Emergent leaves of yellow and green slowly unfurl. Upwards they reach, like the needy hands of a child. They whisper, never cry, for they only have the voice that the wind compassionately lends them. Nature, a generous mother, showers down upon her children the necessities of life, light and water.
Priscilla lives in Canada where spring arrives late and does not stay for long.
The colors swirled before my eyes like a cracked kaleidoscope spilling its contents into a surrealist landscape.
A part of me knew that something was terribly wrong, but that voice was drowned out by the sea of sensations washing over me. And so I just danced while the world ended.
Chris Griglack was born and raised in Massachusetts where he has lived for 24 years. He graduated from the University of Massachusetts Dartmouth in 2012 with a degree in Writing, Rhetoric, and Communications.
You feel the wind kiss your face, dance in your hair. Your white cotton dress swishes around your feet, tickling you.
Your neck itches. You wish you could reach back to scratch it but your hands are bound. The noose around your neck is too tight.
The hangman is late.
AJ Joseph is a bookaholic, semi-insomniac, unsuccessfully recovering javaholic, but most importantly she’s a writer. She is currently in the process of restructuring her life around her first love: words.
For her, each day dissolves into the next, like a sugar cube in hot water. Instinctively she clings, grabs, and clutches to the remains of her earlier self. Memories assemble in a dense haze of déjà vu.
Little-by-little, piece-by-piece, bit-by-bit she forfeits what made her sweet and solid. She dissipates.
Stephanie Glover is a professional juggler. Just kidding. Not a literal juggler, but she does juggle in the figurative sense. Stephanie is a full time student, employee, mother, and wife. In addition, she pursues her passions of writing and photography. Most often she can be found planting idea seeds in the little book she carries in her purse, or releasing the shutter on her beloved camera.
Francine picked at the stitches, removing them one by one, each a separate, deliberate act.
In the hearth a log shifted as those beneath it burnt away. Sparks glittered momentarily before extinguishing themselves. She glanced up at the sound it made, fingers never stopping, never ceasing to pick, pick, pick.
Stuart is absent without leave from the majority of life and finds that writing helps him remain that way — he occasionally blogs a story at www.diamondsanddross.blogspot.com
A man convulses in the grass, fire licking at his nerves. The pain is exquisite but familiar. He grinds his teeth to stay quiet. When his molars crack, he bites his tongue. Clothes split over gorging muscles.
Under the light of a full moon, a wolf convulses in the grass.
Niccolo Skill is an author of flash and micro fiction. He currently lives in his home state of New York, where he attends Paul Smith’s College.