Waiting for the bombers, I turned off the light and the room floated in obscurity. We listened to the buzz of thirsty mosquitoes, the fall of spiders, and the hiss of the melting candles.
The dust whispered in the air and we went deaf, listening to the moon, shining cold.
Azarin Sadegh, a 2011 PEN USA Emerging Voices fellow, and a former student of the late Les Plesko, is working on her 100,000 word novel.
Traps are everywhere. We cannot venture out. We are cornered in this house we called home before the enemy showed its face.
All exits are blocked. Food supplies are dwindling. This is war.
Last night he chased us behind the refrigerator with a broom. Called us vermin.
We are doomed.
Alison Cooper is a UK artist residing in Los Angeles. She loves the challenge of culling words to get to the core, and has had her short stories published in Everyday Fiction and 50-Word Stories.
When darkness fell over the Rappahannock, the guns rested, but fighting continued.
One side fired “Battle Hymn of the Republic”, the other returning shots of “God Save the South”.
They fought until one side played “Home, Sweet Home!” The other repeated. They sang together.
Tomorrow, they’d return to their guns.
Matthew Gregory is a writer and filmmaker living in South Florida. Some of his work can be found at geronimatt.tumblr.com.
The newspapers and newscasts mostly report faceless statistics. But after the war, a letter came. Her brother had survived the blast, but their parents were dead.
“I’m staying with friends now,” he wrote. “And I still get tears in my eyes when I walk by what was once our home.”
Alex dedicates this story to his mother, who received such a letter many years ago.
Missing in action, believed killed, said the telegram.
Seven years later he’s here at my door, recovering from amnesia.
What do I do about the new husband? What do I do about the baby in the crib? And what about the man on the doorstep I promised to love forever?
Carol Browne first appeared on the planet in 1954. She regards Crewe, Cheshire, as her home town and graduated from Nottingham University in 1976 with an honours degree in English Language and Literature. Now living in the Cambridgeshire countryside with her cockatiel, Sparky, when she’s not writing fiction, Carol spends her time as a housekeeper, proofreader, and ghost writer in order to pay the bills.
As war dragged on, Saleema wrote a story about white doves bringing peace.
Her sister scoffed. “This would never happen.”
Fighting tears, Saleema ripped up the paper and let the wind grab the pieces. They soared skyward, multiplying, sprouting feathers and wings.
People on both sides looked up and wondered.
Joanne R. Fritz lives in West Chester, PA. Her short fiction and poetry have appeared in Vine Leaves Literary Journal, Fifty Word Stories, Every Day Fiction, and Twisted Endings.
He sighed at the fiery shells of what used to be houses, shops, offices… Thick black smoke billowed. Charred bodies were scattered along the streets. It’s just like my city, he thought as scant sunbeams pierced the ashen haze.
But it was theirs.
He huffed, reloaded: the payback must continue.
Joey tries to write a little. You can find him and abuse him at joeytoey.com
Coming back after the devastation was an exercise in defamiliarization. The battered door protested as she dragged it open. The odour of ghosts. A bloody orgy of hatred was scrawled on the walls. Dust danced in her favourite nooks.
She’d baked cookies in this kitchen once. Now she’d make bombs.
Aparna Nandakumar lives in Calicut, India, and writes stories and poems. Her work has been published or is forthcoming in Atticus Review, A Story in 100 Words, Cafe Dissensus, and Red River Review. She blogs at aparnanandakumar.wordpress.com.
“There they are. A miracle they survived the day.”
“A good find, sir. Shall I tell Cook?”
“I mean them for young Hart, Wilson.”
“Of course, sir.”
“He pointed them out after Reveille. He said — he said how he particularly enjoyed raspberries.”
“Tell the men to dig here.”
Kathy is a former actor, current mother, and constant writer. She has also written for Timeless Tales Magazine and the upcoming Diner Stories: Off the Menu.
Trapped in a cellar, with little ammunition.
They shouted to him:
he’d heard propaganda,
they weren’t barbarians,
he’d be treated okay,
He was doubtful, but he didn’t want to die. He threw the AK rifle up through the trapdoor.
They beat him senseless.
Some time later, he died.
Ruby Ray has been a Jill of many trades and mistress of some of them. Anyway, she hopes to have mastered (mistressed?) a few more before she takes it easy for good.