I’m all cozy in bed when the closet door creaks open.
You’ve got to be kidding me.
Outside, the wind whips and howls. I recall the earlier news report: Escaped convict, armed and dangerous.
The door’s sliver of darkness stares at me.
Should’ve buried them before calling it a night.
Michelle Wilson graduated from Bennington College with a degree in literature and creative writing. Her words have appeared or are forthcoming in 101 Words, Literally Stories, Flash Fiction Magazine, Lost Magazine, Papierdoll, Mr. Beller’s Neighborhood, Healthcare in America, and The Miami Herald. She lives in Miami Beach, Florida.
I remember it well. Me and Neil and Buzz, loping along, kicking up moon dust like cowboys home, home on the range. Only we had no horses and we wore space helmets, not stetsons.
So many times I’ve watched that footage. Yet it’s always a surprise: I’m never in shot.
Thomas Malloch is a retired doctor from Scotland. Always a reader, he thought he might try his hand at writing. He completed a Masters in Creative Writing (Distinction) at theOpen University in 2018. His work has appeared in the barcelona review, Bath Flash Fiction, Reflex Fiction, and Gutter.
Everyone says people should keep away from that solitary house at the dead end of Wolfsbane Street. A witch lives there.
But I’ve been there once, alone, and no harm has befallen me.
Truth be told, she’s an extremely sweet and alluring woman. I’m asking her to marry me tonight.
Clarisse de Jesus believes in love at first sight, depending on her mood. Follow the twists and turns of her turbulent thoughts at autumnleavesnowfalls.wordpress.com.
She has been here at least eight times before, judging by the number of past selves in the crowd. She carefully keeps herself out of their sight. They must not know that they will fail. They will find out soon enough.
She lifts her blaster and locks onto her target.
Reb Elkin writes science fiction & fantasy, and is slightly obsessed with time travel.
They touched our faces, stroked our clothes, fingered our chain-laden necks, loaded us into the coffins. They set the coordinates.
“Why?” I said. “The world is big enough!”
“Hush; there is no air left for you. You took it away when you started breathing.”
“Besides,” another added, “space is bigger.”
Natalie Parsons is a writer and blogger, and she’s trying hard this year to get really good at it. Find more of her writing at itspastmybedtimebut.wordpress.com.
Alex was a deaf, mute tour guide. Today he was under with a group of twenty or so, signing to explain how, just fifty years ago, people worked in these vertical buildings stretching into the sky. In the tallest of them, the upper windows, not far underwater, were still intact.
Tom Harris is an engineer and teacher inspired by daily life. When words fill up his head, he shakes them out on virtual paper.
Icequake from the asteroid hit on Japan. The sky blotted out by dust; snow blackened; crevasses impassable. Communications dead for the past six months.
We celebrate Christmas: dinner is protein biscuits crumbled in water and our remaining brandy. The brandy warms us; later, the cold will numb us to sleep.
Mantz Yorke is a former science teacher and researcher living in Manchester, England. His poems and prose have appeared in print magazines, anthologies, and e-magazines in the UK, Ireland, The Netherlands, Israel, Canada, the US, Australia, and Hong Kong. His poetry collection Voyager is published by Dempsey & Windle.
I think my neighbor’s a psychopath with his vacant, roving eyes. Amazon keeps leaving his packages at my door: wood planks, duct tape, a chainsaw. And then: doghouse instructions.
I call him over, laughing. (I’ve always had an active imagination.)
As he steps inside, I see the leash.
Michelle Wilson graduated from Bennington College with a degree in literature and creative writing. Her words have appeared or are forthcoming in 101 Words, Literally Stories, Flash Fiction Magazine, Lost Magazine, Mr. Beller’s Neighborhood, Healthcare in America, and The Miami Herald. She lives in Miami Beach, Florida.
When they first changed my diapers
I was cutting my baby teeth on Sinatra’s Miami Beach;
Mafia protection was part of the local landscape.
Fast forward; Miami Beach has risen from its own ashes four times,
I am into my second bout of diaper changes,
The Beach, its fifth resurrection.
Jackie’s sense of irony remains her survival tool in today’s colorful, but confounding world.
First night back, I ditch duffel and boots and fall asleep on the floor by his bed.
A click in the dark wakes me. Beside me he sits, Nerf gun in hand.
“What’s up?” I ask.
“Keeping you safe,” he says. Tilts his head at the darkness under the bed.
Graham Robert Scott’s stories have appeared in Pulp Literature, Nature, Barrelhouse, and others.