The eggheads cracked it, opened a door to the afterlife. Come and go as you please. They chose me, figuring I had plenty of questions for the Big Guy. They didn’t know I’d need an appointment. Didn’t know I would have blown Him off if I had one.
Andrew Walo is a freelance writer and a hunter of wild paragraphs and domesticated monsters. He resides in Norfolk, Virginia, but he lives for jacket-weather. More work can be found at AndrewWalo.com
Alone in the office at night a slow madness overtakes me. It begins with a paperclip chain. It ends when the cleaner finds me, the Emperor of the Paper Cup People, berating the massed ranks of my subjects, my nudity covered only by yellow sticky notes. The horror! The horror!
Bill lives in Aberdeen, Scotland, where he works as a professional haggis hunter.
I hear a noise in my kitchen and come down to find Brad Pitt guzzling chocolate milk straight from the carton. He says his motorcycle broke down en route to Missouri. Brad, if you left me without chocolate milk before breakfast on a school day, I will have your head.
Maura Yzmore’s day job involves quantum mechanics, dry-erase markers, making bad puns, and lots of technical writing. She lives with her family in the American Midwest, where she also writes, draws, and indulges her love for coffee, driving, and kickboxing. See more at maurayzmore.com
We watched the eclipse and the darkness that crept over the land.
No one expected that the darkness would remain.
We waited and watched in disbelief.
They emerged from the muck, the bowels of dusty towns, and neighbors’ dens, emboldened by the shadows and the promise of a new order.
Alison witnessed the solar eclipse, and wondered what would happen if the darkness stayed. Then she wondered whether the darkness has already prevailed.
When he could only see UV light, he feared his distress call would be answered too late. When the vine replaced every blood vessel with xylem and phloem, he knew he would never be the same. But when his body flowered and the petals spoke, he deactivated the call himself.
boomer trujillo’s never turned into a plant, but he’s not sure he’s fully human either. Check out his fiction and philosophy at: boomert.info.
At twelve years old, she stood twelve feet tall. Her horns added another ten inches. The shaggy hair on her face and chest was thick and uncombed. Flies teased around her head like dark memories, darting in to nestle on her shoulders. She never allowed me to brush them away.
Mark Farley (mumbletoes.blogspot.com
) writes novels, flash fiction and the occasional poem.
A body on the floor, warm blood drip, drip, dripping onto the carpet.
He has my face. My beautiful young face.
I was going to set things right. That’s what the time machine was for. But he wouldn’t listen and I got angry.
I always was my own worst enemy.
Bill lives in Aberdeen, Scotland where, in between the odd piece of writing, he plots the downfall of humanity on behalf of his Martian overlords.
She loved the beach.
Yesterday I found sand in my shoes.
Today, flecks of seaweed clinging to my clothes.
Now the scent of her coconut tanning lotion traces the air.
I haven’t gone to the beach in the year since she drowned.
I wonder what she’s trying to tell me.
Mary lives on the coast in the south-east of Ireland, where the sea has a habit of seeping into her writing.
Soft white grass, pure green sky.
Cotton shirt, like kisses on my neck.
The sun is warm and flowing, washing me in a vanilla-scented mist.
The stab of gin, the spark of tonic on the weather-beaten corduroy wood beside me.
Cane in hand, my dog at my side.
Aaron is a fitness and wellness coach. He writes for pleasure and relaxation.
They hadn’t meant to wake Nigel up, but the runners were unaware that their route would go through his bedroom.
“That wasn’t on the map,” they said. “Fun change, though.”
Nigel thought he’d been dreaming, but the scent of sweat and the wet footprints down the hallway convinced him otherwise.
Iain Young has a water stop set up in his bedroom in case any runners pass through. So far, none have.