The typhoon decimated the village.
Huts were razed to ground level; palm trees had snapped like matchsticks. Rotting corpses and flooding were giving rise to disease and more death. Post-disaster survival was paramount here.
Across the globe, a starlet with handbag Chihuahua was complaining about her caviar and lobster bisque.
Melanie Cranenburgh wrote this story.
The story of the week for December 25 to 29 is…
A rare double!
They Only Ask, What’s Next by Kara Johnson-Martinez
Happy New Year by Mary Steer
“Happy New Year, Dave,” you whispered in my ear.
Resolution broken; same old routine. We’d played this game before. We’d dance close all night while our partners glared at us from the sidelines, neglected.
When we got home, we’d have a whole lot of explaining to do. I would, anyway.
David is no longer listening. Read more at davidrae-stories.com.
Of unknown origin, the Strangers became our saviors. War, famine, plague—ended. Progress happened swiftly, and society flourished.
No one noticed the changes right away; they came slowly, like a creeping fog. Four hundred years made us complacent.
By the time we realized they were gone, it was too late.
Sean Fox is a New England native living in California. He holds a B.A. in English from Western Connecticut State University. When he writes, people tend to die.
Nobody’s gonna count down to midnight with more zeal than me.
In this, my “Year of Yes”, I’ve:
Next up: my Year of NO.
Mary Steer only has her ears pierced. She will be ringing in 2018 with a long story, “The Yarnabomber”, appearing in The Ocotillo Review. It will be available for purchase by mid-January at kallistogaiapress.org. You can read more of Mary’s work at marysteer.com.
“It’s good to see you.”
It wasn’t.
“I hoped we could talk.”
Wished we didn’t have to.
“It’s been too long.”
Not long enough.
Leaning against the air-hockey table, shoes white against the slushy stain, she replies:
“It’s been two days, Tyler. And I only came to get my backpack.”
Kerry teaches English with the comfortable assuredness that he is almost often not wrong about it.
“You excited?” He smiled.
She nodded.
Her heart raced.
Thump-thump.
The doctor squeezed out the cold, clear goo.
She felt the wand wiggle around.
His smile hollowed.
She waited for the sound.
Another doctor came.
Thump-thump.
Minutes ticked by.
And by.
And by.
But the second heartbeat couldn’t be found.
Juliann Morris is an avid reader, writer, and tiny house dweller graduating from the University of Hawaii at Hilo this semester with a double Bachelor’s degree in English and Communication and a Creative Writing Certificate. She writes both fiction and nonfiction and bases most of her stories on her life experiences.
In the night I am worthless. I dissolve as the darkness presses down onto me. I curl into the toxic embrace of the silent emptiness within and without.
The baby feeds on, needy and warming. A tiny golden thread of love connects us, draws me back up to the light.
Rebecca Williams loves the darker side of fiction and is currently working on a novel about two housewives on a vigilante crime spree. She also dabbles in flash and shorter fiction – you can find her work in EllipsisZine, Spelk, The Cabinet of Heed, Retreat West and more. She can be found on Twitter at @stupidgirl45.
Endless pots of coffee drunk. Countless pages gorged upon, regurgitated, wept over. Knowledge tested and realized. Credits accumulated. She reached the end of the text only to find a perplexing blank page.
They call her name. The tassel dangling from the mortarboard throws her off-balance as she traverses the stage.
Kara Johnson-Martinez is a freelance writer and novelist based in Colorado. For a preview of her fiction visit kararochelle.com.
With ketchup trickling from her broad grin, his daughter looks like a cheerful, diminutive vampire.
The food is too fast, the street is too crowded, the fireworks are too loud. She is loving every single minute, and her mother will be furious.
Both of these things give him deep satisfaction.
Tamsin wishes she wasn’t too cowardly for fireworks and broad grins.