We held hands and kissed each other for far too long, until time was mostly gone. The room was bright despite night’s descent.
We laid face down on the wooden floor, reached under the bed, and rubbed their chins, cat by cat.
It was the very end. Their eyes glowed.
Tim Cox lives in Brooklyn with his wife, Karen, and their four cats. See more at instagram.com/timcox.
THUMP.
“It’s them again,” Luna hissed, grabbing Reznor’s upper arm.
He glared at the grotesque-styled ring-handle.
“It mightn’t–”
THUMP… THUMP-THUMP.
She scowled into his right ear.
He noticed because his peripheral vision was exceptional; the Sentry’s had to be.
“They’ll never get out!”
“Then why…?”
“Being damned breeds desperation.”
Irish writer Perry McDaid lives in Derry under the brooding brows of Donegal hills which he occasionally hikes in search of druidic inspiration. He even finds it on occasion.
I bought my ticket, prepared to travel
To fair Verona, for one night only
My guide met me, in doublet and tights
And together we followed the cobbled road
That led to a window, with balcony high
Where a maiden sighed and wondered why
Her lover had brought a rival
Joan Skura writes from Toronto, Canada, where she lives with her husband, Ron, and their finicky feline, Lola.
It’s morning. Early. You stir next to me. Tiny hairs on the back of your neck, patches of fine white silk. Undisturbed by your rustle.
You say I make you anxious. My hovering.
I inch closer. And feel your heat.
Inhaling, I can taste you.
I hover.
And I wait.
Melissa lives in the Washington, DC area with her husband, Ken, dog Scout, and kitty, Mickey. She is an avid reader, writer, runner, and amateur actress.
The search party had given up hope of finding any survivors of the crash. The island reeked of death and the heat was intolerable.
The only survivor had been following them for days, hunger gnawing at his belly. He attacked them that night.
Three weeks later, another search party arrived.
When not writing short fiction, Daniel teaches English in Poland.
See more at facebook.com/ponglish1.
On gravitational waves, the primal gods sailed through the interstellar gulf. Their destination: a blue-green world where once they’d lived as kings, exalted by the apes they had uplifted. Memories of Atlantis, Giza and Nazca filled their minds.
The Masters of Earth were returning; let the children submit once more.
Bill lives in Aberdeen, Scotland. He spends his spare time working on his time machine, determined to fulfil his ambition of one day becoming his own father. His mother is adamant that it’s not going to happen. Family meals are currently quite awkward. See more at northeastnotesblog.wordpress.com.
Noises in the night.
Creature cries.
Sounds of fighting, of pain.
On the grass lies something leathery, scale-like, sticky with blood.
Every day a little bit closer to the house.
Where you keep new knives in unexpected places.
Including one under the mattress, not too far from your stretching hand.
Ian Hunter lives in Scotland and is a writer, poet, and editor.
According to legend, anyone who stepped on Spafford’s grave would never live to see twenty-one. And, sure enough, Robbie Johnson drowned at sixteen, and Willie Eckerson shot himself at twenty.
So the day Rita Snowberger turned twenty-one we had to celebrate, although I suspect even she shared our secret disappointment.
Tony Jasnowski teaches at Bellevue University, hoping to inspire in his students an appreciation for mystery in life.
Barely discernible in the gloom, he lay with twisted limbs, his eyes wide, staring. His mouth hung open. Silent. Still. Lifeless.
In contrast was the frantic rush of bluebottles.
Playing the part of a corpse was not a top acting role. He just happened to be rather good at it.
Jean lives in Bath in the UK. She likes to write the occasional fifty word story. As she gets older, they get more occasional.
Dark matter, a mysterious shadow cosmos existing side by side with our own.
The portal was his life’s work. He stepped through, breaching the barrier between universes. He would be humanity’s greatest explorer.
He saw structure. People.
A voice behind him, malice oozing from every syllable.
“Explorer: welcome to Hell.”
Bill is from Aberdeen, Scotland. His therapist sees his writing as a pitiful cry for help. Probably best just to ignore it. See more at northeastnotesblog.wordpress.com.