He swirled his spindly grey finger in the air before pointing randomly at the galactic charts.
“So where are we going for our vacation?” she asked, with bated breath.
He drew back his finger, revealing an isolated blue and green planet.
“Darn! Practice shot?” he asked.
“Practice shot,” she agreed.
Melanie Rees is an Australian author. She has published over 60 stories in markets such as Apex, Daily Science Fiction, Persistent Visions, and Aurealis. You can follow her on Twitter @FlexiRees or at flexirees.wordpress.com.
Three million years entering R.E.M. A dreamy rendezvous with a handsome-beaked mollusk. Wasted.
She half-awoke fully enraged. Fleshy apes. Again. Transmitting waves embedded with trains, rockets, and cream pies. Again.
She hit the snooze, propelling an asteroid toward Earth.
She hoped, vainly, to rejoin the mollusk before waking for work.
boomer trujillo knows it’s not Mondays; it’s really any day without the automated, communist utopia from Star Trek. Check out more of his stuff at boomert.info.
Eternity Press Announces Titles for 2018
- How It All Began
- When The Creator Shouted
- And the Earth Trembled
- When Life Was Born
- And It Grew (er What Grew?)
- Until We Became Human
- Oh, No, Not That
- And Now Look At The Mess We Are In
- Save the Polar Bear
Joy Manné links flash fictions into short stories, writing usually in parts: solos, duets, choruses; different views of the whole experienced by different characters as the story builds, arcs, and reaches its ending. Find more at joymanne.org.
The saucers appeared at 12:15 pm on Feast Day, when we celebrate victory over body shaming and our collective morbid obesity.
The saucers searched for intelligent life, abundant natural resources or a population able to power their work force back home.
The saucers left at 12:16 pm on Feast Day.
Chelsea Roberts on most days can be found writing essays and short stories at pastpaperanswers.com.
The procession stomped past, kicking up red sand. Participants dressed in blue and green, holding banners in remembrance of Planet Earth, singing old songs.
Annie squeezed her grandmother’s hand.
“Nana. What are we celebrating?”
“It’s been fifty years since we had to leave,” she replied, gazing at the empty sky.
David Turton is a fiction author, flitting between science fiction, post-apocalyptic horror and straight-up terror. Look out for his published work across various online publications as well as a forthcoming Body Horror Anthology due in late 2017.
A fetal ball on freshly-turned loam, her tears seep into the soil. Amanda’s arms cradle her knees tight to her body.
Above: a mother – weeping, grieving, dying.
Below: another – reaching, loving, living.
Green shoots cover her fragile form. Mother is bonded with daughter.
She’ll sleep on the hillside soon enough.
Kevin G. Bufton has been writing flash fiction for nearly eight years and still hasn’t got it out of his system. He lives in Birkenhead with his wife and kids, who seem to tolerate him. He writes his darkest stories wearing his brightest shirts, and believes the world could do with more rum.
Earth is a pretty strange place. These beings are only interested in destroying each other and their planet. Their machines constantly belch thick black poison, clouding the view of my ship.
Oh well, I think. They can have fun while they can, because their planet won’t belong to them soon.
Mathieu Munroe is a self-taught artist and writer. You can find him loitering in his room or in tree covered areas.
A hundred years on, tumble-weeds race along deserted interstate highways and a gigantic crater tells of unimaginable destruction. As we land and take readings of the surroundings, we discover our home is barely habitable.
“At least it’s recovered more than the red planet.”
“We’ll start terraforming this one first, Adam.”
Connell wrote this late at night.
They walk among us. Amos couldn’t hold his liquor and spilled the beans. I didn’t believe him until he levitated the bottle of hot sauce on our barroom table.
Here to invade, these aliens? Nope. Earth is a galactic Tijuana. Alcohol. Drugs. Violence. Littering.
It’s boring out there, in civilization.
Joe Malone is fluent in the South Sudanese languages of Nuer and Zande.
“Granny, can I borrow your–”
“Hush, child,” said Granny Gramgrams. “West Fallingdown is on!”
Sonny was forced to construct his denture polisher without reference to actual dentures.
Later tests were… “unsuccessful.” But the polisher’s severe over-spinning counteracted the earth’s ever-worsening irregular orbit, so on the whole, it turned out ok.