“Watch out.”
You point to the stinging nettle, hanging innocently with its vaguely-heart-shaped leaves.
I’ve never been stung.
Try it, you say.
Grinning, I let it brush over my arm.
With a laugh, you take my hand.
Safe.
I admire the novel red mark, burning as we continue our walk.
Alexandra has recently been introduced to mushroom hunting, and hasn’t eaten anything deadly yet!
The prettiest girl in class was Catholic.
Doomed.
Danny said she belonged to the bad guy himself.
Long locks of hot red flowed down her back, tickling the tips of the fingers I stretched over the edge of my desk.
I loved her.
In nightmares, I followed her to Hell.
Amy Marques has penned three children’s books, barely read medical papers, occasional blogs, and numerous letters. Her work can be found or is forthcoming in The Dribble Drabble Review, Flying South, Brilliant Flash Fiction, Potato Soup Journal, Ariel Chart, Sweetycat Press, and Flash Fiction Magazine.
If this is a haunting, I’m afraid you’re not doing it right. No, it isn’t ironic. No, I don’t intend to discuss the definition of irony with you right now. No, I don’t want to fight. Wait. Don’t leave. Please. No, I’m sorry. Of course, of course I miss you.
Mia Dalia is a new author, who until recently, was mainly writing nonfiction – essays and reviews. She can be found lurking anonymously on GR delighting 100s of followers with 50plus reviews each month or on the internet at advancetheplot.weebly.com. Her flash fiction will soon be featured in Flash Fiction Magazine and Night Terror Novels.
I saw him frantically search for his glasses.
They were on his head.
I saw him trip without falling
On the box beside his desk,
I laughed without a sound
Does he know?
He saw me. I smiled.
My eyes stroke his head.
He laughed without a sound.
I know.
Elisa clings to a day job as an Administrative Assistant. She is over 50 years old and adores her nephews and nieces – all 7 of them.
What if he had no ribs? No eyes? Saw her beauty with his heart? There’d be a wedding, with cake, maybe candy. They’d need no cover, shade, no shame. What if they charmed the snake, baked the apple? What if there was only spring and summer, no winter, no fall?
Diane Gottlieb writes fiction and nonfiction—all of it true. You can find her at dianegottlieb.com and on Twitter at @DianeGotAuthor.
Memory is a fickle friend.
You took a piece of my heart and forgot to give it back. That’s how I recall our parting.
You’re famous now. In your tell-all book you spin a different story.
I’m barely worth a mention. Just someone who jilted you a long time ago.
John H. Dromey wrote this story. He thanks Nancy for her prompt.
In the end, she takes the plant. The room feels so full of ghosts, arguments had, hands on her cheeks. Demanding, who could love you this much? Who?
A one way ticket burns her wallet. Don’t worry, she soothes glossy leaves. There are other shelves for you, in other rooms.
Riley Montag is a former child, and most recently, an adult. Follow them on Twitter.
I scream but nobody hears me.
I bleed and nobody cleans it.
I cry but there is no tissue in sight.
So I leave.
I leave the place where there is no help.
Don’t miss me now when you think of this;
Help me yesterday.
Tomorrow is too late.
Denise Banks is currently in the grade 12 year of high school.
They fall like forsaken stars. Tiny sparkling fish, showering down. It happens every year, and I’m always spellbound. Sequin scales shimmer on our skin and hair, glistening and mysterious. And suddenly we’re transformed, shoaling merfolk compelled to answer the sea’s relentless call.
But all you say is, “Fish soup tonight.”
Deborah writes at an old desk surrounded by five hundred pet bugs.
Gray skies this morning.
Darlene abed.
Make her tea.
See she’s comfortable.
Tells me to quit my bothering. Calls me James.
Rain’s holding off.
Afternoon, split wood.
James?
Chop.
James.
Chop.
Dinner. Potato soup, chives.
Wipe the soup dribbling down her chin.
Won’t talk to me. Leastways, not to James.
Tim Boiteau lives in Michigan, is the author of the dark fantasy novel The Drummer Girl, and a Writers of the Future winner. See more at timboiteau.com.