When I was seven I saw forks rising out of the mattress underneath me as I arched above them, terrified.
It happened again last night.
Too old and infirm to move, I lie here impaled by phantom forks through my eyes, mouth, heart, and spine.
They all think I’m dead.
Simon Clarke was born in and raised and currently resides in East Anglia, United Kingdom. He has been writing fiction for at least five years and regularly submits to UK and international publications as well as reading short pieces and poetry at open mic events. He is currently working on his first novel and continues to write short stories and poetry.
You cut your heart into the shape of a rose and fill your chest with acorns. We eat the rose with some chianti on your birthday.
Afterward, you say this is the best birthday you’ve ever had and stuff your mouth with cake as squirrels braid your hair for winter.
Erik Fuhrer is the author of Not Human Enough for the Census, forthcoming from Vegetarian Alcoholic Press. His work has been published in Cleaver, BlazeVox, Softblow, and various other venues. See more at erik-fuhrer.com.
I stumbled into the kitchen. Last night’s party was wild.
Loose word tiles from the magnetic poetry kit were scattered all over the floor.
I glanced at the refrigerator door. One foot up were two tiles: FEED ME.
I called out. Someone must have stayed.
But only the cat answered.
Candace Kubinec posts her stories at storydribbles.wordpress.com and her poetry at rhymeswithbug.com.
A bite on my hand woke me from my nap on the mouldy sofa. “We talked about this,” I said.
The spider slung one eye toward me. “Were you using it?”
It wasn’t my point, but he was right. Terry had a way of cutting through my BS.
Andrew Walo doesn’t really know what else to do. He might as well tell stories.
When the aliens first took our eyes, we said, “Well, there goes sunsets,” as we settled into the black.
When the aliens took our noses we said, “Well, so much for roses,” and prided ourselves on the rhyme.
But when the aliens took our tongues… well, then we started listening.
Crystel lives in Hawaii with her husband and daughter.
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.