The plane was loud, and the explosion louder, but the air is much worse than both. Unfeeling, it whips my ears as I drop. It’s not the air’s fault, though; I am falling through it.
I should have worn earplugs. My flight is now more deafening than the screaming children.
Corey Orthmann is a freelance writer and mercenary wordsmith-for-hire based in Los Angeles, California.
The crowd swelled, so she climbed onto the mailbox to see. Flags waved from every window. Men cried openly.
When the dead man’s car slowed, she saw him in the back. There was makeup on his face and his suit didn’t fit right.
He looked a lot like her grandmother.
Gianni Jaccoma was born and raised in New York City, and would really like to do some urban exploration before he leaves. He divides his time almost equally between writing stories about monsters, reading about history and watching adorable animal videos on the Internet. His website is www.gianniwrites.com.
He once admired her quiet efficiency.
But now she moves cheerfully through her task and he knows that he will never look her in the eye again.
“There you go, all clean.”
He arranges his face into a smile as his wife tucks the clean sheets around his failing body.
Delancey Stewart is a fiction writer living in Southern Maryland. When no indulging her imagination, she works for the man as a tech writer and tends two small boys who, her husband assures her, are hers. Find her at delanceystewart.wordpress.com.
Feeling down, he decided to go fishing. It wasn’t long before he caught a decent sized fish.
He looked down as it was dying and trying to take breaths, as if underwater.
He picked it up and threw it back. “No reason your fate should be as terrible as mine.”
Connell Wayne Regner had successfully avoided writing creatively since he wrote spontaneous lyrics to music many years ago. Although from a linguistic background, he has serendipitously succumbed to fiction after spontaneously creating bedtime stories for his children. His other dabblings can be found at paragraphplanet and wtdmagazine.wordpress.com.
Today is Tuesday, and you are cold. I curl up behind you and nuzzle your ear. I remember when we were young and stupid and immortal, before the doctors, before the sentencing. In the sunlight your skin feels alive. I breathe, smell your scent.
Please don’t leave me here alone.
Rio Santisteban is a college student living in New York City. She writes because she can’t possibly do anything else.
He is dead.
I’m lying beneath the stars in this tranquil, idyllic paradise you built. Our own Eden. The clock ceased from ticking, the moon stripped of its shine, and I’m asking the leaves to teach me gently how to breathe.
Come back. It’s not too late, not too late.
Alex Alvarez is a pre-med student who wants to be a writer and not just someone who writes.
Did you ever just stare up at the night sky? Jeez, it’s beautiful.
I wish my girl was here, I really do.
They were mouthing off, I told ’em to go to hell. Big mistake.
The stars are getting blurry.
I don’t wanna be found with tears in my eyes.
Simon is a voice over artist and short story writer based in London, England.
“…So, between emigration and attrition, our population has been in steady decline, damaging our international image. That’s why today we’re announcing a moratorium on death.”
The press clamoured. “Ma’am! Ma’am! How can you possibly enforce this new policy?”
The president waved her hand dismissively. “Pharmaceutical bailouts and creative book-keeping, mostly.”
This story was based on the prompt “moratorium” at TypeTrigger.
“I’m sorry, ma’am,” said the doctor. “You’re dying.”
The words hit me like a boxing glove with a fist inside it swung intentionally towards my head by a professional martial artist.
“What!?” I gasped.
“Only kidding!” he said.
My fist hit him like his words had hit me. But harder.
Kim groaned and awoke.
It was early morning, but unusually bright and hot.
Kim slipped into her bathrobe, flung open the blinds, and screamed.
A dying red sun filled the sky. Earth’s orbit was rapidly, dangerously contracting.
Kim shrieked and hammered on her speed-dial. “Tan-Hut!? I need a pre-tan NOW!”