Recent Stories
John poured another measure of wine into Greg's glass. Greg accepted it gratefully and took a sip. The hand that wasn't holding his wineglass was holding Cindy's hand. He was reluctant to let go as the feeling of her hand in his gave him confidence and courage, both of which he would need tonight.
Sir said we mustn't say the "M" word, that the refugee kids can't help the way they look because their families were poisoned by a nuclear something-or-other and the poor things were born with those terrible defects.
Raska Fisherson said they smell funny and they're all too puny to last long, and even if they do, the weird way they talk will get the freaky freeloaders slung out of the Dome via the nearest airlock anyway. I don't know what that means, but Raska was sent to the naughty corner for it.
Out of nowhere, the gods altered my punishment. A woman replaced my boulder, and I watched her roll.
“Why are you here?” I said.
When the two of you met that day, seemingly by chance, near the grocery checkout, there were three things Cameron couldn't tell you.
The first was love. That since those days when you'd been much younger, when you'd both been grad students working in the labs, Cameron had been in love with you. Telling you then would have been frightening, leading to an unknown future where secrets had been revealed and rejection all too likely. Telling you now would be pointless, in so many ways.
by Templeton Moss
Published on Jan 22, 2021
by Taria Karillion
Published on Jan 21, 2021
by Ivy Grimes
Published on Jan 20, 2021
by Tobias Backman
The farmgirl creeps deep into the cave, so far below ground she must've passed into the nether worlds long ago. She doesn't turn back even when she can no longer see her fingers in the darkness in front of her or the pitchfork they're clenching. She doesn't tremble even when her free hand, sliding along the cold, damp stones, passes through spider webs so wide their owners must be living off cows and deer. She only stops when the blind witch's cackle rises from the deep.
The farmgirl doesn't cower, doesn't swing the pitchfork wildly and reveal herself. The cackle grows louder, but the farmgirl keeps still until movement disrupts the stale air in front of her and she is nearly choking on the witch's warm, rotten breath.
Published on Jan 19, 2021
by Cristina Jurado
Black snow, the same black as the night sky.
Lilly shivers, not because of the cold, not because dagger blades are seeking shelter inside her bare feet.
Published on Jan 18, 2021
by Michael Haynes
Published on Jan 15, 2021
