The astronaut’s tether breaks. She has suit air for several minutes and, tying her backpack to the remaining line, slings it away from the space station, hoping for the best.
A child sees a shooting star. Her father says, “Make a wish.”
“I wish mommy could be here with us!”
Ed Walker is a retired engineer currently living in Catalunya, Spain. His work can be found in The Arcanist, Blink-Ink and elsewhere.
It was a foolish thing to do. Not the crime, but the full confession I wrote in my diary. Its gilt-edged pristine pages tempted the truth out of me.
Then I lost my diary.
My heart pounds. How did it end up on eBay? And who has just outbid me?
Suzan Lindsay Randle writes flash fiction, short stories and pocket novels. She lives in the UK.
I sat, staring at the news station, counting the steps to the door.
I should go in, tell them what I knew, what I’d discovered. But the people who wanted me to stay quiet were out there somewhere, watching. They could end me so easily.
I opened the car door.
Chad Bunch writes speculative fiction from the suburbs of Saint Louis. He is currently trying his darnedest to publish the first book of a series.
I turn off the news, hands shaking.
Park two doors down, then shoulder through a chaos of cordons and police and media imps to reach home.
Place is in shambles, ransacked by people wearing disposable shoe covers.
Master closet door’s ajar—Swallow fire—the lockbox cracked open—Breathe ash—empty.
Tim Boiteau writes and lives near Detroit with his wife and son.
A young policeman stood on the doorstep, shifting his feet.
“It’s about your son. Please call this number.”
She pleaded for an explanation, but instead he thrust the paper into her hand.
Trembling, my parents dialed the number. The line rang.
An eternity of rings.
Finally, a voice answered. “Homicide.”
Margie Nairn is a retired nurse and emerging writer in Corvallis, Oregon, where she writes memoir, poetry, and silly limericks for her daughter.
It wasn’t so much the ghastly smile that turned my stomach as the whiskey vapors souring the air in the filthy bedroom.
His eyes were locked in a vacant stare.
What did he see?
“Can we move the body, Detective?”
Eyes riveted to his, I stepped aside as death triumphed.
Cyndi Pauwels writes suspense novels, short stories and essays. Now if only she could sell something…
http://cpatlarge.blogspot.com/