The grandfather clock struck five, and Jack went to the window. The wild ones were crepuscular and attacked only at twilight. Closing the steel blinds, he noticed black dots on the prairie. The herd was gathering under the blood-red glow.
“How many more sunsets?” Jack wondered, returning to his armchair.
Nelly Shulman authored three short story collections. Her work in numerous literary magazines.
The author made up a word for something, say a six-legged spider with two arms, or whatever. Just gibberish. Eventually the story was translated into Italian, and thanks to a typo, it only needed to be pronounced in the European style aloud to unbind the universe. The universe is waiting.
After decades of nattering on about moving abroad, Ed Walker finally retired and is currently living in Catalunya, Spain. His work can be found in fiftywordstories, The Arcanist, Blink-Ink and elsewhere.
The zombie apocalypse finally arrived, and it was not anything resembling what humanity had come to expect. There were no humans crawling their way out of musty graves, hungry for brains. No, there were thousands of insect species erupting from everywhere. Trillions of them. Humanity lasted just over six days.
Ed Walker is a retired engineer currently living in Catalunya, Spain. His work can be found in fiftywordstories, The Arcanist, Blink-Ink and elsewhere.
Scratchy – Stinky – she dances around Nana’s sunshiny garden, skipping along sweet-smelling flowerbeds, renaming plants – Shivery – Sickly – confident because Nana’s here and laughing, changing names shared with the vanished girls (Rose – Daisy – Poppy – Lily) who whisper and tap on her window every night.
Nobody heeds childish imagination. Until she vanishes, too.
Deborah writes at an old desk surrounded by five hundred pet bugs.
Wake someone from a deep, drug-induced sleep and they get pissed. Especially when there isn’t a tangible reason for the waking.
Except for the knife.
That was tangible. An 18-inch blade. From the kitchen.
It clattered to the ground when he woke, as if dropped from midair.
Laura Shell quit her day job in August of 2023 to become a full-time writer. She has been published in numerous literary publications. In February, her first anthology of paranormal stories will be in print. When she isn’t writing and reading short fiction, she watches horror movies with her dog, Groot, and jabs snarky remarks at her husband of 35 years.
With a flash, the lights go out. You wipe shampoo from your eyes and curse under your breath.
You turn off the water. The drain groans, then—silence. Your hands reach for your phone, but it’s hopeless; try as you might, you cannot see in the dark.
But I can.
Nico Calvanico is a native New Yorker and a student at The New School. After studying performing arts for his entire life, he has decided to pursue something far more lucrative: creative writing.
The darkness—a thick sheet of steel. Impenetrable. Even time’s fingers, not finding purchase, had slipped silently from the room.
The man scoured every inch by hand. Found nothing.
No door opened—yet… a change.
A bend in the air. Breath down his neck.
Someone was there with him.
Waiting.
Jennifer Sara Widelitz is currently a student at the University of Edinburgh in Scotland, pursuing an MSc in Creative Writing. She has a BFA in Visual Effects from the Savannah College of Art and Design and worked as a compositor, creating special effects for film and television. Her poetry and photography have been featured in various literary publications. She is the author of Battle Cry and illustrator of A Heavenly World. To find out more, visit her website.
Grandmother dies. Mother says: Better late than never. Don’t open the kitchen window.
That night Mother sleeps in Grandmother’s bed. Daughter sleeps in the kitchen as usual.
When dead limbs skitter in the outer dark, Daughter wakes. She opens the window, climbs through, and stumbles—glancing backward every minute—away.
Finola Davidson lives and writes in Durham, North Carolina.
The food is running low.
Well, for everyone except those things on the street.
With each desperate attempt, those creatures have something more to eat.
I’m in a state of living death, hiding in this building.
If I can escape, I live.
If I fail, I feed the living death.
Jim Lee Sr. has been writing for himself for decades. But he has decided to try to write for others now. He lives alone under the often overcast, drizzling sky of Western Washington State. A dreary, cold, and desolate existence… But he likes it.
Mama flicked on the light and tightened her robe. Five-year-old Benji sobbed, trembling.
“It’s okay, Benji.” Mama kissed his forehead.
“Monster’s hungry,” he whispered.
“Monsters don’t eat children.”
“I know,” whimpered Benji. “They eat grownups.”
Mama’s leg jerked. She gasped, eyes wide as she was pulled down under the bed.
Rita Riebel Mitchell writes tiny bits of fiction every day. Her longer stories take… longer. Read more at RRMitchell.com.