The grey mask shields her eyes from visions of the children she never had
and scents her dreams with lavender
The ear plugs muffle the whispers of her ghosts
She bites down on a bullet, designed to take the strain
And she lays herself down,
to fight the night.
Jennifer M. Smith lives in Burlington, Ontario.
The exhausted hero stumbled into the village square, dragging a monstrous, gruesome trophy behind him.
Onlookers gasped as he pulled the creature’s head from the stained sack. Its green eyes glimmered in the sunlight as he tossed it aloft.
It hit the ground with a wet thud.
The proletariat cheered.
Daniels is a writer of horror and weird fiction. His short stories have been featured in Corner Bar Magazine, Helix Magazine, and various anthologies. He lives in New England with his wife, kids, and a couple of devious cats. Find out more at bldaniels.wordpress.com
One of the brakes on my bike is broken. It doesn’t matter. It’s flat here.
Smiling white folks wave at me from golf carts. The weather is always warm. I married up.
I wonder if I’m as good as they are. Or as bad. Maybe I’m both. But hopefully neither.
Sarah Hausman likes to keep her bio shorter than her stories. Links and updates can be found at Facebook.com/sarahhausmanwrites
Happy New Year!
Another resolution to make; another resolution to break…
Perhaps this year will be different?
Yet, as 2017 rolls into 2018, I am mostly happy.
Never the same, one day to the next.
Everyone has bad days…
Wandering off the path, hoping it always leads back.
Michelle is a contributing author in the most recent Chicken Soup for the Soul: The Spirit of Canad
a. Her writing has won several awards, and appeared in The Globe and Mail
and a number of local magazines and newspapers in Alliston and Barrie. She has a monthly series in the Focus 50 + Newspaper based on her short story “Lightning Strikers.” You can find her online at michelledinnick.com
On a downward spiral for so many years, I sit in the bath as it empties and watch the water suck down the plug hole. I should move; I should do something. It’s not too late to change, but I sit in the bath until all the water is gone.
From now on David is taking showers not baths. See more at davidrae-stories.com
Eternity Press Announces Titles for 2018
- How It All Began
- When The Creator Shouted
- And the Earth Trembled
- When Life Was Born
- And It Grew (er What Grew?)
- Until We Became Human
- Oh, No, Not That
- And Now Look At The Mess We Are In
- Save the Polar Bear
Joy Manné links flash fictions into short stories, writing usually in parts: solos, duets, choruses; different views of the whole experienced by different characters as the story builds, arcs, and reaches its ending. Find more at joymanne.org
The typhoon decimated the village.
Huts were razed to ground level; palm trees had snapped like matchsticks. Rotting corpses and flooding were giving rise to disease and more death. Post-disaster survival was paramount here.
Across the globe, a starlet with handbag Chihuahua was complaining about her caviar and lobster bisque.
Melanie Cranenburgh wrote this story.
“Happy New Year, Dave,” you whispered in my ear.
Resolution broken; same old routine. We’d played this game before. We’d dance close all night while our partners glared at us from the sidelines, neglected.
When we got home, we’d have a whole lot of explaining to do. I would, anyway.
David is no longer listening. Read more at davidrae-stories.com
Of unknown origin, the Strangers became our saviors. War, famine, plague—ended. Progress happened swiftly, and society flourished.
No one noticed the changes right away; they came slowly, like a creeping fog. Four hundred years made us complacent.
By the time we realized they were gone, it was too late.
Sean Fox is a New England native living in California. He holds a B.A. in English from Western Connecticut State University. When he writes, people tend to die.
“It’s good to see you.”
“I hoped we could talk.”
Wished we didn’t have to.
“It’s been too long.”
Not long enough.
Leaning against the air-hockey table, shoes white against the slushy stain, she replies:
“It’s been two days, Tyler. And I only came to get my backpack.”
Kerry teaches English with the comfortable assuredness that he is almost often not wrong about it.