Serial Husband

By William Presley

I had been skeptical of polygamy when my parents first introduced me to the FLDS church. Indeed, it took a surgical residency to finally realize the genius in the design – that while no woman could be the total package, each could contribute a small piece to the perfect whole. My first wife had magnificent hair, the second piercing blue eyes, the third an angelic face and slim torso, and the last, legs to die for. I put down my sutures and sighed. Yes, together, they made a flawless partner; but what to do with the rest of the body parts?

––––––––––
William Presley is a graduate student in human genetics who spends his spare time “desperately hocking his fiction at anyone who will have it.”

A Real Connection

By Pueblowriter

She told me her favorite color was orange. Had been ever since she was little. Her mother’s favorite color was powder blue. When they did projects together, especially for school, they came out so pretty, the colors melding perfectly together. That’s how I felt about us. All those late-night talks. The secrets shared; the confidences built. The friendship forged over dinners and coffees. I thought it could be more. Now, she hangs out in the pasture above the pumpkins and sunflowers and wild grasses. She’s up on that cross like she always wanted. Just see how happy she looks now.

––––––––––
Tell us why you write: “I blame my mother.” – the writer

The Puppet Master

By Keith Hoerner

The opera house was rumored as haunted, and the aged villagers could recall the puppeteer of ol’, but laughed in delight, not fright. Dares bandied about, and a handsome bounty was promised to the poor soul who spent just one night on its very stage. Greedy, a foolish, ne’er-do-well eagerly enlisted. Unceremoniously, he laid his spindly body to the floor mocking the ancient scenery and theatrical figurines about him, when a shadow voice sang: “You sunk; you strayed; now string be strung, be imprisoned in mind; be forsaken in time; I transform you now from man — to marionette!”

Drained

By Doug Jacquier

For a moment, I thought my new wife knew. About my ex and her inheritance, the wild mushrooms we gathered, the ashen face, the blue lips, everything. The thought arose from her briefest of hesitations before joining me in plucking wild raspberries during our honeymoon moonlight ramble. We played at vampires, and with blood red juice staining our lips and chins, we sucked at each other’s necks, laughing as we made love on the grass. As she climaxed, I bit and she died in ecstasy. She looked so peaceful. The ashen face, the blue lips, everything (including her money) drained.

––––––––––
“I write to communicate in ways that conversation and social media can never hope to replicate.” – the writer

Like A Woman

By Eric Scot Tryon

She first haunted me on Sundays. In church. Whispered threats tickling past me like ancient hymns. Then the car. Misheard warnings in the static-space between songs. Then our house. Books toppling, picture frames tilting. Only your photos. I’m sorry. When she visited our bedroom I should have said something. When the sheets billowed and you felt the marshmallow touch of uncalloused hands trace your clavicle, I should have known. When you moaned at the tissue paper bones that wrapped around your neck, I should have told you. How strong the gentle can become. How quickly the caress becomes the squeeze.

––––––––––
Eric Scot Tryon is the Founding Editor of Flash Frog. He writes, he says, “because he would make a lousy plumber.”

You Hear a Noise

By John L. Malone

You hear a noise. It’s past midnight.
So what do you do?
You hop up, turn on a few lights, tramp down the passageway. open and close cupboards, bang doors, make a lot of noise.
Then you stop and listen.
There it is again.
Those bloody mice, you say, though you’ve seen no evidence of any.
It’s nothing, you decide, nothing. House noises.
You head back to the bedroom, turn off the lights.
Someone taps you on the shoulder.

           
John is a South Australian writer of poetry, flash fiction and the occasional short story.

Nightmares

By Camila Lopez-Passapera

Last night I dreamt I was stuck
in a time warp for hours
and by the time I got back
to the regular world, no one
I knew was alive, and I was alone
in a place I knew nothing about.

My eyes opened in an instant
and the hairs on my arms stood up
as I searched around the room
for any sign I was back in my regular life
stare ricocheting from corner to corner
always falling short of my targets.
For a moment, I forgot I wasn’t home
I forgot we weren’t together anymore
and you were the first person I looked for.

            
Camila Lopez-Passapera is a psychology student who writes to stay sane in a beautiful, ill world.

Little Terror

By G.B. Burgess

When I was little, bumps in the night terrified me. But as I grew older, my fear shrank, and I stopped noticing those subtle sounds.

Until, packing for college, I discovered a boogieman in my closet. His shadowy frame, horns and glowing eyes should have startled me, but he looked so sad with his head hung, clawed fingers twiddling.

“I’m bored,” he sighed. “It’s been no fun since you stopped reacting to my scares.”
“Sorry. Growing up is a little boring. But hey …” One last childish, fun idea filled me. “I have a little brother.”

The boogieman smiled, revealing fangs.
            
GB Burgess is a writer from Tasmania. Her aim: to take readers down unexpected paths.

For Him Anyway

By J.T. Morse

​I knew what he’d become. But I didn’t care. To me, he was still Nick deep down. My Nick.

Crossing the trench into the Z-zone was tough. But I did it. For him anyway.
Fighting off the ravenous creatures, for days, sucked. But I had to reach him. To find my soulmate.

Seeing his rotting flesh and the carcass he’d become broke my heart. But I’d come this far. I couldn’t back out now.

Letting him sink his jagged teeth into my arm took guts that I didn’t know I possessed. But for him, my Nick, I did it anyway.

           
J.T. Morse writes to “explore the mysterious and empathetic connection to fellow humans.”

Laughter

By Belinda Brady

All I’d hear was laughter. Laughter as I crossed the playground, laughter when I tried to join in and make friends, laughter as I walked away rejected. I wasn’t invited to the sleepover, but I heard them talking about it in class, the laughter as I looked their way ever present.

Arriving uninvited, they laugh as they tell me to leave, the laughter quickly turning to screams as I change in front of them, muscles tearing through my skin, sharp fangs dripping.

In a matter of seconds, the only laughter I can hear is my own.