“I’m sick!” the stranger whispers, in the hospital lift.
Fear takes my breath.
“A sniff a day… prevents… you know?”
“Okay.” I breathe.
He hunkers down.
Wrestles off my left shoe.
The doors ping.
“You’re sick!” I yell, furiously hoping my diagnosis will be infectious.
At night their scaly tails became legs, so he hung bells around their necks to help find them in the morning. The bells hung heavy and pendulous, like a third breast. When his wife was away, he opened the shutters and waited for the scrabble of claws upon the windowsill.
is attempting to write 1,000,000 words in 2016. Please wish him luck!
The ninja kicks in a door, slays bad guys, kicks in a second, slays a few more.
Inside door three, it’s a room full of cats, a circus clown who smiles, honks a horn.
The ninja turns around slowly, removes his mask and says, “I gotta go back to school.”
Michael Marino hails from Santa Barbara, CA and received his MFA in Creative Writing – Fiction from Antioch University, Los Angeles. His short fiction has appeared in the Flint Hills Review and he has contributed as editor to Lunch Ticket, AULA’s literary journal.
I was kayaking alone when I noticed a random tree in the middle of the lake.
It said, “Hi!”… and I froze. I didn’t talk back; I just started kayaking away as fast as I could.
It said, “Where ya goin’?”
I got back to shore and started regretting kayaking.
Brock wrote this story.
She asked me to catch her a squirrel. It was a crazy idea, but I got her a squirrel.
Now she loves me. She even kissed my cheek. I know it sounds insane, but maybe she’ll even marry me now.
She’s happy; I’m happy.
Wait, is that squirrel’s mouth foaming?
John Mark Goforth lives in rural Pennsylvania, where he spends his time writing and being enamored with the blonde girl at school. One of these things is bad for his mental health, but he is not sure which one.
The neighbors had loud arguments at all hours.
I tried everything: I beat on the walls, left increasingly hostile notes, got up at night and screamed through the walls as revenge. Nothing worked.
Finally, I called the landlord.
He told me the unit next door had been vacant for months.
Andy Koopmans wrote this story.
I asked my mom, “Why do dogs eat grass?”
It was then that she started feeding it to me, and I found out that the answer was because it makes them throw up.
I told her my findings but she keeps feeding it to me anyways. I still wonder why.
Joe Russo has been published on two other sites. He is a current writing student and active blogger. He is also an avid fan of Sex and the City.
The knock at the door in the middle of the night caught her off guard. When she answered the summons, the person on the other side said, “Guess who.”
“I don’t know who.”
“Give up?” the person asked.
She pulled the door open. Nobody was there.
Kymberli Roberson lives in Illinois where she is currently hunting down the goblins of writer’s block.
I’d been here innumerable times. A genuine Sisyphean nightmare. Still, ever a slave to destiny, I stepped from my accursed box and threw the dagger. It was instinct now.
My aim improved constantly, but I never had time. The universe is no stranger to irony.
I returned to the box.
Steven is a writer of fiction and Facebook updates. He is proud of one of these and hides another. Alternatingly. Depending on his Facebook posts that day. Read his blog at intimateknowledge.blogspot.com
Gene paces back and forth. He thinks to himself, “How has it come to this? Look at this beautiful scenery… What am I doing?” He feels the pain again. It’s like chronic hunger.
Silence. More eerie silence. Suddenly, a splash like no other. The ripples emanate into eternity.
Michael Lyons is a trier.