At the supermarket the toilet paper was out. Shelves were bare. I got home and the news was suggesting that the toilet paper hoarders were using it to protect themselves.
It suddenly occurred to me that there was no need to worry about a zombie apocalypse amidst a mummy one.
Connell apologises for writing a non-fiction story on a fiction site.
“A 50-word story? Impossible.”
“Okay: Honey, I’m pregnant.”
“How about: I’m pregnant, and it’s not yours.”
“Kidding again. How many words, so far?”
“Let’s stop. I’m hungry.”
“How many words now?”
“And ice cream.”
John M. Floyd’s work has appeared in more than 250 different publications, including Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine, Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, Strand Magazine, The Saturday Evening Post, and the 2015, 2018, and (upcoming) 2020 editions of Best American Mystery Stories. A former Air Force captain and IBM systems engineer, John is also a three-time Derringer Award winner, an Edgar Award nominee, a recipient of the Short Mystery Fiction Society’s lifetime achievement award, and the author of eight books.
Introduced by a mixologist, Stan was a zoologist, Evie a geologist. They lived in a metropolis, were happily monogamous, their lives never monotonous. Then Evie saw a gynecologist, who sent her to a virologist.
Stan wasn’t a monogamist.
Evie thought him the rottenest. He’s at the ER with a proctologist.
Originally from Toronto, Janet Koops now calls Bend, Oregon home. When she is not sitting at her computer, she is exploring the high desert with her husky.
The evidence was already heavily against me. The ring—that item meant to solve my problems—found in my possession. Tire tracks in the mud. The dirty shovel in my car.
But what really convinced the jury in the grave robbing case was DNA proof. My nail in the coffin.
Michael Augustine Dondero is a Brooklyn-based writer. Read more on his website, augustinedondero.com. He’s also the co-creator of the horror/sci-fi podcast “Lost Signal Society.” Tune in at lostsignalsociety.com.
After the woman with the coronavirus symptoms departed, Matt Febrezed his desk and—popping an antibiotic from an old prescription—returned to writing his email to his niece Laura, about how nothing she studied in college was going to be of any help out here, not in the real world.
Graham Robert Scott’s stories have appeared in Pulp Literature, Barrelhouse, and Nature. See more at hemicyon.wordpress.com.
I was making notes when the doom opened. A strangler entered.
“Have a seaweed,” the leader said. “We’re all frenzied here.”
After listing to us, the strangler spoke. “Er…”
“I wanted Fantasy Language Class. I’m Dave, by the way.”
“Hello Dave,” the Auto Correct Fan Club chorused in unicorn.
Bec Lewis lives in Kent, England, and likes short stories, micro-fiction, and chocolate. See more at beclewisfiction.com.
One of the strongest of his kind, Jude was one of only a few left. He had resorted to means of survival he’d never even considered centuries before.
But the humans weren’t the only race to ignore the dangers of climate change. Now the vampires were nearly out of food.
Chad Bunch writes speculative fiction from the suburbs of Saint Louis. He is going to publish a novel this year if it kills him! You can find some his other nonsense at diaryofmadness6719293.wordpress.com
The volcano erupted.
Pride took selfies in front of it.
Envy copied but got fewer “likes,” so she jumped in.
Gluttony ate on, lava lapping at the door.
Lust opened Grinder for a final fling.
Anger raged against Volcanologists on Twitter.
Greed robbed empty homes.
Sloth couldn’t get an Über.
Natalie is a Clinical Psychologist and aspiring writer in Wales, UK.
It is 2003. The year of SARS. I tell my husband that my face mask is for his protection.
“Protection from what?” he asks with a shocked look on his face.
“My mouth. It is now off limits for fourteen days,” I reply. “But it will be worth the wait.”
Marjan Sierhuis has learned there is a first time for everything.
Poseidon drew the short straw.
Hera sighed. “Yes, they’re irredeemable. But I’ll miss those goofballs. Their bridges, computers, MAS*H… Genius.”
The trident swung. The floodwaters flowed. The underworld gained eight billion souls.
Hephaestus prepared the drafting table. “Okay. Humans 2.0.”
Aphrodite nudged Ares aside. “This time, I’ll lead the design.”
Jen Mierisch draws inspiration from science fiction, ghost stories, and the wacky idiosyncrasies of human nature. She lives, works, and writes just outside Chicago, Illinois.