By Heidi Ball
The angle and distance between my lips and the flame were just right. I had practiced to ensure they would be. The time required to extinguish the flame had been measured, which allowed maximum concentration on what was really required.
I hovered, watched him from the corner of my eye, as he again leaned in to blow out my birthday candles. And in three quick motions: I blew, retracted my face from the vicinity, and hooked the back of his head with my right arm, using his own kinetic energy to propel him face-down into the buttercream icing.
There is the rush of oncoming traffic, and with it death. The speed of the impact becomes stretched out to hours, days, years, as memories burst to the surface. Reality melts away into another world, a different life: A long life full of all the little happinesses one could hope for. And as they’ve reached the end of this life and they feel their heart beating slower, time compresses as before and the white light becomes the light of rebirth, a third new life begins. A person lies dying in the road, dying in infinity.
By David Cook
Left. Left. Left. Right! Match? No. Left. Left. Left. Sigh. Left. Left. Right! Match? No. Left. Left. Right! Match? Yes! Hi! Date? Yes? Yes! Wait. Wait. Today! Shower. Best outfit. Go. Meet. Uh-oh. Boring. Weird. Drink. Nod. Smile. Drink. Leave. (Alone.) Home. Sleep. Up. Breakfast. Left. Left. Work. Lunch. Left. Left. Right! Match? No. Home. Left. Left. Left. Microwaveable lasagne for one. Left. Right! Match? Yes! Hi! Date? Yes? Yes! Wait. Wait. Today! Shower. Best outfit. Go. Get stood up. Leave. Home. Consume half-bottle of own-brand supermarket vodka and a Pot Noodle. Cry. Sleep.
Up. Hangover. Breakfast. Left. Left. Left.
Bio: David Cook’s stories have appeared in print and online in places including Flash Fiction Magazine, Spelk and Sick Lit Magazine.
Summer is here. No matter how the world changes, the seasons cycle onward. True, some of them have become more or less extreme with all the global climate changes, but my cat still watches the birds from the deck, the raspberries still rise in the soil I’ve created for them, and I still sit in my rocking chair on the porch. I ignore the wastelands beyond the hills, although I see the smoke rising still. The Wasted Ones haven’t bothered me since I planted my bombs in the earth beyond my fields. They make good fertilizer for my thorn hedges.
By Kelvin M. Knight
He prayed in the morning. He prayed at night. Words that came to him. Words that did not. Praying was his backbone. Praying was his life. Giving through prayer gave his life meaning. Until she came along. She showed him the truth. All those years spent developing his relationship with God – how could He have gotten it so wrong? She didn’t answer his heartfelt question, just brushed aside his spirituality with a wave of her hand, then crumbled his faith with these haunting words:
“An affirmation monster,” the light in his new vicar’s eyes danced. “That’s how I discern you.”
In a perfect world, love wouldn’t exist. In such a world, you don’t move in together or get married. You co-habitate. You don’t say “I love you,” as if to reassure each other that nothing has changed since the last time you said it. You don’t have to say anything. You don’t have to open yourselves up and be vulnerable. You don’t have to be sensitive to one anothers’ feelings. You cook for each other and drive each other places and fuck each other because you like the feeling of it. Of not being alone.
By Bioman (aka Microman)
I have escaped from a Mental Institution near where I live over ten times. Eventually they closed the unit down because of its lack of security as illustrated by my escaping up the cherry tree, onto the fence and over the roof.
I cross the gap with ease
between my knees I carry my piece
It shouldn’t look like this,
I hold true but it starts
this ardor I felt for your
They close to me now
gated and sure
no fence allowed to be
here around my heart
for my escaping