I must fix my time machine, but every night she comes dancing in the woods and I’m lost.
I wanted to give my legacy to science, not lose it to history, but maybe I’ll ask her name tonight. Maybe she’ll love me,
Maybe they’ll remember Robin Loxley, after all.
Matthew Wilson, 34, has been published over 150 times in such places as Horror*Zine, Zimbell House Publishing, Star*Line, Alban Lake, and many more. He is currently editing his first novel.
They said he couldn’t do it. They said it was impossible for him to become a confectioner. He’d failed culinary school over and over again.
But here he was, baking a cake for the Chief Examiner. He let out a happy sigh as he slipped the poison into the pastry.
Balázs Papp is a 16 years old student in Hungary, he plays soccer, (or football if you will), enjoys dancing, and in his free time, he occasionally writes short stories or poems. He apologizes for any grammatical mistake made on his behalf.
The exhausted hero stumbled into the village square, dragging a monstrous, gruesome trophy behind him.
Onlookers gasped as he pulled the creature’s head from the stained sack. Its green eyes glimmered in the sunlight as he tossed it aloft.
It hit the ground with a wet thud.
The proletariat cheered.
Daniels is a writer of horror and weird fiction. His short stories have been featured in Corner Bar Magazine, Helix Magazine, and various anthologies. He lives in New England with his wife, kids, and a couple of devious cats. Find out more at bldaniels.wordpress.com
Clouds bulge grey and spit fat drops into my river, slate-grey in reflection. I relish their wanton lack of care, their wild abandon, their unthinking fall and splash.
Then come the bereft, sad, homeless seeking shelter under my bridge.
I welcome them, my teeth razors, my mouth waiting underwater.
Aisling Green wrote this story.
“This won’t hurt a bit,” I whispered to the assassin operative from behind as I administered the lethal injection. His body crumpled to the floor. I felt badly but I had my orders.
Our team’s cleaner arrived. He unexpectedly grabbed me, needling me in the neck.
“This won’t hurt a…”
Connie Taylor is not an assassin. By day she is an Operations Manager; by night a writer and reader. This is her third fifty-word story.
His wife sneered at him, her eyes heavy with disappointment.
“While you’ve been in jail, I’ve turned my life around. I won second prize in a beauty contest and I’ve started to invest in property. I can’t wait around for a loser like you,” she spat.
Kevin sighed. “Monopoly sucks!”
Jo Withers is a shrewd, short-sighted Sagittarius. Her debut children’s novel will be published in April 2018.
Trying to outrun his pursuer, the terrified man scrambled and stumbled. It was too late; gigantic spiked forearms grabbed him. His captor was the size of a car.
Inside the Rhinoceros Beetle’s underground lair, human specimens of varying ethnicities were neatly arranged and labelled—each impaled with a giant pin.
Melanie cringes with horror when recalling the time she was made to stick pins into arthropods for a science project.
“Bargaining with the Sidhe is dangerous. They can’t be trusted!”
I ignored her.
“I want to live forever,” I told them.
“Then we’ll give you a form that will last through eternity,” they replied.
Now I stand here in the circle, one stone among many, watching the aeons drift past.
Bill lives in Aberdeen, Scotland. As he rises to the top of his profession, he awaits with morbid curiosity his inevitable fall from grace.
In the deadest hour of night, a tangerine-colored torrent arrives.
My girlfriend’s terrified; I drag her half-clothed from the blanket to shield her from the forest’s scathing flames. Wholeheartedly she clings to me, though I know only yesterday her eyes wandered.
Somewhere deep in my pocket, the matchbox shifts restlessly.
EO’s fairly certain that arson isn’t the way to a woman’s heart. It’s probably bacon or something. Unless she’s vegan. Then maybe it’s veggie bacon.
Floorboards creak as the man steals towards the sleeping girl.
Standing over her peaceful form, heart pounding against his ribs, he leans and sticks his hand under her pillow to replace the hand-stitched bag containing her incisor with a dollar. She stirs but does not wake.
“Goodnight, pumpkin,” he whispers.
Tasie E. George is a twenty-year old, as-of-yet unpublished writer, born, raised, and residing in Nigeria.