continues to write short stories and poetry.
Forty Winks stands at the precipice, gauging the distance left to travel, weighing out options. Her time is almost at an end, and knowing that, she craves existence even more.
The drop, deep and treacherous, is the only way. She jumps: too late. The alarm pierces through her.
Niamh writes, travels, and meets people who like to share stories.
Mother in evening dress and mink hugs me. Chanel No. 5 and a hint of dead animal deliver separation.
Her hand stroking my face bestows Jergen’s lotion, a thread of connection as she closes the door.
Alone in bed, I stargaze and clutch Snoopy, whose fur smells only of me.
Beth keeps her Winnie-the-Pooh blanket in her safe deposit box next to a Confederate dollar bill. You can find her blog at www.sideglimpses.com.
Amanda woke to crinkling paper.
She squinted at her husband as he flipped through a magazine at 5:00 a.m. on a Sunday. “Do you have to make so much noise this early in the morning?”
Jerry lowered his reading glasses.
“It depends, really… Do you have to snore when you sleep?”
Kristina England resides in Worcester, Massachusetts. Her writing is published or forthcoming in Gargoyle, Short, Fast, and Deadly, Yellow Mama, and other magazines. For more on her writing, visit kristinaengland.blogspot.com.
I hate overnight road trips. They’re always the same, just following a thin white broken line that stretches on forever in a blackened landscape. It draws you into the centre where darkness encroaches from the sides until…
BLOODY HELL! If I didn’t swerve that truck would have got me tonight.
Connell Wayne Regner had successfully avoided writing creatively since he wrote spontaneous lyrics to music many years ago. Although from a linguistic background, he has serendipitously succumbed to fiction after spontaneously creating bedtime stories for his children. His other dabblings can be found at paragraphplanet and wtdmagazine.wordpress.com.
“Among the demonstration events at these 2012 Olympic Games is Sleep Endurance: our two remaining competitors are nearly 48 hours beyond the previous world record.”
“That’s right, Jim. Wait, the referee’s signalling… It’s over! It seems the Brazilian competitor has died. ‘Snorebox’ Jones wins the gold! Let’s go awaken him.”
This story was based on a title suggested by @MetalTeeth9
Check the news, honey. Apparently something crazy happened at work today. I was napping in a storage room. (Hey, I earn my siestas!) The guys didn’t give me many details. When I woke up they said it was over already.
Haircut? What haircut? Why are you laughing? Did someone…?
“Time for bed, princess!” trilled Mom.
Little Mia said, “Why?”
“So you can sleep, and have lots of energy tomorrow.”
“I don’t need sleep.”
“Of course you do, dear.”
Mia laid awake in her big-girl bed all night, wondering what sleep was and why everyone else did it so much.
This story was based on the prompt “what for” at TypeTrigger.
Mia will appear in Special People, my superhero-with-a-twist serial web fiction, in a future story.
I thought stasis would be like sleeping: I’d close my eyes on Earth, and open them a hundred light-years away. I thought it would be an escape.
But it was more like a dream, a slow swirl of half-reality. I spent ten years inside my own head, reliving that memory.
This story was based on the prompt “that memory” at TypeTrigger.
Sometimes when I fall asleep I see pictures moving across the back of my eyelids, strange pastel cartoons, usually, where a round-headed caricature of me is trying to escape from a cloud labelled “Future” or “Responsibility.”
My wife says that sometimes she can see the projector’s flickers behind my eyes.