A blizzard of term papers settles onto the oak floor around Professor Taylor’s shattered skull.
He’d always known a student would kill him.
By gun? Knife?
Certainly not by writing a thesis so absorbing that he’d forget about the stairs.
Shame; Randy Barton wouldn’t know he’d earned his first A.
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. See more at richarddaygore.com.
When I said crafts were therapeutic, I meant something like crochet or pottery. He settled on taxidermy.
True, he’s sleeping better now. He’s less stressed. But I can’t get comfortable with six glassy eyes staring at me.
And sometimes I think the kids were more rewarding when they were alive.
Hannah Whiteoak has no children and a large collection of stuffed animals.
The World Hide-and-Seek Championships happened only once. The losers were soon found in garages, trees, outbuildings.
As the months passed, interest ebbed: nobody search for the last competitors. A starved body was occasionally discovered in loft or sewer, but it mattered increasingly less that a winner might never be discovered.
James Burt is based in Brighton, England. He runs the Not for the Faint-Hearted writing workshop and has a website at orbific.com.
The eyes stared upwards. The blonde hair was caked with blood. The nose was cute even in death. The mouth held what proved to be a golf ball in a sock. The hands had typed a social security benefit disallowance.
“So where’s the rest of the body?” the detective wondered.
Irish writer Perry McDaid lives in Derry under the brooding brows of Donegal hills which he occasionally hikes in search of druidic inspiration. He even finds it on occasion.
Contrary Carl is the world’s most annoying housemate.
He opens the closets,
stands in the sitting room,
works in the playroom,
plays in the workshop,
parks on the driveway,
wears shorts in the pantry,
and keeps his mistress in the master bedroom.
So I locked him in the living room.
Mark Farley writes novels, flash fiction, and the occasional poem. See more at mumbletoes.blogspot.com.
The painter painted the world black. Black trees, black grass, black clouds, black tomatoes. Van Gogh-like brush-strokes, thick with sorrow, melted around us. Even little girls smiled with teeth black as watermelon seeds. Everything so biblical we ran to the river to wash away our sins in dark, inviting waters.
Jim Doss lives with his wife and three children in Sykesville, Maryland, and earns his living as a software engineer. He has previously published two books of poems: Learning to Talk Again, and What Remains. In partnership with Werner Schmitt, he also published a book of German translations entitled The Last Gold of Expired Stars: The Complete Poems of Georg Trakl 1908 – 1914. In his spare time, he is an editor for the Loch Raven Review.
The flip of a coin: win or lose. Three dilemmas to solve. Stay in the countryside or move to the city? She relocated. Stop in or go out? She went out. Coffee shop or wine bar? She found a coffee shop and met the person who would end her life.
Kathryn Evans was born in Wales, raised in Scotland, has an Irish grandfather, and lives in Plymouth, England. She studied genetics to PhD level. Her main passion is rock/indie music.
He walked to the exit escorted by his plaintiffs; those to whom he had entreated. He beheld the brilliant sun. He walked toward the stairs, then climbed beyond; a shroud now covered his head. The floor fell away, he plunged, and his neck snapped. His soul beheld the black sun.
Paul H. Yarbrough is a novelist, short story author and free lance writer of political and social topics. He lives in Houston, Texas. His third novel is coming out later this year. See more at paulhyarbrough.com.
Margaret understood what was expected of her. She had been raised properly and was skilled in etiquette, poise, and all things ladylike and mature.
However, there was a certain satisfaction in watching the knife plunge repeatedly into the body of yet another lifeless, unappealing, and unsympathetic excuse for a turkey.
Hillary hopes you enjoy your holidays despite whatever sinister fantasy may surface.
Inflation hit everybody hard, Santa included.
Carrot prices had skyrocketed, and hungry reindeer could hardly pull a sleigh.
Santa emptied his sack into the reindeer pen, ignoring the crunch of tooth on bone. Rudolph emerged, snout matted with fresh, red blood.
Freddy’s bad behaviour would never be a problem again.
Guy is twenty-four years old, and still afraid of being on Santa’s naughty list. This is his sixth 50-word story.