“This is what’s available,” barks the man.
She looks through the bars.
Pressed against them: faces. Beseeching. The heart-breaking whining unbearable. She cannot take all.
She writes a random number on her document and presents it to the office.
“A boy? You pick a boy?”
“Yes,” is her choked reply.
Internationally published, S.B. Borgersen writes, knits socks, and walks her smashing dogs on the south shore of Nova Scotia. Her favoured genres are short and micro fiction and poetry. She has thirteen draft novellas gathering dust. A member of The Nova Scotia Writers’ Federation, Writers Abroad, and a founding member of The Liverpool Literary Society, Sue judged the Atlantic Writing Competition (Poetry) 2016 and Hysteria (Poetry) 2017. See more at sueborgersen.com.
By the canal, she watches the drake’s savage courtship of his chosen mate, beak gripping the struggling duck’s neck.
Incensed, the woman tries and fails to loosen the male’s stranglehold.
“Bully!” she says.
“You can’t change nature, darling. Coming?”
She feels his strong hand caress her nape, and pull gently.
Viv Burgess is a bit jaded post-Christmas. Too many mince pies and not enough writing.
As the eradication patrol passed, creatures emerged from the shadows, balancing on spindly limbs as if it was the most natural thing in the world.
They approached the embassy timidly, tiny eyes peering up into the perimeter viewer.
The ambassador was nearby.
“Let the humans in. It was their planet.”
Hatched in the spire of Saint Eugene’s cathedral in Derry, or close enough for reality not to be offended, he swoops down with the odd Science Fiction manuscript which is duly transcribed from bird-scratching by his alter ego under threat of a severe head-clawing. Refusing to be identified, his partner in crime will only admit that Falcon, a Peregrine, can be seen vole-hunting in the local cemetery to feed his family. This is presumed to be a source of inspiration, but who can tell with raptors.
“Attention. We are genetic perfection. We abandoned our defectives upon this planet long ago. You are their ancestors. Children. We should’ve emptied the planet before we left. We apologize for allowing you to love for so long. We’re going to correct this. All of you, go to your loved ones.”
Ryan Joshua Ouimet wrote this story.
The aliens came down from above. The locals screamed and ran for their lives.
“They’re monsters!” someone screamed as the military arrived and blew them to pieces.
Joyous celebrations erupted while, elsewhere, a small child picked up a burnt cloth from an alien uniform.
It read “United Earth Mission.”
Connell Wayne Regner enjoys ripping yarns and the variety of writing styles found in fiction. His other dabblings can be found at paragraphplanet and wtdmagazine.wordpress.com.
They stood by the charred crater that had been their home and listened to the wind.
It told them, You’ve been hard done by.
It said, They had no right.
It whispered, Independence is our destiny.
It commanded, Hoist the New Antland flag, stand tall, and let the humans come.
This story was based on a call on Twitter for the first five words of a story. @jc_sharp provided “The infestation came fast, Zombies”.
The infestation came fast, Zombies News reported. Peaceful settlements were raided during the day by human soldiers wielding needle guns. Those struck with the poisoned needles gradually lost their zombinity, reverting to their lesser human forms. Those that were not kidnapped by the human infesters have been gathered in quarantine.