As we went to the restaurant to eat in the evening sun, the beach was emptying of towels and people. Amid the smell of sun cream and ozone, you said it had been a fun day. I knew otherwise, because on your phone you watched pictures of other people’s lives.
Henry writes short fiction and poetry. He lives in Somerset in the UK.
Tonight I write by candlelight. A scheduled outage, they said. No light, no heat, no electronic hum, but in the shadows story pours from my pen. Stream of consciousness, words flow like water or wine or my own blood.
Now I know I should have contrived a blackout long ago.
Robin writes in the odd corners of the day and night and often about birds. See more at thenightmail.com.
She says, “The roads to hell and heaven are unmarked. At their intersection, a man who’s either a devil or an angel sells flowers. Angels always speak truth; devils always lie. One question ensures you get to heaven.”
“Yeah,” he lies.
Graham Robert Scott teaches writing at a university in north Texas. His stories have appeared in Barrelhouse Online, Nature, and The Drabble. See more at hemicyon.wordpress.com.
Fabio the Fearless would perform a handstand on a chair, on the edge of a high building. The crowd grew silent, all eyes turned upward.
All save those of someone moving stealthily through the crowd. Job done, he disappeared, pockets filled with wallets that moments ago had not been his.
Answering the call of multiple muses, Edward W. L. Smith has previously published nine non-fiction books, more than fifty essays, memoir, magazine articles, short stories, and a good bit of poetry. He is an Emeritus Professor of Psychology, Georgia Southern University, and lives part-time on a small barrier island off the coast of Georgia.
“Oh, he loves me,” she said, “in that vague, distant, save-the-whales sort of way.”
She stared off into the emptiness of the world, then sighed.
“Yes, he loves me. He tells me so, endlessly.”
She pulled her thoughts closer and waited for his words to ring true, just once more.
Anita Reynolds is a writer in the wilds of Tennessee, though it’s not too wild, unless you count the four children.
Their mouths searching for the perfect angle. Their lips a breath apart. Their first kiss a heartbeat away. Finally.
A buzzing noise; cell phone. “Sorry, just need to check this one thing… ‘Hello,'” he says.
She knows something he does not. What he really said was, “Goodbye.” And that’s final.
Lou Romero submerged his toe into the tranquil waters of the art called writing. He discovered a raging, grinning tempest lurking there. It was a good place to search for peace. He takes creative writing classes at the University of New Mexico.
Grinning, Earl invaded Gomper Hall, sporting a fuchsia waistcoat with orange-striped breeches, a feathered fez. His belt had bells!
Earl slapped distinguished backs, strutted past mouths agape, open as though for fishhooks. Gentlemen fanned woozy ladies.
Earl was removed.
(Nobody expected that heist. We’re still taking inventory of the loot!)
C.B. Auder might someday dream of a life jam-packed with flexi-twill cuffs and apricot capes.
My wife spotted the chip in our car’s windshield first. “That’s a safety hazard,” she said.
“It’s no big deal,” I replied, but when I bumped out of the driveway it split into a larger crack. I was staring disgustedly at the crack when I missed the stop sign.