Sometimes my dreams seem so real I think I can reach out and touch them. Sometimes they don’t. This last one worries me the most: I can’t tell the difference.
I’ve stayed awake now for almost two days, feeling more secure with each passing minute that nothing bad will hap…
Ed N. White has recent stories accepted by The Scarlet Leaf Review and Wordgatherings (Dec. issue).
Marian fumed at Todd for knocking over her juice. A storm marched in above them at school. Marian remembered a joke, and the cloud disappeared.
“Mommy! I can control the weather with my mind,” Marian said.
After extensive psychiatric evaluation, Marian was given medication.
The weather has never been nicer.
Anthony is a writer who loves his family. He works with numbers by day and words by night (or early morning). He is obsessed with his bloodhound, wife, and daughter, and has a love affair with Indian food.
More than a tourist in the land of the Parkie where the governor
mumbles and shakes. I’m like a warrior trying to escape; PD has
a grip on my soul. A voting citizen, I fell off the floor and opened
the door to a new life that yells: watch out!
Michael Mogel is an out of work Fire Alarm Inspector due to Parkinson’s and has been writing poetry since college where he founded a literary
“Donald, you dropped the mirror on the floor.”
“I know. I was shaving and the thing was sneering at me.”
“You were seeing yourself.”
“I don’t care who I was seeing. I am the president and no one sneers at the president. Get me a new mirror that only smiles.”
Fillip Verdun wrote this story.
In a place with no trees the boys built a forest of stone.
They chiseled and stacked, erecting one here, one there.
They carved branches and engraved leaves.
In daylight the fake trees looked ridiculous.
But at night, when the moon rose, forming long shadows, the world felt like home.
Bob Thurber is the author of “Paperboy: A Dysfunctional Novel” and two collections of stories. A celebrated master of Flash and Micro Fiction, his work has appeared in 60 anthologies, received dozens of awards, and been used in schools and colleges throughout the world. He resides in Massachusetts where, despite severe vision loss, he continues to write every day. Visit his website at BobThurber.net.
Bob was dreaming that he couldn’t sleep but didn’t know he was dreaming, and so, on waking, he imagined he was exhausted yet he wasn’t really awake.
When the beast came, he didn’t know if he’d sunk into its dream or it into his.
When he woke, the beast followed.
Patrick Mc Loughlin is an English Language Teacher in Ireland and dabbles in writing. He also dabbles in painting and music and some day hopes to do more than dabble. He lives in the west of Ireland, where it’s hard to concentrate.
It’s cold here, and bleak.
They say not even love is real anymore. Some of them anyway.
There’s so much noise here it’s hard to hear anything.
As the TV blares the day’s grand dramas, I hear you sneeze.
Who knows what’s real?
Either way, I have what I want.
James P. Spitznogle is an aspiring writer from the bright and hopeful hills of West Virginia.
The author bit her lip. “Well?”
“I’m pleasantly surprised,” replied the editor. “The world’s remarkably believable, although ludicrous! Creating these human characters with only two legs! It’s absurdly wonderful.”
The author beamed. “The characters took on a life of their own. It seemed as if they believed they were real.”
Melanie Rees is an Australian speculative fiction writer. She has published over 70 stories and poems in markets such as Apex, Daily Science Fiction, and Aurealis. More information can be found at flexirees.wordpress.com or on Twitter.
Taking off her eponymous heels, Spanx, push-up bra, contoured make-up, doll-face lashes and hair extensions, she complained bitterly that he wasn’t honest with her, while, oblivious to irony, he admired his reflection in his favourite mirror, applauding his own insight on the importance of artistic integrity in the New West.
Kai Gaitley is an English student in Hilo on the Big Island of Hawaii who understands that an obvious reference is only obvious if you lived through Madchester too.
A breeze scuttles through the jostling limbs of the coppiced chestnuts, and they clatter like masts in a marina.
In my imagination, when the hill is stripped bare, these trees will be crafted into green-winged ships, thrusting proudly towards the broad horizon.
In reality, I know they’ll become fence posts.
Tamsin keeps finding herself writing about trees – but then, literally, we can’t live without them.