The house began to eat itself. It had no other choice, having grown sluggish and depressed from the family secrets rotting inside its crevices.
Help would’ve come if anyone asked, but no one recognized its deep decay. It had been staged for sale, appearing in peak condition from the outside.
Lisa Alletson is an emerging writer whose work has been published in The Globe and Mail, Ginosko Literary Journal, and The Write Launch. She was born in South Africa and lives in Toronto, Canada. Follow her on Twitter at @LisaAlletson.
Started sewing today.
And again today.
And again today.
Mr. MacKelvie came knocking. Wondered is mom home.
Back to sewing.
I think today I really can’t continue.
Mr. MacKelvie came round again. The yard smells.
Today finished the ears.
Today finished the mouth.
Today got the eyes done. Shut permanent.
Tim Boiteau lives near Detroit with wife and son. He is a recent
winner of the Writers of the Future Contest. Follow him at @timboiteau.
He whispers, Stay.
I give a languid smile and leave my cigarette to burn on the nightstand next to his grandmother’s old lamp. I adjust my wig and slip on my red heels. The door closes behind me, as smoke curls around the bed.
I won’t be seeing him again.
Karin Osterberg grew up on the prairie where she transformed dreary winter landscapes into faraway lands. Now living in Oregon, with BAs in Biology and Chemistry, she analyzes chromosomes by day and creates worlds of fiction by night.
Mr. Burnett picks up his newspaper from his doorstep, scans the picket-fenced street, then retreats inside.
He’s a respectable, decent man, I remind myself.
His wife, Helena, hasn’t been seen for several months. Visiting her sister in Wyoming, apparently.
This is suburbia. We go about our day, no questions asked.
Mark Towers writes children’s books, short stories and poetry.
Lying on the sofa with reruns of Family Feud and Wheel of Fortune for her company, she waited for sleep to embalm her. She no longer dreamed of him. Those nightmares were now locked away in an unused master bedroom, behind a firmly closed door, under an ink-black midnight sky.
Arlene writes poetry, flash fiction and song lyrics. More of her work may be found @ I am not a silent Poet, Tuck Magazine, Little Rose Magazine, London Grip, The Open Mouse and Literary Heist.
We held hands and kissed each other for far too long, until time was mostly gone. The room was bright despite night’s descent.
We laid face down on the wooden floor, reached under the bed, and rubbed their chins, cat by cat.
It was the very end. Their eyes glowed.
Tim Cox lives in Brooklyn with his wife, Karen, and their four cats. See more at instagram.com/timcox.
The sea is a living thing: shifting, expanding, slipping, withdrawing.
In the depths below I watch him sway, caught up in the kelp. It’s wrapped around his wrists and weaves through his hair.
When I swim past him I can see my silver body reflected in his flat, murky eyes.
Nanna is an Icelandic freelance journalist and writer with her nose to the grindstone. It hurts; please, someone send medical help.
Every time I eat here, I wonder if she’s still in the restroom.
I watch the cakes orbit on refrigerated turntables, a silent waltz for the ballerinas running omelets and coffee.
Back when she excused herself to the restroom, the hostess was probably still in diapers.
“Table for one, please.”
Ryan R. Latini is a freelance and fiction writer living in southern New Jersey. His fiction and nonfiction have appeared in Funny in Five Hundred
, Red Savina Review
, and The Schuylkill Valley Journal
We were married within a month.
The first morning I woke with nausea, I felt rotten. The second: jubilation. Mere weeks had passed since we first made love, but I swore I could already feel a bump.
We laughed, kissed, hugged; fell asleep with bodies intertwined. Life was a dream.
Guy forgot to submit this story last month. This is his twentieth 50-word story.
Editor: See part 1 and part 2 of Guy’s ongoing story.
to the ocean,
in vine leaves,
and throws one
from the water –
in the sun.
but all she needs
is his kiss.
writes novels, flash fiction and the occasional poem.