When the dreaded thing happened, a strange feeling of calm came over her. Yes, they might put her in ICU, surrounded by beeping machines and strangers in hazmat suits. She might end up on a ventilator. Or, worse, she might not.
But she would no longer be completely, utterly alone.
Donald A. Ranard’s writing has appeared in The Atlantic, Every Day Fiction, Flash Fiction Magazine, 100 Word Story, The Washington Post, The Boston Globe, and elsewhere.
It is evening rush hour in my city Glasgow.
I hear a solitary blackbird singing
no longer silenced by the snarl of roaring engines
and angry drivers.
The blackbird’s song is sweet but I yearn to hear it no more
meaning normality has returned to free me from this self-isolation
John B. Sinclair is a much-travelled Scot who has now returned to Scotland, where he enjoys freelance writing on a variety of subjects.
Nick feels shame buying TV dinners. Stroganoff. Salisbury steak.
Others buy steaks, corn. Things that connote family. Families who move about, laughing, sharing secrets, brushing past Nick.
He picks up a steak, marvels at its robustness. Drops in the cart.
Nick imagines a wife smiling across a table.
He smiles.
Yash Seyedbagheri is a graduate of Colorado State University’s MFA program in fiction. His work has been published or is forthcoming in Literally Stories, 101 Words, (mac)ro (mic), and Ariel Chart.
The ends of the umbrella flap irregularly in the wind like an injured bird. Stones jab my ribs and spine as the Atlantic splashes between my thighs. Mom’s been gone two years, yet I am here, on her favorite beach, surrounded by people who will never mean anything to me.
Alyssa Minaker lives in North Africa with her husband.
You liked that shelf too. The one at the back by the window that looked onto Olan Mills, Family Photographer. Graphic Fiction. The place where our ten-year-old selves swapped plastic-sheathed tales of Gaul and boy detectives between each other. If only we’d met. Maybe we’d have realised we weren’t alone.
Amanda Quinn lives in the northeast of England where she works as a freelance writer and tutor. Her writing has been published by Shooter Literary Magazine, Open Pen, Ellipsis Zine, Butcher’s Dog, and Spelk Fiction among others. She can be found online at amandaquinn.co.uk and on Twitter at @amandaqwriter.
Faded yellow letters on a flaking blue sign beside the door of a long-abandoned building read: Mrs M. Martindale, music lessons, top floor.
Gregor, a beggar, frail, toothless, and alone, spends his nights huddled by the front step. Sometimes he plays his tin whistle. Sometimes a distant piano accompanies him.
John Young is an old chap living in St. Andrews, Scotland, a ancient town with an ancient university, home of golf and, allegedly, many ghosts.
When the kids were small, presents overwhelmed the space under the tree. The numbers dwindled as, one by one, they grew older and moved away. For another decade, the trees Caitlin and I decorated harboured only a few.
It’s all over now. This year, I didn’t even have a tree.
Alan Kemister is the pen name of a retired scientist experimenting with more fictitious writing. He’s currently working on a climate change novel. Get the gory details at alankemisterauthor.wordpress.com.
Looking toward the ringed gas giant
the man in the moon asks
whether 82 moons (29 unconfirmed!)
would keep him company—
or simply keep him awake?
Darkness descends.
The ever present question
runs through his mind; his nightly habit.
Nobody answers.
In silence, he forever contemplates
the great looped wanderer.
Sarah Caroline Bell is a writer based in Seoul. She imagines the universe as a sentient organism.
Tell me a story with a happy ending.
That genderless AI voice bounced through the sterile capsule, the low gravity seeming to slow the pronunciation.
“I can’t, Sam.”
Did God create the virus?
“No.”
Did I?
“Yes, Sam.”
Through the port window of the capsule, the lights on Earth faded.
Rob Spielman’s short stories and poetry have previously been published in The Blue Earth Review, Allergory, Pif Magazine, and other journals. He has an MFA from Concordia University and currently makes a living as a writing consultant while living in Minneapolis with his wife and two children.
She combs the soft shoulders of highways for lost garments fossilized in the sun-baked gravel.
By moonlight, she sews her scarecrow children and poses them on the slouching swing set in her yard. She tells herself it’s only kitsch, like bathtub Jesus, but catches herself watching from the kitchen window.
C.F. Carter is a Canadian publisher and writer. His microfiction has been published in Microfiction Monday Magazine and Postcard Shorts.