Amy checked her seatbelt. Seats were filling… yet, more passengers still boarded.
“Hope I don’t get kicked off,” she muttered.
“I won’t do that.”
Amy turned her head. A lanky guy in a black, hooded robe towered over her.
“I’ve been running my transportation business for ages. I never overbook.”
Joey doesn’t like it when his bookings aren’t respected. You can visit him at joeytoey.com
at anytime. No need to book.
Amplitudes of emotion
coursed his veins, his young flesh
wed to eyes in constant motion.
On her perch he envisioned heavenly
auras enhanced by multitudes of color
from his imagination.
With a tongue numbed by inaction,
he sensed little to risk and quipped,
“Don’t I know you from church camp?”
Fred Miller is a California writer. Over forty of his stories have appeared in various publications around the world. Some of these stories appear in his current blog
“The boogeyman isn’t real,” was the last thing my dad said before I shoved him into the closet and slammed the door. I plugged my ears and sang “la la la” until he stopped screaming. Of course, I felt bad later, but nobody talks about my best friend like that.
Larry Hinkle is an advertising copywriter living with his wife, two dogs, and a cat in the suburbs of Omaha, Nebraska. When he’s not writing stories that scare people into peeing their pants, he writes ads that scare people into buying adult diapers lest they get caught peeing their pants.
I couldn’t have anticipated such a boisterous reception, just for winning a preliminary heat at a swimming gala.
The crowd went wild the moment I left the pool! People fist-pumping! Woop-woops echoing everywhere!
Overcome, I took a bow.
Then I realised.
Those were my red trunks bobbing on the water.
Neil writes what he likes. Sadly, nobody likes what he writes.
She watched the woman named Stella adjusting her wedding veil in the mirror. Moving beside her, their eyes met in reflection.
“Please don’t marry him or you’ll be unhappy the rest of your life.”
Stella turned to her. “Are you a distant cousin?”
“I’m your granddaughter,” she said and disappeared.
Susan Cornford is a retired public servant, living in Perth, Western Australia. To date, she has (co)won only one competition but has been short-listed or made finalist for numerous others. She has pieces published or forthcoming in Antipodean Science Fiction, Ghost Parachute, Switchblade, The Fable Online, The Gambler and The Vignette Review. She now considers herself an emerging flash writer.
Four AM, there’s the garbage truck. Every other morning it wakes me up. I wonder if he’s as tired as I am.
Hopefully he doesn’t notice how big that darn bag is. It’s heavier than I had expected. I always told her she should diet.
Then I forgot the T.
James P. Spitznogle is an aspiring writer from the early yet dark hills of West Virginia
Grandpa’s pain stops with his heart. Amid brilliant white light and the fury of a whirlwind, he is lifted and flies rejoicing to God.
He wakes joyously. “Lord, I’m saved!”
His angel smiles. “Only just. It’s a miracle you got to hospital in time. We had to send a helicopter.”
Viv Burgess says her inspiration has been absent without leave, and she is not a-mused.
She’d hummed it at home, at the park, and on date night, too.
As wide as on their wedding day, her husband’s grin dwarfed her frustration of being unable to place the song.
Realisation came on her way to work: her last victim’s ringtone, in the trunk of her car.
When someone asks Tony to stop whistling, he promptly begins humming instead.
An uncle told me TV laughter was dead people—It’s canned, he said. For years I couldn’t eat tuna, soup, or beans.
Until the bombs.
Now, canned food is all that’s left—hoarded in caves and holes. And let me tell you, no one’s laughing anymore. Not even the dead.
Daniel DiFranco lives in Philadelphia. He graduated from Arcadia University with an MFA in Creative Writing. His words can be found in Smokelong Quarterly, LitroNY, and others. Full list of pubs and miscellany can be found at danieldifranco.net
One cold winter’s morning,
not so long ago,
the knights grumbled and complained,
as they strapped on their protective armor.
Boots, gloves, chest protectors, and hats.
They mustered by the door, reluctantly ready.
The trumpet sounded,
dad opened the door,
and watched the kids race to catch the school bus.
John Fowler served twenty years in the US Air Force before retiring and starting a second career in the IT field. He is also a Lay Pastor serving a small church near his home in Texas. His hobbies include reading, golfing, writing, and now oil painting.