You and a friend have been stranded for over a decade.
You have searched for years, covering hundreds of miles, finding no signs of others.
You hear a loud roar and see a spacecraft approach.
Is it a rescue, or an unknown danger?
Markings on the craft read Earth One.
Denny E. Marshall had had art, poetry, and fiction published. One recent credit is fiction in Night To Dawn 35, April 2019. See more at dennymarshall.com.
I float beneath the ceiling.
On the red carpet, my body glows: satin, silk, jewelry worth ten times my parents’ house.
My body hugs cast members, producers. Gets felt up.
I miss home.
The afterparty. I ride a thick line of cocaine back into my body.
Feeling whole… doesn’t last.
Maura Yzmore is a Midwest-based writer of short fiction and a science professor. Find more of her writing at maurayzmore.com/stories/ or say ‘hi’ on Twitter @MauraYzmore.
Between McSwiggan’s and Burke’s is where Mike stands around waiting idly and endlessly for nothing, smelling of old carpets and looking like he’s been lost in the woods since the fifties.
Seventeen years ago his brother gave him two thousand euro and drove off. A solid base to build on.
Patrick Mc Loughlin is an English Language Teacher in Ireland who 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.
“You have got to stop enabling him,” they told me. “He has to hit bottom.”
When he fell through, they said, “It wasn’t your fault.”
This must be what they mean by “The longest distance is between the head and the heart.”
A mother isn’t supposed to outlive her child.
Traci Mullins wrote this story.
Consuming the drug, Michelle felt herself float from her body, into this new world.
Felt good at first: clouds wet, aerial freedom.
But now the monsters were here. Big, rotund, black eyes. Tiger teeth and clown lips. Acid breath. Peeled her skin like wet tissue.
And the tether floated, broken.
Uzair Shahed Islam is an economics and mathematics student at the Lahore University of Management Sciences who writes fiction and non-fiction in his spare time.
In the shallows of the gently lapping waves, the girl, dress tucked in knickers, had played.
The sun, low in the sky, casts an orange glow.
Shops long closed. Curlews, in flight, send out their cry.
A mother comes out to call her daughter home.
There’s no one to hear.
Jean lives in Bath in the UK and loves reading 50-word stories. She has a go whenever she gets the time.
Jack forgot his hat. His gloves. His coat, too. Down the street to where he thought Betty was. She wasn’t. Across the park, if it was a park. Grass anyway. Big empty blue sky. Tired. Sat down on a bench.
So stone cold. Jack wanted to go home. Forgot where.
Paul Negri has twice won the Gold Medal for fiction in the William Faulkner-William Wisdom Writing Competition. His work has appeared in The Vestal Review, Bartleby Snopes, Piff Magazine, Jellyfish Review and other publications. He lives and writes in Clifton, New Jersey.
The beasts surround me, a wall of teeth. I can run no longer.
Why did I leave Earth?
Inside my helmet, I flick through photos from home. The white sandy beaches obscure the beasts. The smiles of family calm my heart.
Lost in memory, I barely feel the first bite.
Tim lives in Sydney where he is writing two fantasy novels, whenever he can spare the time from writing software and collecting sci-fi.
They call it astral projection. Plane-walking. Body-jumping. I’ve been doing it for years: I’m the master, the sensei.
To float above your body, your anchor to the world, is quite the trip. Most of the time…
That’s me down there, lying so still.
And I’ve lost my key.
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. He blogs on an irregular basis at kevinbufton.com.
At each corner, she read the street sign. She studied the shops and houses, examined the faces of passersby, searching for someone or something that looked familiar. She squeezed her brother’s hand. He was too young to remember anything except their mother. Maybe the next one, she said each time.
Over the years Bob Thurber’s work has received a long list of awards and prizes. His most recent book is a collection of brief stories titled “Nothing But Trouble.” His first novel, “Paperboy: A Dysfunctional Novel,” was recently rereleased. Visit BobThurber.net.