She farted the color yellow. She perspired the color blue. Her most angry thoughts created a greenish aura around her head, while both her lusty imaginings and lightning-like pangs of envy created an orange fog around her feet.
Her tinder date was color-blind. It might have worked.
It did not.
There are no answers at kentoswald.com about why it is evolutionarily preferable that males are more likely to be color blind, but there are additional words.
My skin isn’t pleasant to look at. Ignoring the looks I get has never been easy. Living with it isn’t easy either. It itches constantly. Even without the gawkers when I leave the house, my skin gives me trouble.
Thank goodness I can take it off when I get home.
George Aitch is a writer from Blackheath whose short stories have previously been published in Massacre, Horla, and elsewhere.
There’s something wiggling in her husband’s cheek. At first she thinks it’s his tongue, but it begins to strain against the cheek, pushing outward. She can see that it’s long and narrow, shaped like a human finger.
Her husband bites down and the object retreats backward. He begins to chew.
Ryan Borchers is from Omaha, Neb., and holds an MFA in fiction writing from Creighton University. His work has been published by Prairie Schooner, Flash Fiction Magazine, Spelk, Belletrist and others.
“They grew a new veggie,” Jane announced excitedly. “It’s supposed to taste like fried chicken. Wanna go and try some?”
“And if it’s no good, we’ll get diarrhea again,” Clara replied dryly.
“Come on, that hasn’t happened since the eggplant incident. And they just didn’t boil the eggs long enough.”
Johanna B. Stumpf is a German millennial, living and working in Norway. She is fairly new to fiction writing, but she did enough academic writing to earn a PhD in Computer Science from the University of Oslo.
Alone in the office at night a slow madness overtakes me. It begins with a paperclip chain. It ends when the cleaner finds me, the Emperor of the Paper Cup People, berating the massed ranks of my subjects, my nudity covered only by yellow sticky notes. The horror! The horror!
Bill lives in Aberdeen, Scotland, where he works as a professional haggis hunter.
“I’m sick!” the stranger whispers, in the hospital lift.
Fear takes my breath.
“A sniff a day… prevents… you know?”
“Okay.” I breathe.
He hunkers down.
Wrestles off my left shoe.
The doors ping.
“You’re sick!” I yell, furiously hoping my diagnosis will be infectious.
At night their scaly tails became legs, so he hung bells around their necks to help find them in the morning. The bells hung heavy and pendulous, like a third breast. When his wife was away, he opened the shutters and waited for the scrabble of claws upon the windowsill.
Mark Farley is attempting to write 1,000,000 words in 2016. Please wish him luck!
The ninja kicks in a door, slays bad guys, kicks in a second, slays a few more.
Inside door three, it’s a room full of cats, a circus clown who smiles, honks a horn.
The ninja turns around slowly, removes his mask and says, “I gotta go back to school.”
Michael Marino hails from Santa Barbara, CA and received his MFA in Creative Writing – Fiction from Antioch University, Los Angeles. His short fiction has appeared in the Flint Hills Review and he has contributed as editor to Lunch Ticket, AULA’s literary journal.
I was kayaking alone when I noticed a random tree in the middle of the lake.
It said, “Hi!”… and I froze. I didn’t talk back; I just started kayaking away as fast as I could.
It said, “Where ya goin’?”
I got back to shore and started regretting kayaking.
Brock wrote this story.
She asked me to catch her a squirrel. It was a crazy idea, but I got her a squirrel.
Now she loves me. She even kissed my cheek. I know it sounds insane, but maybe she’ll even marry me now.
She’s happy; I’m happy.
Wait, is that squirrel’s mouth foaming?
John Mark Goforth lives in rural Pennsylvania, where he spends his time writing and being enamored with the blonde girl at school. One of these things is bad for his mental health, but he is not sure which one.