First Contact

By David Berger

The silvery disc-shaped ship landed exactly where a rational space-going race would land their ship: on the mall in Washington, DC. A slim, silvery robot emerged from the ship. Every satellite, probe, listening device, etc., available was immediately focused on this humanoid.

Within minutes, a huge, metallic-grey Warbot had plodded from the Pentagon to the Mall, where the robot was standing next to its ship. When the Warbot came within ten meters of the obviously alien creature, the silvery skin of the newcomer began to flash with a dazzling rainbow of colors.

“Nice colors,” the Warbot rumbled.

“Oh, this old system!”

“I write to express myself as a social being and as an individual.” – the writer

The Cat

By Kevin E. Dunn

If I puked
in front of you

in the past
two weeks

I would
probably feel
way worse about it

than he does
right now

“I write because if I have to think about this nonsense, everyone else should have to, too.” – the writer

The Review

By P.C. Darkcliff

I would give the place five stars, despite its poor reputation. My chair was comfortable, everything sparkled with cleanliness, and the personnel was formal and attentive as if they expected the governor himself. Unfortunately, the governor didn’t even bother to call.

When a man in black came over to me, I sniffed as if I could already smell frying meat.

“Are you ready?” the man asked. I shook my head and tugged at the belts that strapped my hands. Cold sweat gushed into my eyes.

“No!” I screamed when another man reached for the large switch. He pulled it anyway.

When P.C. was in kindergarten, he convinced his classmates that his grandma was a tribal shamaness. Then he learned his letters, and kidding his friends no longer seemed adequate—so he started to write.

Am I the Only One Who Does This?

By John L. Malone

I’ve been clearing up the house
sweeping up the crumbs.
It’s a monthly ritual.
Am I mad? Or just dumb?
I clear away the cobwebs
sweep up the dust
collect and bin the rubbish.
Somebody must.
They won’t wash themselves,
mum used to say.
The sink’s full of them
so I put them away.
Make the place spotless
so it shines & it hums.
& I better get a move on
before the cleaner comes.

John L. Malone wrote this piece “… because you don’t come across many funny flash fiction poems :)”

The Life and Death of a Dad Joke

By An Anonymous Dad

Walking into a KFC in Bardwell, Kentucky, I thought of a hilarious joke. I figured I’d test it out on the cashier, since she looked like she could use a laugh.

CASHIER: Welcome to KFC, how may I help you?

ME: I was thinking … Since we’re already in Kentucky, shouldn’t this place just be called FC?

CASHIER: (blank stare)

ME: … because the K would be redundant … Get it?

CASHIER: Yeah, I get it.

ME: (nodding eagerly)

CASHIER: It’s dumb. Can I take your order?

ME: (in my head) Only if you promise to give it back.

Mystery Ships


By John L. Malone

When he gets up to go to the toilet in the middle of the night, she’d be there or on the way back to his room after pausing in the kitchen for a glass of milk, she’d be in the hallway. Time after time.

Passing ships in the night. He’d look at her, and she at him, sometimes a twitch of understanding, affection, then they’d both look away.

After eight years, off and on, they were still a mystery to each other. Her cat. Not his. They’d never bonded.

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

The Things You See at Traffic Lights


By John L. Malone

The blue Yaris pulled up at the traffic lights alongside his HiLux; the driver began picking his nose. Christ! did people still do that? Soon it would accrue a fine. You weren’t supposed to even touch your face. What would he do next? dig a finger into his ear, clear out some wax, have a good itch? scratch his balls? He was amazed at this guy’s brazenness, his folly. The things you see at traffic lights, he thought. Then he realized he was looking at his own reflection in the Yaris’s side window.

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



By Lorna Stewart

“He loves his tulips” She nods towards the garden.

“Went to ruin when my Joe passed, but our Jason tends it now”

Listening to their questions she pours tea.“Yes the greenhouse was extended! Jason’s very popular”

Her voice lowers. “He used to be a bit of a toerag. But now you can’t get him out of the greenhouse! He buys all the seeds himself you know. Nan, he says for top quality you need the best.”

Puzzled she asks them to repeat the question. “Of course they’re Tulips! Why else would he make so many trips to Amsterdam officer?”

“Writing provides me with a good excuse to day dream!” – the writer

What Was He Thinking?


By John L. Malone

What was that guy thinking? Did I agree to this? I must have. What was I thinking? I should never have posed nude, for starters. That wasn’t necessary. And sitting in public view for all to see. You know what I look like? A guy sitting on a toilet seat, hunched over, muscled legs taut, trying to take a dump instead of having a good think. At least he could have put a cubicle around me. Even a bronze statue deserves some dignity.

John Malone is on a roll. His chapbook of poems has just come out.

On a Sticky Note Found at the Bottom of an Elizabethan Trunk


By Michael Thomas Ellis

‘Tis writ that only rot be wrote
by those who seldom write nor writ,
and those what learned to write by rote,
shall rare see quote what rough they writ.
— Bill

“I write because I’d never be able remember these things if I only spoke them out loud. Besides, imagine the looks if I did.” – the writer