They camped out on the side of the mountain, within a stone’s throw of the moon. A campfire warmed their bodies; anticipation warmed their hearts.
Tomorrow was the summit day, the flag-raising day. The pinnacle. The peak.
Beyond that was the descent, so aptly named.
Reminiscence is colder than anticipation.
This story is based on a title suggested by @brucerytel.
There’s a valley in the mountains
where the blue grass grows,
where the blue wind blows,
where the blue sky glows.
There’s a shepherd in the valley
searching wide and deep
for his lost blue sheep;
never stops for sleep.
There’s a valley in the mountains,
bluest place I’ve seen.
This story is based on a title suggested by Larissa via Facebook.
If I come back as a ladybug, you once told me, be gentle. Try not to crush me, but if by chance you should, don’t grieve. I’ll keep coming back, you promised, time and again.
Now, as you cling to me, I turn leeward to shelter you from the wind.
Alex Markovich was a magazine editor at Consumer Reports before he retired. He lives in Ardsley, a suburb of New York, with Jackie, his wife of 54 years and his fiercest critic.
A monster slouched past my apartment window last night, its shoulder on the thirty-fifth floor. I tried to get its attention, but it just skulked onward towards the west.
This morning I woke up early to check the news. There was no mention of my monster. I was sadly disappointed.
Andrew Black is a writer of weird fiction and has had stories featured in anthologies by May December Publications and SNM Horror Magazine. Andrew has a blog with news of the weird and tips for writing at maskofreason.wordpress.com.
A man sits in an overstuffed chair in the middle of a room. There is nothing else in the room except for about twenty dogs, most of them barking. There is a loaded revolver beside the chair.
Once a day the man gets up and shoots one of the dogs.
Richard Pannbacker is a retired biochemist/teacher/sheepfarmer living in Manhattan, Kansas. He writes short stories, short short stories and still shorter seven-line flash fiction. He is the winner of the 22nd Annual “Kansas Voices” short story contest and has had short stories accepted by Pill Hill Press and The Right-Eyed Deer.
At the End of the Road Thrift Store, bins held discarded items without much hope of being rescued, almost everything destined for the trash; used up; original value greatly diminished.
Still, treasure seekers in varying stages of salvation rummaged desperately, as eager as the objects were for one last chance.
Janet Yung lives and writes in St. Louis. Her short fiction has appeared in several online journals, including “Ineffective Ink,” “Write From Wrong Lit,” and “Flash Party.”
My brother called me a prison probability. I told the pansy, “Shut up,” shoved four candy bars down his pants.
The fat lady lurched from behind the counter, grabbed his collar, half the stash, shrieking, “Snot-nosed delinquent!”
After mom whooped him, I snuck into his room: “Hand them over, punk!”
Meg Tuite’s writing has appeared in numerous journals. She is the fiction editor of The Santa Fe Literary Review and Connotation Press. Her novel “Domestic Apparition” (2011) is available through San Francisco Bay Press. She has a monthly column “Exquisite Quartet” for Used Furniture Review. You can read her blog at http://megtuite.wordpress.com.
Arius had been lucky tonight. A car had grazed his leg while he was walking along a moonlit country road.
The driver likely never saw him.
His grandfather told him a full moon represented protection to those who believed in its power.
Arius stopped, raised his wolfish head, and howled.
Greg Didaleusky has written two novels. Rogue Phoenix Press published Frozen Death, a mystery-suspense novel, in 2009, and Concealed Warnings, a suspense novel published by All Things That Matter Press, is coming fall 2011.
“Nicht vergessen!”
The key was placed underneath the worded paperweight. She placed anything of importance here. Bills rarely paid, jobs rarely done, and the key remained beneath.
I couldn’t remember the translation, so I forgot…
how to eat…
what to think…
where is she?
I forget.
I always forget.
What?
Martin Shone cleans for a living and is not long away from being fifty, although he is forever twenty-eight.
It seemed like they were made for each other, the boy and his elephant.
They ate, played, and slept together. They worked, lazed about, and made friends together.
They rode on each other’s backs and washed one another with their trunks.
They were almost indistinguishable, the elephant and his boy.
This story is based on a title suggested by @salmir.