I won LEGO. It was a big box containing pieces that would’ve made my entry even better – perhaps even better enough for first place. There was a certificate as well but I don’t remember ever seeing that again. I asked my mother recently but she told me she hadn’t either. I reckon my stepfather tore it to pieces in a vicious fit of jealousy on account of what I’d built – a crane like those my father operated; my father who was never around. If only it’d been my stepfather operating cranes instead. He had a bad leg and might’ve slipped.
From Guest Contributor Chris Parlett
The funeral didn’t make her cry.
She had been given a frosty life, locked out of warmth. Once she found the sun, she never looked back. And yet, here she was.
The chalky dough of a face, ice white and just as cold, with a slash of red lips and the hum of memories in the air bounced off of her like the wrong side of a magnet. She gave the packet of tissues to her sister before brushing past.
Leaning close, she touched the stripe of rouge. Some rubbed off on her finger.
Curious, she thought, the measures taken.
From Guest Contributor Emily Fox
Emily has an MA in English and Creative Writing from SNHU. She currently lives in North Carolina. You can find her at emfoxwrites.com, or follow her on Twitter @emfoxwrites.
Immediately after he was stripped of his chevrons, Cabral ripped off his shirt, stepped out of his pants, turned, and ran. He hurdled the low stone wall, graceful as he could manage. Moments later, shot at but only nicked on the hip, he lay face down in the coop surrounded by surprised hens and their bolder cocks. He crawled, stopped, caught his breath, inhaled the scent of shavings and other leavings. Not far away he heard the bleating of the small disparate herd. “Why,” he later almost told his captors, “Why didn’t I seek the goats? That’s where I belong.”
From Guest Contributor Clyde Liffey
Clifford consulted his companion Coleman before Clifford’s penis-extending surgery.
Clifford: I’ll be courteous to Doctor Coen. A Clip Magazine column confirms kindness cultivates better care.
Coleman: Christ you’re crazy!
Clifford: You conclude I should be cruel? Then Doc Coen might compress it! Conceivably I could court him with chocolates.
Coleman: Chocolates, come again? No I connoted you’re crazy for continuing this claptrap! Doesn’t Corrina care?
Clifford: Corrina isn’t cognizant. It’s my wedding gift, conjointly with a card.
Coleman: You didn’t consider recovery?
Clifford: It’s worth the cost of this bargain!
Coleman: I mean, can you consummate afterwards?
Clifford: Yes…thanks, Cialis!
From Guest Contributor Benjamin Rubenstein
When it was just science fiction, faster than light travel was
depicted in terms of sight and sound. Stars would blur into radial
lines, as layers of synthesised sound effects bombarded a 21st century
Now that it’s reality, it’s the smell that dominates. The overpowering
reek of rotten sauerkraut mixed with fecal notes that sticks to you
Harold always dreads an assignment on a new planet, but when you work
in galactic trade you go where the company sends you.
The hotel receptionist sniffs and wrinkles her button nose before
politely enquiring: “Have you travelled far?”
From Guest Contributor Ross Clement
The night sky was the underside of a felt baldachino; the tower an ornate column; and the church main an altar for some expected giant: bold and bright against the diffuse starlight.
She wasn’t sure about the floodlights now.
“You going in or what?” Frieda tended towards the curt. “I’m happy either way.”
“Night wedding because he looks better in the dark?”
“That laneway he knocked you up in must have been pitch.”
“Twice your bloody age.”
The eighteen-year-old eased out of the limo’s back seat, wondering if the weight she felt was really just the baby.
From Guest Contributor Perry McDaid
The man strolled to the saloon, thinking about what he had done and what he would do now. His family had been killed and thanks to him their murderers were dead too. Revenge had been his life from the time he was fourteen.
He pushed his way up to the bar. He ordered a whiskey and sipped it.
A drunk yelled at him to pull his gun; it didn’t matter why to him.
He said, “Not here,” and he walked into the street.
The drunk followed.
“I’ll see you all soon,” the man muttered as his tears fell. “Now draw!”
From Guest Contributor Dylan Baker
“Hold corner tear along dotted line.” Pulling the seam cereal exploded everywhere. Darn, another bag with a large tear.
Reaching for the unopened milk carton the instructions read: “Push up.” Using both hands it still wouldn’t separate. I grabbed a steak knife loosening the space between. Milk spilled everywhere. Darn instructions. If it says “snip corner,” sauce spurts out. If it’s a spray nozzle, it pops off. If it’s a “tamper proof cap,” it never comes off.
Mm, maybe a bagel with cream cheese. How hard is it to “Pull tab – lift cover.” Never mind, I’m starving. Where’s that knife?
From Guest Contributor Dana Sterner
In the gloom a solitary light illuminated the Führer’s portrait.
“Two minutes oxygen left.”
No one responded.
Cross-legged like the Buddha, Steiner seemed at peace, thinking of his wife and son. Even Müller was becalmed, resigned to an iron coffin at nineteen.
Captain Mayer had himself fired the torpedo that sank the British battleship.
Submerging, a destroyer had detected them, the depth charge fracturing the hull.
They were the only three to survive, closing the hatch of the control room.
Losing consciousness, Mayer looked from the Führer’s eyes to the light. Ah! The explosion of the torpedo finding its target!
From Guest Contributor Ian Fletcher
Ian is originally from South Wales. He studied English Literature at Oxford University many years ago. He lives in Taiwan with his family and is a high school teacher there. He has also been a freelance writer for over 14 years, writing articles for Taiwanese educational textbooks. He has had short stories published in various genres in Schlock! Webzine, Schlock! Bi-Monthly, Short-story.me, Anotherealm, Under the Bed, A Story In 100 Words, and in anthologies by Horrified Press and Rogue Planet Press. He is an Affiliate Member of the Horror Writers Association.
I can feel it approaching, getting closer with each passing second. I never know when it will arrive, but can sense whenever it’s near. I can hear the monster making its move. I run into the bedroom, and slam the door shut. Just in time to hear the front door creak. Footsteps creep close, attempting to be silent. Covering my eyes tight, I hope the monster will leave me be. The door pushes ajar, the overwhelming smell of the monster invading my senses.
The monster says, “Hello.”
I take a deep breath and uncover my eyes to face my mother-in-law.
From Guest Contributor Eliza Salisbury