Yesterday he took me to heaven.
Then he took me to the cleaners.
Strangest one-night stand ever.
“You want a beer?” I’d asked.
“No, I’m good.”
Yes, he was.
So was his accomplice.
All my valuables, gone… except for those I carried with me.
Only one of them was missing.
Susan Gale Wickes is from Indiana. She enjoys writing and thinking about writing.
In his first spring in a new land, Pietro took a cutting from a peach tree and inserted it into a slit on the branch of a living plum tree. A graft, like himself: an Italian transplanted into the Canadian landscape.
Bound together, two fruits would flourish on one tree.
Teresa Del Mastro sends Tim 50-word stories from Toronto. She creates them in Kerry Hodgson’s basement at her writing group.
“Statistically, it is almost impossible to win the Lotto,” her maths teacher used to say. Spoken like a man with a permanent, pensionable job.
For many years, Rita heeded his advice.
Now she shuffles to the till. Asks for a Quick Pick. Endures the pitying look. Says a silent prayer.
Geraldine McCarthy lives in West Cork, Ireland. In a former life she was involved in tutoring, lecturing, translation, and research. She has been writing short stories and flash fiction for nearly three years now. Her work has been published in The Fable Online, The Incubator Journal, Seven Deadly Sins: a YA Anthology (Gluttony, Wrath, Avarice), Scarlet Leaf Review, Brilliant Flash Fiction, and Every Day Fiction. See more at facebook.com/cruthaitheacht.
The man’s hair is grey and his face worn with much thought. With gravity and authority, he announces the only possible verdict. The other man looks back at him in fear.
The next day, one of the orderlies takes away the retired judge’s mirror and the doctor ups his meds.
Alice Lam moved to Australia from the UK with her partner and they share a house in Melbourne, along with a cheese-seeking, greying Boxer dog.
Alice’s website can be found at alicelambooks.com.
Across the pool some kid shouts MARCO, another answers POLO. But the deep end beckons. You hold your breath and push off.
The feeling underwater goes below words and comes up the other side. You surface, gasping, a hunger roaring, the high dive looming
with its cannonball lessons of life.
Guy’s work has appeared in many journals including Carve, daCunha, Blue Fifth Review, and Fifty Word Stories. He lives on a houseboat with his wife and two salty cats and walks the planks daily.
He flies above ruinous landscapes,
pondering patchworks of castles baked in mud.
Like Alexander, Genghis, and the Russians,
he yearns to find and best his enemy here.
What does it mean that these monuments of dust remain,
that the fortress of the steppe warrior endures?
As if awaiting a deluge.
A.M. Bigler is a pilot who reads and writes. Today, he lives in Wisconsin with his wife and two sons.
He killed fifty people in cold blood. Shock. Outrage. Mourning. Tears. Calls for gun control legislation. Seven days of commentary. Change the subject.
He killed twenty-six people in cold blood. Outrage. Analysis. Gun control! Three days of commentary. Change the subject.
He killed nine people. Not again! Change the channel.
Israela Margalit wrote this story. See more at israelamargalit.com.
The dog barked, too late. She stumbled to the kitchen, dropped her towel over the puddle. He nosed his bowl into its folds.
She returned to the couch.
The interview was in an hour, but she was naked, too raw.
He followed, whimpering.
“Shhh,” she said.
They were both hungry.
Kiran Kaur Saini’s work has appeared in Glimmer Train, Pleiades, and elsewhere. See more at kirankaursaini.com
Bob was dreaming that he couldn’t sleep but didn’t know he was dreaming, and so, on waking, he imagined he was exhausted yet he wasn’t really awake.
When the beast came, he didn’t know if he’d sunk into its dream or it into his.
When he woke, the beast followed.
Patrick Mc Loughlin is an English Language Teacher in Ireland and dabbles in writing. He also dabbles in painting and music and some day hopes to do more than dabble. He lives in the west of Ireland, where it’s hard to concentrate.
Late in life, she traded piano for painting. It was so refreshing. She’d only ever played keys when she’d had a husband to join onstage.
They’d joke about it when he appeared to her. She tried painting him in his present form, but she could never get the eyes right.
Lucas Kwong is a professor of English at New York City College of Technology. When he isn’t grading papers, he’s making music with his garage rock band THE BROTHER K MELEE, or writing for his band’s official microfiction Twitter account, THE NOT OK MELEE (@notokmelee).