The warrant for arrest is written in the stiffest, most official of legalese on the stiffest, most official of solemnly weighted paper: it is signed and sealed, stamped and sent on a Wednesday.
And returned unserved on a Friday.
“The suspect is buried at Rosemouth Lawn Cemetery.
“Current whereabouts…
Unknown.”
Lorraine Manton is currently studying creative writing and literature at Deakin University, Australia and has a great fondness for books, coffee, and small slices of imaginary lives.
Mother spray-painted the car; “voices” told her to hide.
Psych meds scattered everywhere, memories of lullabies linger, Mama’s gonna buy you a mockingbird, before grabbing you from bed, at six, screaming, “Lord, take us!”
Now, if sleep comes, you snatch that swift, dark bird from clouds, to hear it sing.
Angela Carlton’s fiction has been published in Every Writer, Everyday Fiction, 6S, 50 Word Stories, Spillwords Press, and Paragraph Planet. In 2018, her story “The Roommates,” was made into a short film. In 2023, her story “Swallowed,” was nominated for the Pushcart Prize. See more at Angela Carlton Stories & Art on Facebook.
Morning after graduation: pink dress, crown of diamonds, and expectations.
Rituals.
Cereal before milk, skincare before makeup, appearance before identity.
Her phone buzzed: “Send the pics,” he said.
In each photo, a familiar black shadow clung behind her. Cold hands, widened pupils.
Mirror.
“You’ve changed. We’re done.”
She finally understood.
Joanna is a junior in college with a strong interest in writing. She prefers non-fiction over creative writing, enjoying the clarity, structure, and real-world impact that factual storytelling provides.
She moved methodically, cautiously, taking slow steps as if giving him time to react. She came straight to where he stood, and when he didn’t turn away, she opened her arms and pulled him into a soft embrace. “I missed you,” she said and squeezed, her breath in his ear.
Bob Thurber is the author of six books. Regarded as a master of Flash and Micro Fiction, his work has appeared in Esquire and other magazines, been anthologized 60 times, received a long list of awards, and been utilized in schools and colleges throughout the world. He resides in Massachusetts. Visit his website at BobThurber.net.
Author’s Note: So, I ask, which character is the muse?
A Detroit casino’s sign beams above the garage where two children sleeping in a van are quietly freezing to death. Ann can see the sign, not the warning, from her kitchen three blocks away. She lowers the blinds and goes back to slicing the tender yellow flesh of a pineapple.
Lauren is an Assistant Professor of Mortuary Science. She enjoys writing poetry that leans into short fictional fragments.
Joe Smith sizes up the pizza delivery guy through the peephole: manicured mustache, uniform too tight, possible U.S. Marshal. He slides twenty-five bucks through the mail slot.
“Keep the change.”
“Thanks. You gonna open the door?”
“Set the pie on the porch.”
“There’s ants.”
“A little extra protein won’t hurt.”
Hawkelson Rainier dabbles in prose and poetry. His novel, The Lake Erie Lights, is available online.
“If all the world’s a stage and we’re all merely players,” Jemimah railed, “then why’s my life such a dumpster fire in the theatre’s back alley?” Jem had always been known for such drama, usurping her own agency for the opportunity to perform for the cheap seats with a flourish.
Chelan Kingfisher loves dogs. She lives on a beautiful island in the Pacific Northwest with her two best friends, Arrow and Bella. Chelan is the author of one novel and several guided journals. You can visit her website at chelankingfisherauthor.com.
You noticed me?
Some notice their noon-dark shadows don’t move quite right. Others, when they stare into the gloom, see eyes looking back. I’ve been called a house settling, while others swear I live in darkness just beneath the bed.
But you’ve seen me outright.
We’ll have to fix that.
Solomon Knight is an avid reader and writer based out of Louisiana. He has been published by Silent Spark Press. Most days, he can be found daydreaming about grand adventures.
Your mom said you suffered, but smiled through the end. They buried you by the treeline, just over the hill from our first kiss, in the woods, hiding from the rest. I’ll remember you from then, uniform of Batman tee, Chuck Taylors, a crooked grin. Seventeen forever, in my mind.
Eve Cook lives in Atlanta, where she often uses writing to cope with ‘the horrors,’ et al.
‘You weren’t worth it.’ The simple truth, stated for the first time. Words that ripple far into the past, acknowledging years of dog-like devotion.
Words that ripple far into the future, opening avenues of opportunity previously ignored.
A subtle change of emphasis creates even more distance. “He wasn’t worth it.”