“I’ve never seen ovarian cysts in a man’s neck before,” said the doctor, snapping his gloves off.
“Pardon me,” I said, “but I came here about the rash on my hand.”
I held up the offending appendage.
He stared at it for a while and eventually declared: “…That’s athlete’s foot.”
Harris Coverley has fiction published or forthcoming in The Scribe, Trembling With Fear, and The J.J. Outre Review. He is also a Rhysling-nominated poet, with forthcoming verse in Spectral Realms, Corvus Review, The Oddville Press, and many others.
Have you seen my left eye? I’ve misplaced it.
In 5th grade, my teacher told me to keep my eye on my paper.
So I plucked it out and kept it on my paper.
Don’t worry. It doesn’t hurt. It’s more of an inconvenience.
I found it.
LC Treeheart has survived two super typhoons and paddled outrigger canoes in the ocean. She lives with her wife, Lizzy, in Oregon. They share their home with two extraordinary dogs, Pakpak and Mozart, and their grand piano, Francesca.
They came in solidarity: wide nostrils, narrow nostrils, dark-brown to albino-white, humongous, miniscule, deviated septums; stuffy and clear.
Seven billion gathered at the Superdome. Seven billion counted down, then inhaled, and all over Mother Earth bad people shrieked in defiance, clutching soul to no avail.
Flames licked at Heaven’s gate.
S.A. Hartwich lives in Bellingham, Washington, where he roasts coffee to make ends meet. His work has appeared in such venues as Apeiron Review, Bird’s Thumb, and Thrush. Taleggio is his favorite smelly cheese.
They hadn’t meant to wake Nigel up, but the runners were unaware that their route would go through his bedroom.
“That wasn’t on the map,” they said. “Fun change, though.”
Nigel thought he’d been dreaming, but the scent of sweat and the wet footprints down the hallway convinced him otherwise.
Iain Young has a water stop set up in his bedroom in case any runners pass through. So far, none have.
After dreaming of living as a millionaire playboy, I wake up on a lumpy futon in a crummy apartment, alone.
Half-asleep, I nod off only to reawaken cold and weary in an alley on skid row. I’m still tired, but refuse to sleep, afraid of where I’d wake up next.
Pontius Paiva is a dreamer. It’s because he spends most of the day sleeping. Wake him up at pontiuspaiva.com.
Empty for eighty years, the mansion loomed over the village, and cautionary tales spread as wildfire.
She ventured in regardless, her explorer’s spirit unquenchable. To her parents’ chagrin, she returned late, yet regretted nothing.
In the mansion’s window a figure appeared, high above the village.
It watched, and it waited.
Tony is working on a research thesis. In his spare time, he enjoys playing music and writing short stories. Some of his writing can be seen at liretranger.wordpress.com.
Injected by an alien
We’re the fallacies
I breathed within
My pulse slower
The mixed up order
Most fit within
Shades of grey
No birds sing
Can I inject you?
Patrick got lost for a while.
I awoke with a start. Did I hear someone downstairs?
My husband was beside me in the bed, but I couldn’t wake him.
So I went downstairs very quietly,
and I found my husband making a drink in the kitchen
Then who was in my bed that I couldn’t wake?
Barrie Bishop is an accountant and business adviser. He has spent over 50 years as a musician (Drummer). In his latter years he has taken to writing for his enjoyment.
It had been preserved for ages, licked and leathered into the sediment. They flexed their nimble digits and unscrewed the module, marveled at its state of preservation, and they hinged their necks for a closer look.
It had actual skin. They felt dirty, ashamed.
They dimmed the lights, and processed.
John M. Bellinger is the former Managing Editor (2006-2009) and a current staff editor of The Comstock Review. He has been published in The Comstock Review, Blue Unicorn, and Ekphrasis. He also has upcoming work in Cottonwood, America Magazine, and One-Sentence Poems.
It’s not that bad, to start with. Then they turn on the lights.
The skin goes a nasty, fluorescent green colour, the teeth a mucky yellow.
Each shift lasts eight hours. The factory itself is running 24/7.
Each shift ends with a howl. Everyone joins in.
Full moons are holidays.
William Shaw is a student, poet and amateur journalist. He is slightly obsessed with the moon. You can find him on Tumblr at themadmanwithablog.tumblr.com.