All Stories, General Fiction

Old Rain by Ian Murphy

The boy’s father considered there to be two primary aspects to parenting – the importance of time spent with the child and the importance of time spent without the child. One took precedence over the other. Once a month, without fail, the father would take the boy to the barber and they would both get their hair cut the exact same way. The father would have a shave and the boy would envy him while he had it. It was because of this ritual that the boy would forever remember the back of his father’s head.

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All Stories, Crime/Mystery/Thriller

Blueberry by Joshua Stevenson

Blueberry

You wrestle with the blueberry pie as you floss through traffic on the freeway. The lop-sided bundle of pie looks like a monkey got ahold of an aluminum foil roll and tried to wrap a banana. You chuckle; you’ll tell Berry that one.

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All Stories, General Fiction, Short Fiction

Vmbra Wormwood by Leila Allison

And the name of the star is called Wormwood…

–Revelation 8:11

Pus star Wormwood glowered ceaselessly in the cigarette sky. Although it was only midday, Wormwood pulled long shadows from the sour crabapple trees, whose fruit not even the crows will eat. Embittered little trees, Scotch broom, feral blackberries and scrub grass are all that grow in the brief ridges and ravines and knolls that serve as the community “backyard” throughout the valley. During wildfire season the broom pods burst and the smoky wind disperses their dusty spore. During wildfire season it’s easy to believe in hell.

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All Stories, Fantasy

Escape Velocity by Michael Grant Smith

My wife left me for good this time. She euthanized our dog, an action I believed extreme. Quit her job, salted the flowerbeds, grabbed a suitcase it turns out had been packed for months, banged the door behind her. Didn’t even say goodbye to our boys. Just stared at them for a moment, as if ciphering. Me, she’d learned to unsee. Then she scrammed.

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All Stories, General Fiction, Humour, Short Fiction

The Potato Grabbers by Robert John Miller

“I’ll grab the corn and you grab the potatoes,” Poncho yelled to Julia. Julia was wearing her wedding dress, full train and veil, to save time. She wouldn’t have to change when they returned.

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All Stories, Crime/Mystery/Thriller, Horror, Short Fiction

Anna by David Douglas-Pennant

Anna was not one to look twice at anything or anyone. Everyone looked twice at her though. They couldn’t help it.

Most people don’t bother looking twice at insignificant details, so unsurprisingly she wasn’t particularly popular. People thought Anna was either arrogant, or stupid, or both. But I knew that when she did look twice at something, even more rarely someone, that look could take hours, it could take days. I’ve spent my whole life waiting for her to look at me like that.

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All Stories, General Fiction

Through the Curtain by Diane M Dickson

The police showed her his watch. His watch and wallet, and his wedding ring. No matter how much Amy asked to see her husband’s body, they dissuaded her. None of them actually said that he was unrecognisable because of his injuries but, through the shock and horror of it all, the message was eventually received. She picked up the timepiece she had bought a couple of years earlier. The engraving on the back ‘All My Love Stuart – your Amy’ left no room for doubt. His wallet held some money, his bank cards. His driving licence was missing, that was how they had found her.

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All Stories, Historical

The Sixth Victim by Cassie Gross

Rose Dawkins had a terrible secret. It wasn’t something she had done, per say, but it was a secret, a tightly coiled spasm of shame in her chest, a roiling nausea in her stomach. The nausea, in fact, was related to the secret.

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All Stories, Fantasy, General Fiction

Versatur Circa Quid! by Leila Allison

I am a ghost. It’s best to get that out in the open, right away, for the benefit of those persons who still support the notion that the dead cannot possibly communicate with the quick. I am neither the walking nor the talking dead; but I am of the writing dead, whom living “literary types” resent for they feel that they have enough competition in their field as it is.

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