Give me creosote, sidewinders, the lone call of a coyote on top of a mesa, the silver sliver of a cold desert moon. Follow the train whistle scream, the chug and iron stink of steam.
Pull the handkerchief over my mouth. Spare the women and children.
Ride like the wind.
Alison grew up in the Wild West, but hasn’t robbed any trains… yet. You can read more of her writing at alisonmcbain.com
When the radiation cleared, they were ready.
When they ventured, blinking, out onto the surface, they were overwhelmed, but they were ready.
When they followed the maps, found the seed vault intact, they were ready.
When a fat mouse ran across the littered cement floor – no one was ready.
Sarah Krenicki likes writing short fiction about large things.
“Hey! Stick your head out, Yank. Need some target practice.”
“How ’bout this, Reb?”
“Dang! You got ham?”
“Reckon. Whatchew got?”
“Meetcha middle the creek.”
“Hold your fire! Ham for tobacco!”
“‘Preciate it, Reb. Been dyin’ for a smoke.”
“Yup. How’s Mama?”
“Sends you her love.”
Henry F. Tonn is a semi-retired psychologist who has written a sterling novel entitled “Ascent to Madness, Zelda Fitzgerald’s Gilded Cage” which is is having a great deal of difficulty finding a home in the publishing world.
My name is Ten. I have killed ten people. My lover, my lover’s lover, their child. The Avalon brothers, boom boom boom. Four. Five. Six. Seven almost killed me, but Seven Eight Nine, all in a row. Ten? Just a job. This? Another job.
My name is Eleven.
L.S. Engler writes from outside of Chicago, though she grew up chasing dragons in the woods of Michigan. She is the editor of the World Unknown Review and author of the Slayer Saga, a trilogy about zombies. Her work has appeared in many anthologies and magazines, including the Saturday Evening Post, Phantaxis Magazine, and Pulp Modern.
The centurion realized they were doomed
surrounded by barbarian hordes
Not his choice, being sent to Germania
To die on foreign soil, in this supposed adventure
For the Glory of Rome and Gaius Cornelius Tacitus
He marked the time on his Rolex
The professor was wrong
Time travel… really sucked
Paul Hock wrote this story.
You fell in love with me at first sight. I loved you long before that.
We met at the corner shop: you were unshaven, hungover, your hair still wet from the shower.
I had rehearsed my opening lines, been planning my outfit for thirteen years.
You didn’t stand a chance.
Guy is still waiting for the fame and prosperity promised to him three years ago by a fortune cookie. This is his nineteenth 50-word story.
Being alone was the least of his worries. Looking out at the void, the emptiness was hypnotic, enticing him outside.
His crew was sadly gone and two years remained until his arrival. “But who will need rescuing by then?” he thought.
He switched the ship to autopilot just in case.
The procession stomped past, kicking up red sand. Participants dressed in blue and green, holding banners in remembrance of Planet Earth, singing old songs.
Annie squeezed her grandmother’s hand.
“Nana. What are we celebrating?”
“It’s been fifty years since we had to leave,” she replied, gazing at the empty sky.
David Turton is a fiction author, flitting between science fiction, post-apocalyptic horror and straight-up terror. Look out for his published work across various online publications as well as a forthcoming Body Horror Anthology due in late 2017.
Mikolo woke up tired. His hair felt heavy and his throat burnt. A masked man came into the room and gave him some water.
The man left and locked the door. Mikolo did his business in the corner. He could hear unbearable screaming from down the hall.
He was next.
Dan Shushko is a Ukrainian writer from Lviv.
to the ocean,
in vine leaves,
and throws one
from the water –
in the sun.
but all she needs
is his kiss.
writes novels, flash fiction and the occasional poem.