Matthew is in surgery to have a large tumor removed from his brain. Matthew hopes it’s not malignant. After the operation Matthew recovers quickly.
Matthew’s doctor comes in and briefs him.
Matthew is happy to learn it wasn’t a tumor, though he wishes the poor alien didn’t have to die.
Denny E, Marshall had had art, poetry, and fiction published. One recent credit is fiction in Night To Dawn 35 April 2019. See more at dennymarshall.com.
A man trudged from his job in the service industry—the only work he could get—when a thug held him at gunpoint.
“Don’t shoot!” he begged.
The thug fired once… and felt seven rounds pierce his own chest.
“How…!?” he protested, dying.
“The name’s Cain,” the waiter replied miserably.
E.O. thinks there are probably some people in the world who should never be poked with a stick. Ever. Like gynecologists and postal employees.
I’d meant to drive the hitchhiker all the way to Chicago, but she smelled bad, so I kicked her out as soon as we reached Lake Michigan. I was sorry I couldn’t take her home, but my fuel economy improved a lot without her body rolling around in the trunk.
Hannah Whiteoak doesn’t drive. She tweets microfiction at @HannahWhiteoak.
Thousands of horsemen we once were, occupying an underappreciated metaphysical niche: the ceaseless minor pains, the unending annoyances. Seasonal allergies. Multiple choice tests. Paper cuts.
Separately, we lacked apocalyptic dread, but together…
Then came the consultants, wielding their Recommendations.
“Operational efficiencies?” we mused. “We have no rider by this name.”
Iain Young once applied to be one of the Four Horsemen. Then he found out you’re always on call. Forget that.
You could set your watch by Old Man Haney’s trip to the mailbox. That’s how I knew something was wrong Thursday morning.
A sense of foreboding set in.
I was about to call 911 when I saw the widow Wilkins leaving his house.
But you didn’t hear that from me.
Susan Gale Wickes is from Indiana. In addition to writing poetry and short stories, she enjoys penning aphorisms and epigrams.
Her father noticed she was still playing with the pile of tea bags.
“Shall we put them away now, darling?”
“Leave them. They’re my friends.”
She had discovered beings that exactly resembled her true form, albeit of limited intelligence. Her next report would certainly create a stir on the mothership.
David Mark Williams lives in Scotland and writes poetry and short fiction. He has published two poetry collections to date: The Odd Sock Exchange and Papaya Fantasia. See more at davidmarkwilliams.co.uk.
I ate it. All of it. It was terrible.
My taste receptors burned with acid and salt. Still, my digestive system accepted it, converting the mass consumed into precious needed energy.
My next meal was twice as big, mostly blue and green, much more delicious-looking.
Third rock from the sun.
AJ Joseph gardens while waiting for inspiration to hit her. In the meantime, she occasionally writes at Words from Sonobe.
She held him, squeezed him, his musk comforting but making the decision impossible. She couldn’t believe it had come to this.
The doorbell rang.
No! she lamented. Taxi’s early.
She kissed Mr. Bear, placed him on the top shelf of her closet.
You’ll always be my guy. But it’s time.
A graduate of York University, Stephen Ground now lives in his head, scraping by peddling floors and sometimes unsolicited advice. Find his work in The Esthetic Apostle, Sky Island Journal, Flash Fiction Magazine, The Sunlight Press, and elsewhere.
I knew this stupid wall would be trouble. We intercepted intelligence to “Scramble.” By the time I got there it was chaos. Absolute carnage. There were militia everywhere, cavalry included. The rank stench of death hung in the air. I retched.
My initial impression was that Humpty Dumpty was pushed.
David McTigue is from Liverpool, UK. Writes flash fiction and poetry and loves music, football, crosswords, cookery, reading, and his wife, three kids, and baby grandson.
A cherub-faced, golden-haired toddler grins at me from a faded poster. Cute kid, but it’s the age progression sketch beneath the photo that stops me cold.
I study my reflection in the post office window and my stomach knots.
Looks like my “mom” owes me one heck of an explanation.
Jenni Cook spends her days in the courtroom as a corporate litigation attorney and her nights in front of the computer, making up stories. She is the author of several short stories, and is currently working on the first novel in a series called The Millicent Chronicles, about a centuries-old witch whose unique method of conflict resolution plays a role in history and present-day events. When she’s not writing or litigating, she enjoys acting, painting upholstered furniture, and rooting for her nephew’s college baseball team (#goscotsgo). Jenni lives in Northwest Arkansas with her Australian Shepherd, Jasper, whose antics are the source of much entertainment.