We were stoned. Bowie was singing about Major Tom.
It wasn’t our first kiss, but it was our first nose-to-nose lingering stare.
Up close her eyes looked like something you might see through a telescope.
At the center, a sapphire sun floated in the diffused light of undeniable, lasting warmth.
Author’s Note: For C, of course.
Bob Thurber is the author of “Paperboy: A Dysfunctional Novel” and two collections of stories. A celebrated master of Flash and Micro Fiction, his work has appeared in 60 anthologies, received dozens of awards, and been used in schools and colleges throughout the world. He resides in Massachusetts where, despite severe vision loss, he continues to write every day. Visit his website at BobThurber.net.
After the last mourner left the wind picked up. The sun had slipped beneath the horizon and the moon was a phantom in a sky the precise color of anger in a grieving mother’s eyes. Hard wind swayed the high grass as though an army of ghosts were marching through.
Over the years Bob Thurber’s work has received a long list of awards and prizes. His most recent book is a collection of brief stories titled “Nothing But Trouble.” His first novel, “Paperboy: A Dysfunctional Novel,” was recently rereleased. Visit BobThurber.net.
The streetlight and trees conspire to turn my ceiling into a dance floor every night, a masquerade of ghouls and long-limbed shadowy dancers flailing arms and legs. His legs drape across me, stop me from floating to whirl with them, my bedsheet a bridal gown, the pillow my swelling belly.
Mohini Malhotra is from Nepal and lives in Washington, DC. She runs a social enterprise that promotes contemporary women artists from emerging markets and invests profits to better women’s and girls’ lives. She loves words, she loves flash, and she has had several stories published (in Blink-Ink and 50-Word Stories, amongst others) and several forthcoming.
Silence. Except for the dripping. So this is what it’s like to die, he thought. He moved slightly, and the knife grated against his ribs. If only he’d put the garbage out when she’d asked him the first time, or the second, or the third…
Jackie has written three (unpublished) novels, and is also a mosaic artist and tutor, when she’s not working at her “proper” job at a training agency.
He has no control as he falls deeper into the unknown abyss. Its essence finds him, surrounds him, and becomes him until he can scarcely breathe.
The deeper he falls the dimmer his past, but as desperation dies away it’s replaced with something far more stomach-churning yet wonderful… called love.
Connell is known, in some parts, for writing a reasonably eclectic mix of stories.
As the dark loomed over her, she could feel her heart race.
Suddenly she could hear her own footsteps. She started to move towards a tall derelict building.
The noise of her footsteps faded away, overtaken by an overwhelming screeching like finger nails on a blackboard.
What could it be?
Erin Walker is a 9 year-old girl who in her spare time likes writing stories and singing.
Waiting for the bombers, I turned off the light and the room floated in obscurity. We listened to the buzz of thirsty mosquitoes, the fall of spiders, and the hiss of the melting candles.
The dust whispered in the air and we went deaf, listening to the moon, shining cold.
Azarin Sadegh, a 2011 PEN USA Emerging Voices fellow, and a former student of the late Les Plesko, is working on her 100,000 word novel.
The square is wild. Thousands upon thousands are moving, a restless, heaving mass of laughing humanity running under a darkened autumn sky. Red-yellow-blue neon arches over the West End, a domed canopy of electrifying energy. No jungle of a million years’ duration ever matched this complexity.
This is London Town.
Peter Li-ping is a city-dweller who feels both nervous and relaxed in the concrete jungle. Peter thinks that to feel only one thing whilst in London would be pretty weird.
Wilson is always left behind at the end.
Alone in the theater, he is waist deep in velvet chairs, all patrons discharged into the aortic pumping of a New York City evening.
The last systole of music ascends to the rafters and all conversation absorbs into the carpeted floor.
Molly Hill lives, writes, and runs a lot of trail miles in her home state of Minnesota, even in the winter.
We smuggled wine down to the moon-washed beach and kissed til we mirrored the stars. And fire spun on the heels of our wordless rage as our limbs danced towards a jagged shore.
In my dreams it’s always the same: I am here, and you are lost to the waves.
Elisa is a chronic procrastinator who lives to travel and finds beauty in the diversity of life. She thinks sloths are her spirit animal and would love to be the ruler of some obscure country one day.