Her father noticed she was still playing with the pile of tea bags.
“Shall we put them away now, darling?”
“Leave them. They’re my friends.”
She had discovered beings that exactly resembled her true form, albeit of limited intelligence. Her next report would certainly create a stir on the mothership.
David Mark Williams lives in Scotland and writes poetry and short fiction. He has published two poetry collections to date: The Odd Sock Exchange and Papaya Fantasia. See more at davidmarkwilliams.co.uk.
Kinny stormed inside. He threw aside the briefcase, turned on the TV – “…was acquitted on all counts…” – and strode into his study.
He admired his model city.
But it was time for some development.
He widened highways and crushed the courthouse.
“…news just in of the sudden implosion of downtown’s…”
Joey thinks some people should play with models instead of screwing up the real world.
The trees around here grow too fast. They take things from the ground and trap them in bark and heartwood. Once I found my bike sticking out of a trunk twenty feet in the air.
When Amy disappeared, we searched the woods, but I was too afraid to look up.
Aeryn Rudel is a writer from Seattle, Washington. He is the author of the Acts of War novels by Privateer Press, and his short fiction has appeared in The Arcanist, Factor Four Magazine, and Pseudopod, among others. Learn more about Aeryn’s work at rejectomancy.com.
My skin isn’t pleasant to look at. Ignoring the looks I get has never been easy. Living with it isn’t easy either. It itches constantly. Even without the gawkers when I leave the house, my skin gives me trouble.
Thank goodness I can take it off when I get home.
George Aitch is a writer from Blackheath whose short stories have previously been published in Massacre, Horla, and elsewhere.
The child therapist gave me a box of Crayola markers, told me to match the colors to my emotions.
“This is stupid.”
He said, “I know.”
I grabbed the black marker and discarded the rest.
He sighed. “Your mother is going to die.”
Without looking up, I said, “I know.”
Avra Margariti is a queer Social Work undergrad from Greece. She enjoys storytelling in all its forms and writes about diverse identities and experiences. Her work has appeared in Wolfpack Press, The Writing District, Dime Show Review, and Page & Spine.
There’s something wiggling in her husband’s cheek. At first she thinks it’s his tongue, but it begins to strain against the cheek, pushing outward. She can see that it’s long and narrow, shaped like a human finger.
Her husband bites down and the object retreats backward. He begins to chew.
Ryan Borchers is from Omaha, Neb., and holds an MFA in fiction writing from Creighton University. His work has been published by Prairie Schooner, Flash Fiction Magazine, Spelk, Belletrist and others.
The World Hide-and-Seek Championships happened only once. The losers were soon found in garages, trees, outbuildings.
As the months passed, interest ebbed: nobody search for the last competitors. A starved body was occasionally discovered in loft or sewer, but it mattered increasingly less that a winner might never be discovered.
James Burt is based in Brighton, England. He runs the Not for the Faint-Hearted writing workshop and has a website at orbific.com.
Have you seen my left eye? I’ve misplaced it.
In 5th grade, my teacher told me to keep my eye on my paper.
So I plucked it out and kept it on my paper.
Don’t worry. It doesn’t hurt. It’s more of an inconvenience.
I found it.
LC Treeheart has survived two super typhoons and paddled outrigger canoes in the ocean. She lives with her wife, Lizzy, in Oregon. They share their home with two extraordinary dogs, Pakpak and Mozart, and their grand piano, Francesca.
I was born and went to school. Then I got a job and now I’m retired.
Writing a memoir isn’t that easy when you’ve nothing to say.
Here’s the plan: Do something memorable.
Top of the list: kidnap Donald Trump and cut off his hair.
That ought to do it.
Henry lives in Somerset in the UK, which is at the moment still part of the European Union. He eats a lot of toast.
The eyes stared upwards. The blonde hair was caked with blood. The nose was cute even in death. The mouth held what proved to be a golf ball in a sock. The hands had typed a social security benefit disallowance.
“So where’s the rest of the body?” the detective wondered.
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.