The forest struck them dumb with awe: its flowery smell, the endless shades of green; the deafening cacophony of sounds: croaking, hissing, humming. A splash of startling red amidst the leaves.
Unimaginable that such an enchanted place once spanned across the Earth.
Humbled, they stepped out of the rainforest simulator.
Rachael is an English teacher in Scotland.
We watched it together.
“How would you describe your marriage?” the detective asked his suspect.
You ask me the same question.
“I knew you would ask that.” Giving nothing away.
Just like the guy in the show, I’m keeping my thoughts to myself. I don’t want to spoil the ending.
Besides, David doesn’t know what the ending is yet. He’s just making it up as he goes along.
She often wept in mourning over a life she deemed wasted… unfulfilled.
She’d always had one singular purpose but at 43, that ship had long sailed.
Shame from decades of destruction and despair evaporated into rapture as she watched the positive result appear on the stick she’d just peed on.
Although Lisa struggled with severe mental health issues for many years, she worked tirelessly to rise above and find joy. She works part-time helping others dealing with mental illness while also soaking up the incredible joy she’s found in her beautiful, healthy 2 month old baby girl… her constant reminder that the Universe will always rise up to meet us.
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.
After they pulled her, pliant, from the water, someone raced to fetch help. Her husband insisted they lay her carefully, flat and straight. This they did, their mouths swallowing the questions they no longer dared ask.
I couldn’t see the point, myself. She was already broken from too much bending.
Linda Grierson-Irish writes flash fiction and the occasional short story, often while trying to sleep.
“Tell me, son, which university are you going to apply for?”
I chew slowly and swallow. “I don’t want to go.”
“What?” he whispers.
“Uni was your dream, Dad. Not mine.”
He walks away, plate only half-empty.
I look at Mum. “Sorry.”
Mum squeezes my hand. “He’ll come round. Promise.”
Laura Besley squeezes writing into the beginning and end of her day, when her young son is sleeping. She has been published in several anthologies and online. She recently moved back to the UK after ten years abroad.
The story of the week for July 24 to 28 is…
Backtrack by B.C. Nance
His name was called at fourteen-hundred hours Zulu Time. Winners (losers) of this lottery went up to surface level.
No contact in 31 days. Rations running dangerously low.
Necessary for the continuation of government. Shaking his hand and smiling. This burlesque head of state before him never made the shortlist.
Kevin Doalty Brophy is twenty-three years old and has just graduated from Economics, Politics and International Relations at University College Dublin. He will be commencing a Masters in Common Law in University College Dublin in September.
The shadow worshipers performed their unholy rituals, but when the lunar eclipse came, nothing happened.
Confused and crestfallen, they looked to the elderly shaman, who was already riffling through the pages of his grimoire.
After rereading the ancient texts, he suggested they try again, next time under a solar eclipse.
Pontius Paiva sacrifices sleep and sanity to appease the writing gods. Visit pontiuspaiva.com to find out if the spirits of storytelling reward him with the gift of publication.
Kathie fired a warning shot over the heads of the thieving mob that had surrounded the gunslinger’s prone body. Her former mentor may have lost the duel but those scrabbling vermin wouldn’t rob his fancy boots; they’d now pass to her.
Kathie thought somberly, “To the victor go the spoils.”
Emma Grave is a speculative fiction writer who lives near the forest of Cannock Chase in the UK with her husband and house rabbit.