She stopped at the gate. “I’ve changed my mind.”
“Come on. Are you still scared?”
“If you had been at Vegas…”
“That was years ago. We’re together now; nothing will happen to us.”
“You’re right.” She took his hand. “Let’s go in.”
Unnoticed, a little red dot probed the crowd.
David Arnold is a veteran and retired academic living in central Kentucky. He has published in Narrative, Raven’s Perch, Microfiction Monday and 50 Word Stories
His head thrummed through mixed conversations which crept down the aisle of the 35 bus. He patted the saxophone case.
He wasn’t musical. He preferred to write short stories since his psychotic breakdown.
He could have walked to High Street, but the hot Edinburgh summer made the Kalashnikov especially heavy.
Irish writer Perry McDaid lives in Derry under the brooding brows of Donegal hills which he occasionally hikes in search of druidic inspiration.
Water drives down around me making the world shake. I am buffeted from all sides. In total isolation there is no-one to hear me scream. My hands are clammy with sweat as I slip backward into an eternity of fear.
It is impossible to overcome claustrophobia in the car wash.
Carol Argyris lives in the North of Scotland, has had poems and flash fiction published in various small press magazines and on-line sites. Her inspiration mostly arrives when sitting in cafés watching the world pass by.
A set of screams had been heard days ago. A police officer went to check the Millers’ house to see if everything was all right.
“Regan,” he said. “Honey, where are your parents?”
“I tried to tell them my doll was bad,” she said. “But she got to them first.
Kelsey D. Garmendia, 23, graduated with a Bachelors Degree in English with a concentration in Creative Writing. Garmendia is featured in Midnight Screaming, Poydras Review, My Unfinished Novel, The Stonesthrow Review, Penduline Press and Embodied Effigies. She has two self-published novels titled Burn Our Houses Down and If I Lose.
The butler beckoned me to follow. He reeked of evil intentions, but I reluctantly moved forward.
When the lights flickered out, I spun around wildly until a bone chilling scream froze me with fear.
Then, with my heart pounding, I whispered, “Albescu?”
He didn’t respond,
…but death eagerly welcomed me.
Mrs. Lessard resides in Vermont where she aspires to be a published author someday. Until then, she is content to entertain her four children with her numerous creative tales.