Shelly had known they were her husband’s white socks on sight; she’d cleaned them often enough. She recognized them immediately, dangling at eye-level just past the hotel room balcony, with Roy’s feet still inside them.
What she hadn’t recognized was the voice of the girl weeping above.
Cal lives in Hillsborough, NC where he writes experimental fiction, reads detective novels, and talks to his houseplants.
Thump. Thump. Thump. In the dark, I lug the lumpy sack down each stair, muttering curses at the noise. Christmas lights twinkle from the living room. What a surprise they’ll get in the morning.
I peer outside. Snowing. Heavily. Perfect. It’ll cover up my footprints.
And any drops of blood.
Matthew is a secondary school teacher and studied English Literature at the University of Glasgow. His short story ‘Blue Sky’ has just been published in a Centum Press anthology and he is currently seeking representation for his first science fiction novel.
As he fumbled to open the squeaky back door, he cursed himself for not having used WD-40. And there she was, just staring at him, with her revolver at the ready.
“Thank God,” she said. “I thought you were a burglar.”
He smiled in relief as she pulled the trigger.
Fred Vogel is working on a collection of short stories as well as a third collection of poetry. He plays bad guitar but sings like a bird. He lives in the Pacific Northwest.
There are many ways to die on stage, but I never expected this.
Sleight of hand at the props table, the audience blissfully unaware. As the cool blade pierced my skin, a searing pain forced me to my knees.
The knife had been switched. My co-star finally had her revenge.
Anna is a performer and writer from Nottingham, England. Follow her creative journey on Twitter
The note on my door said I had passed away yesterday and my memorial service was tomorrow.
“What is going on?” I wondered. My neighbor had passed me without speaking.
I opened my door and the house smelled of roses. Everyone knew I loved roses.
I sat down and cried.
Linda’s dream is to do nothing but write but she has to eat so there goes the dream.
My chest pounded as I stared at the bed. There lay floral sheets, closed eyes, and my mother’s frail fingers still warm in my hand.
“Let go,” she had said.
“No,” I had told her.
When the fingers grew cold I heard her voice again. That’s when I let go.
Gwendolyn Jacob is rediscovering her fictional roots and has several works in progress.
Alice bunks off school. Going home is safe with parents at work. Entering the hall, she hears something upstairs.
Venturing up, Alice opens the bedroom door.
A strange woman looks back, shocked. She wears too much makeup.
“Who are you?”
“Alice…” the woman says.
It’s her father’s voice.
Viv Burgess worries about the characters she has pushed into the deep end.
I wanted to buy a necklace for my wife as a Christmas gift.
Unfortunately, I really didn’t know what size fit her. Therefore, I decided to measure her neck size when she was asleep.
However, as I was putting a rope on her neck to measure size, she woke up.
Cloris Cui a student at Shenzhen Academy of International Education who wants to learn directing in university.
It’s that level where you’re trapped
and they pour through a window
and I just zapped a bazillion suckers
and I’m like, bring it on
when a hand clamps on my neck
and blood oozes down my arm
and I guess this is what getting your brains eaten feels like.
Christina Dalcher is a linguist, novelist, and flash fiction addict from the Land of Styron and Barbecue. She’d like to raise awareness of the dangers of video game addiction. And zombies. Find her at christinadalcher.com or @CVDalcher.
How is it some words seem to hang in the air? Once spoken, they develop a life of their own, their presence growing from a secret pondering to an ominous being, larger than anything else in the room.
I know what sustains them: the very breath sucked from shocked lungs.
Cathy is a temporarily out of work bookkeeper, taking a little time off to play in the fields of words and exercise the other half of her brain.