It’s not all bees. Not even most: only honey bees die after they sting you. Google says that’s less than five percent of species. It’s because of your thick skin. The one you grew in elementary school. Keep your head down, hum along. Be hive. Behave. You’ll get your shot.
Nicholas De Marino is a published crackpot. More at nicholasdemarino.blogspot.com.
“This your boss?”
She sobbed for the benefit of the police, hands itching to clean the blood around the coffeepot.
“No. He just thought he was.”
Making her fetch coffee, as though that were her job. She frowned at the leaking corpse making the mess on the carpet worse. Typical.
Joanne Merriam lives in Nova Scotia. Her writing has appeared in dozens of periodicals including Baltimore Review, Pictura, and Under the Basho. She owns Upper Rubber Boot Books, known for the first English-language anthology of solarpunk, Sunvault. You can find her at joannemerriam.com.
Kids snickered at my leopard-print pants. Left them in my locker. Colleagues questioned my pastel blazers. Changed to black. Guests gossiped about my chartreuse funeral gown. But there was no changing from inside the casket. I had finally learned a good outfit was the best armor for facing the unknown.
Haley DiRenzo is a writer, poet, and practicing attorney specializing in eviction defense. Her poetry and flash pieces have appeared in Flash Boulevard, Eunoia Review, and Bright Flash Literary Review, among others. She lives in Colorado with her husband and dog.
Ti’ci is bullied, so she feeds the monster in the mirror and it gurgles excitedly, learning, repeating:
“You’re so ugly”
“Toothpick”
“That skin though”
When Ti’ci disappears, the monster escapes the mirror, lumps of flesh convulsing. It grows limbs, a glare, and a snarl, and replaces her.
The cycle persists.
Stephanie is just a girl who enjoys reading manhwas and writing about things she observes. She has short fiction in a few places including 101 words, but otherwise she’s just a young’un.
Joey McNeary died and I feel nothing. Should I praise his star athleticism, beaning heads in little league? His gut punches during fire drills? Joey’s obit’s flooded with gushing niceties, his social media bursting with emoji hearts. Survival’s our payback. Yanks us by the throat as we stare back, smile.
Phyllis Rittner has a passion for flash. Her work can be found in Burnt Breakfast, Roi Faineant Press, Versification, Friday Flash Fiction, Fairfield Scribes, Six Sentences and others. She can be reached on Facebook at facebook.com/phyllis.rittner.
I vanish every Tuesday at twenty past two. Poof. Gone. Invisible. Totally unseen by Kelly Summers and Anya Taylor as they point their hockey sticks and fill their teams.
Quarter past three I reappear wearing only my underwear, seen by everyone in the locker room – Anya makes sure of it.
Nikki Davison is a writer and guinea pig obsessive from the northeast of England.
To my face you questioned, criticised, chipped away.
Behind my back you blamed, sidelined.
I saw you today for the first time since I left that job.
I kept walking, straight ahead. Kept my dignity.
The scars no one can see are still healing
But you have lost your sting.
Brian Maycock has stories due in June in BFS Horizons and Lost Horizons Horror. He lives in Scotland.