A paw tapped Dan’s face, and he cracked open an eye. The clock said 4:30. He waved a hand the cat’s direction and grumbled incoherently.
The cat softly meowed.
Dan mumbled, “Go away,” and fell back asleep.
Sharp claws tapped Dan’s forehead. The clock said 5:45.
The cat said, “Now.”
Eddie D. Moore travels extensively for work, and he spends much of that time listening to audiobooks. The rest of the time is spent dreaming of stories to write, and he spends the weekends writing them. His stories have been published by Jouth Webzine, Kzine, Alien Dimensions, Theme of Absence, Devolution Z, and Fantasia Divinity Magazine. Find more on his blog.
“Am I a monster, Mum?”
“Of course not, Franklin. Don’t be silly. Now comb your fur and brush your fangs. Remember to keep sniffing to a minimum and always retract your claws before shaking hands. You don’t want to make a bad impression on your first day at Obedience School.”
John H. Dromey has noticed some fifty-word stories are short and sweet while some are not.
I stumbled into the kitchen. Last night’s party was wild.
Loose word tiles from the magnetic poetry kit were scattered all over the floor.
I glanced at the refrigerator door. One foot up were two tiles: FEED ME.
I called out. Someone must have stayed.
But only the cat answered.
Candace Kubinec posts her stories at storydribbles.wordpress.com and her poetry at rhymeswithbug.com.
Matthew is in surgery to have a large tumor removed from his brain. Matthew hopes it’s not malignant. After the operation Matthew recovers quickly.
Matthew’s doctor comes in and briefs him.
Matthew is happy to learn it wasn’t a tumor, though he wishes the poor alien didn’t have to die.
Denny E, Marshall had had art, poetry, and fiction published. One recent credit is fiction in Night To Dawn 35 April 2019. See more at dennymarshall.com.
A man trudged from his job in the service industry—the only work he could get—when a thug held him at gunpoint.
“Don’t shoot!” he begged.
The thug fired once… and felt seven rounds pierce his own chest.
“How…!?” he protested, dying.
“The name’s Cain,” the waiter replied miserably.
E.O. thinks there are probably some people in the world who should never be poked with a stick. Ever. Like gynecologists and postal employees.
I’d meant to drive the hitchhiker all the way to Chicago, but she smelled bad, so I kicked her out as soon as we reached Lake Michigan. I was sorry I couldn’t take her home, but my fuel economy improved a lot without her body rolling around in the trunk.
Hannah Whiteoak doesn’t drive. She tweets microfiction at @HannahWhiteoak.
Thousands of horsemen we once were, occupying an underappreciated metaphysical niche: the ceaseless minor pains, the unending annoyances. Seasonal allergies. Multiple choice tests. Paper cuts.
Separately, we lacked apocalyptic dread, but together…
Then came the consultants, wielding their Recommendations.
“Operational efficiencies?” we mused. “We have no rider by this name.”
Iain Young once applied to be one of the Four Horsemen. Then he found out you’re always on call. Forget that.
You could set your watch by Old Man Haney’s trip to the mailbox. That’s how I knew something was wrong Thursday morning.
A sense of foreboding set in.
I was about to call 911 when I saw the widow Wilkins leaving his house.
But you didn’t hear that from me.
Susan Gale Wickes is from Indiana. In addition to writing poetry and short stories, she enjoys penning aphorisms and epigrams.
Her father noticed she was still playing with the pile of tea bags.
“Shall we put them away now, darling?”
“Leave them. They’re my friends.”
She had discovered beings that exactly resembled her true form, albeit of limited intelligence. Her next report would certainly create a stir on the mothership.
David Mark Williams lives in Scotland and writes poetry and short fiction. He has published two poetry collections to date: The Odd Sock Exchange and Papaya Fantasia. See more at davidmarkwilliams.co.uk.
I ate it. All of it. It was terrible.
My taste receptors burned with acid and salt. Still, my digestive system accepted it, converting the mass consumed into precious needed energy.
My next meal was twice as big, mostly blue and green, much more delicious-looking.
Third rock from the sun.
AJ Joseph gardens while waiting for inspiration to hit her. In the meantime, she occasionally writes at Words from Sonobe.