Standing by the open doorway, she heard the floor creak behind her.
Too afraid to move, she tried pushing her eyes far enough to see the mirror in her peripherals.
A warm breath caressed her neck. Her pupils widened and her eyes filled with tears.
“Found you,” whispered no reflection.
James started writing at a young age as a means of escaping reality. Now his goal is to redefine the psychological and horror genres.
He turns off the flashlight. They’re in total darkness. Water laps against their boat. A drop of water lands on her head.
“It’s just a cave kiss,” he says.
She doesn’t like caves or boats. She does love this man. She closes her eyes and dreams she is the moon.
Candace Kubinec posts her stories at storydribbles.wordpress.com and her poetry at rhymeswithbug.com.
—tornado, Jefferson City, MO, May 22, 2019
Trails of debris, rooftops blown into sand, a photograph of a two-week-old baby.
She said, I just wanted someone from my family to call, to see if we’re OK—
and the tornado’s breath came from her, stuttering sobs as loud as the storm.
Michael H. Brownstein wrote this story.
Books pile up around the bed like sandbags. He’d just finished another one about gulags. There were people who’d lost fingers and toes while digging for nothing, with nothing for miles in any direction.
Worse off? No doubt. Still, taking no chances, he pulled the sheets up and cocooned himself.
Patrick Mc Loughlin is an English Language Teacher in Ireland and Dabbles in writing. He also dabbles in painting and music and someday hopes to do more than dabble. He lives in the west of Ireland, where it’s hard to concentrate.
It protects me while I sleep.
From the eight-legged reptile under my bed.
From the violent poltergeist in my kitchen.
From the woman in white with midnight hair down to her feet, who waits among the banana trees in my garden.
It protects me, the strange being in my wardrobe.
AJ Joseph occasionally writes at Words from Sonobe.
Those who could run, ran.
Those who could hide, hid.
The rest of us hunkered down to fight, fists squeezing chair legs, staplers, keyboards, wastebaskets, anything we could find.
As the loud popping sound drew closer, we exhaled slowly and did our best to prepare for what was to come.
Ran Walker is the award-winning author of seventeen books. He teaches creative writing in Virginia.
Death comes creeping slowly, quietly, closer and closer.
My Priest says not to worry about it, that the pain will only be momentary. But what does he know? He’ll still be alive.
Ever closer the fatal date creeps, until at last it is here.
Time to take my math final.
Daniel Quillen is a retired HR director and a writer (19+ books). He lives in Centennial, Colorado with his wife. They are the parents of six children, grandparents of fifteen. They are currently living in China, teaching English at a Chinese University.
The first drops of rain were a relief; the dry earth lapped them up greedily. Eventually the ground’s thirst became satiated, and the puddles started to grow. When the road washed out we began gathering at the church, not just to pray, but because it was built on a hill.
Tyler lives in Denver, where he works as a bartender, writes, and plans his next adventure.
I, a lone woman in New Delhi, who treads the road at night with just inner faith as safeguard, am without doubt on a slut walk.
I walk past cul-de-sacs of bawdy lyrics, grasping looks, and treacherous thoughts to find my high road, violating all rules of behaviour and mobility.
Chitra Gopalakrishnan is a New Delhi-based journalist by training, a social development communications consultant by profession and a creative writer by choice. Her focus is on issues of gender, environment and health. She dabbles in poetry on the sly and literary creations openly on the website using social media.
Once a month, my mother got religion. It came on her in the night hard, a sheet-soaking fever. Sunday morning, I’d find her in the bathroom spackling the seams and chips in her forehead before painting an alien face over her own.
Like God wouldn’t recognize her Friday night self.
Sarah Freligh is the author of Sad Math, winner of the 2014 Moon City Press Poetry Prize and the 2015 Whirling Prize from the University of Indianapolis. Recent work has appeared in the Cincinnati Review, SmokeLong Quarterly, and the anthology New Microfiction (WW Norton, 20180). Among her awards are a 2009 poetry fellowship from the National Endowment for the Arts and a grant from the Constance Saltonstall Foundation in 2006.