My greasy hair is flowing upwards, blonde flames licking the stale air of the ISS. Exercise twice a day, followed by sponge baths only.
“I know, sweet pea, I know,” I whisper into the microphone. Her newborn cries inconsolably.
Twice a day I am only 220 miles away from her.
Dini Armstrong, now Scottish, has worked in journalism and psychology. She is currently completing an MA in Creative Writing. Her controversial style got her into trouble from age six, when, after writing a particularly enraging piece about a cat blowing up three boys, she had to promise to her stepdad never to write again. She lied.
You’re the responsible one, his will said. I leave these to you.
She opens the albums. Carefully labeled photos; dates, names, genealogical charts, news clippings.
Also: many pictures of her brother, but none of her.
Out of respect for the dead, she waits six months before she burns it all.
Graham Robert Scott teaches writing at a university in north Texas. His stories have appeared in Barrelhouse Online, Nature, and X-R-A-Y Literary Magazine.
The filament flares of our violet sun act like milestones of the day; less so, the red night sun that chases—it’s too weak to emit much of anything.
A lot like my father and I.
I wiped the knife. “You won’t call me your red son anymore, I suppose.”
E.O. figures that people on other worlds probably still have daddy issues and bad blood. But they also have space cars, e.g. a flying Maserati. And that’s pretty cool.
Blood splattered the sand and the colosseum roared.
Cenicus stood over his fallen opponent as circling beasts gnawed at their fetters.
The wounded man looked up and smiled. “Good fight, son.”
Cenicus nodded but did not lift his visor.
His eyes ran freely as he waited for the master’s thumb.
Matthew Coward is a habitual daydreamer, occasional writer, and proud night-owl. He writes fantasy inspired flash fiction, short stories, and poetry.
The acrid smell of July fourth fireworks burned Stella’s throat. She handed the firecracker to the pyrotechnician. He attached a wire and set it off to the side.
At nightfall, the crowd cheered as it burst into red, white, and blue.
Stella watched Ed’s cremains descend.
“Enjoy your wish, sweetheart.”
Jenise Cook lives with her husband and their herding dog in the north-central highlands of Arizona where it snows. Jenise enjoys visitors to @jenisecook on Twitter, @jenisecook on Medium.com, and at JeniseCook.com, where you can find a list of her published works.
You and a friend have been stranded for over a decade.
You have searched for years, covering hundreds of miles, finding no signs of others.
You hear a loud roar and see a spacecraft approach.
Is it a rescue, or an unknown danger?
Markings on the craft read Earth One.
Denny E. Marshall had had art, poetry, and fiction published. One recent credit is fiction in Night To Dawn 35, April 2019. See more at dennymarshall.com.
Game, set, match.
After a four-hour battle, X has finally defeated Z. It is the first time in their long careers.
X walks to the net, outstretches his hand, but Z barely shakes it.
“First in a thousand,” Z disdainfully mutters.
“Maybe,” X says. “But the first of a million.”
Alice Cimino is a student who loves writing and thrives to improve. Does she have time? Not necessarily. But does time matter? It depends on how you see it…
“I’m sorry. Your tests with the latest medication proved unsuccessful. The prognosis is six months.”
John grasped his wife’s hand and squeezed it gently.
They travelled to the airport in silence, but desperate to talk.
Understanding airline staff upgraded them.
“Your lucky day!” cracked a joker as they left Economy.
John B. Sinclair is a much-travelled Scot who has now returned to Scotland, where he enjoys freelance writing on a variety of subjects.
When last I saw them, they were down by the river. They were holding hands. No surprise there; she’d always been possessive.
On this occasion, she seemed especially reluctant to let go. She professed to love his mind and body, while her rival’s interest was strictly physical…
The crocodile prevailed.
John H. Dromey has a 10-word story, “Paranormal Household Survey,” on the Potato Soup Journal website.
Her lip curled like a snake on Medusa’s head—curled as if to say someone who still lived in our hometown couldn’t possibly allude to Greek mythology.
She’d had her hair done at some city salon, and she dared to insult me on my home turf at the Piggly Wiggly.
Alison Yong is the office manager of a cemetery in Boston, Massachusetts. She may be the only presenter in the history of the world to have her recorded speech at the Harvard Graduate School of Education censored for filth. She loves green tea lemonade.