I float beneath the ceiling.
On the red carpet, my body glows: satin, silk, jewelry worth ten times my parents’ house.
My body hugs cast members, producers. Gets felt up.
I miss home.
The afterparty. I ride a thick line of cocaine back into my body.
Feeling whole… doesn’t last.
Maura Yzmore is a Midwest-based writer of short fiction and a science professor. Find more of her writing at maurayzmore.com/stories/ or say ‘hi’ on Twitter @MauraYzmore.
It’s all we have.
Alan took himself from us, so young, when she still had hundreds.
Saturday she couldn’t remember that the bedroom—that dusty shrine—was once his.
Yesterday, his name dropped away.
Soon she’ll gaze at me and see a stranger. We’ll be down to forty-nine.
After chasing his muse from Virginia to Manhattan, Richard Day Gore settled in Southern California, where he spends his time pushing around words, paint brushes, and guitar strings.
This wasn’t what Sibyl expected when she signed up for digital detox.
The man with the pronounced brow regarded her quizzically. She needed a translation app, location finder, ride service; the phone was no longer in her pocket.
“I think I’m from the future,” she said.
He raised his club.
Tanya Zilinskas is a writer living in Northern California. She is only mildly afraid of the dark. See more of her work at tanyazilinskas.com.
I woke long before dawn, shards of moonlight breaking through the faded curtains.
The hotel hadn’t changed much.
Now, twenty years later, I could still see him stretched out on the bed, with that mischievous, just-married look in his eyes.
I touched the urn on the nightstand. “Happy anniversary, dear.”
Susan Gale Wickes is from Indiana. In addition to writing poetry and short stories, she enjoys penning aphorisms and epigrams.
After the hospital, the bookstore café beckons. The geezers have already gathered. Although they still do not offer him a seat at their tables, when he comes in this time, limping, they shoot him a longer glance than usual, which seems, he imagines, to confirm the likelihood of imminent inclusion.
Ron. Lavalette has been widely published in both print and pixel forms. His first chapbook, Fallen Away, is now available from Finishing Line Press, and a reasonable sample of his work can be found at EGGS OVER TOKYO.
Before, gold earrings complemented her brown hair and eyes,
Enhancing her orange and beige shirts.
She chose fuchsia eyeglass frames to complete the color palette.
Now, she buys silver earrings to match her grey hair,
And purple and blue sweaters,
But her glasses will forever draw attention to her eyes.
Miriam Stein is a social worker, writer, and the author of Make Your Voice Matter With Lawmakers: No Experience Necessary. See more at makeyourvoicematter.com.
Armed with her vintage Leica camera, she is convinced she can stop the passage of time, moments forever captured on film like flies in amber.
But despite her efforts, the clock persists.
Nest now emptied, she seeks solace in eighteen years of yellowed photographs.
Johannah Lipscher Simon is a professional ideator who writes and speaks on the power of living a creative life. See more at thewritingtype.com.
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.
On Monday, the Cassie hivemind forecasts a global superflu, ninety percent lethal.
On Tuesday, Aspasia predicts five percent.
The differing projections hinge, it appears, on the mathematical solution to Rostwick’s Paradox, on which the AIs disagree, and which no human can understand.
Quite in the dark, we’re rooting for Aspasia.
Graham Robert Scott teaches writing at a university in north Texas. His stories have appeared in Barrelhouse Online, Nature, and 50-Word Stories. See more at hemicyon.wordpress.com.
Fiona had secrets. Unlike some, she kept them hidden. She didn’t whisper about them in private. In fact, she didn’t speak of them at all.
She simply went through life, protecting the guilty in order to spare the innocent.
Life was easier that way. Everyone was happy.
Well, almost everyone.
Susan Gale Wickes lives in Indiana. She takes comfort in reading and writing 50-Word Stories.