Author: Doug Jacquier
Doug Jacquier writes from the Fleurieu Peninsula in South Australia. His poems and stories have been published in Australia, the US, the UK, Canada, New Zealand and India. He blogs at Six Crooked Highways
Adam’s nights had become increasingly apocalyptic. His nightmares always began with the occasional tympanic drop on his ear drum but the pelting storm of pellet-sized raindrops soon progressed beyond the comfort of a drought breaking on a tin roof. It was more like the cacophony of being duct-taped to the amps at an AC-DC concert, punctuated by thunderclaps of Biblical proportions and the sound effects of a cyclone.
Author: A. R. Tivadar
A. R. Tivadar is a hobby writer from Romania and a graduate of the University of Oradea. She has been published in underscore_magazine, the Aurum Journal and Disturb the Universe Magazine. She also has self-published stories on kobo.com.
She was about to snap a photograph of the glittering lights the Sun created on the water surface, when a school of sardines passed in front of her, blocking the view. Mar snarled her lip and swam back inside her home.
She did manage to take some nice pictures that day. Of her friends, of the algae pushed about in the currents, of the many shades of red and orange cast by the Sun above the water’s surface. The water of the Mediterranean Sea was warm all year round. Pen pals from the Pacific Depths claimed it was unbearable, but Mar felt fine.
Her parents warned her not to swim too close to the surface so as to not burn herself. The Sun was still scorching hot.
Author: Imo Scrimger
Imo Scrimger is a Canadian writer living in the UK completing an MFA in Creative Writing. By day they edit videos and by night they write short horror and speculative fiction stories. They are currently working on their first full length novel.
My mother loves to talk about her daughter, the astronaut. She will proudly say that her daughter is the commander of a ship and goes into space all the time. I have tried to explain to her that I’m really more like a bus driver. I’m also not going into space that much lately. Newer tour companies offer more extensive experiences now. If you have your suit license, they actually let you walk around out there. Nobody wants to just drive by the moon anymore. But my mother won’t hear it. Her daughter goes to space, and that’s still amazing to her.
Author: Huina Zheng
Huina Zheng holds a M.A. in English Studies degree and has worked as college essay coach. Her stories were published in Baltimore Review, Variant Literature, Midway Journal, Tint Journal, and other journals. She lives in Guangzhou, China with her husband and a daughter.
My nine-year-old daughter Kitten returned from school and said, “Mom, my classmates really dislike Teacher Xu. Today, many boys rebelled.”
“Yes. When Teacher Xu turned around to write on the blackboard, some boys stood up and made contemptuous or uncivilized gestures at her.”
She showed me, with her left hand across her chest and her right hand waving up and down on her left. She added, “You only do this to your enemies, which shows you despise that person. The uncivilized gesture is the middle finger.”
Author: Pawel Markiewicz
Paul Markiewicz was born 1983 in Siemiatycze in Poland. He is poet who lives in Bielsk Podlaski and writes tender poems, haikus as well as long poems. Paweł has published his poetry in many magazines. He writes in English and German
In a Druid´s soul: gold of rainbow. A druid wanted to go into a forest and pick some fungi, to cook later a magic super decoction from them. In the Druid´s soul: the Golden Fleece. He gathered some mushrooms such as the red-capped scaber stalks-fungi, a boletus rufus and a good foxy bolete. In dear Druids´s soul: a joy of butterflies.
Author: Blanka Pillár
Blanka Pillár is a sixteen-year-old writer from Budapest, Hungary. She has a never-ending love for creating and an ever-lasting passion for learning. She has won several national competitions and has been a columnist for her high school’s prestigious newspaper, Eötvös Diák. Today, she is not throwing away her shot.
I forgive him for the little lies. The little fibs that slip away and the broken promises that go unkept. He always tells the same lies, and sometimes I believe him because the story paints itself like a vivid oil portrait; first, the figures are painted, then the background, then the corners, edges, contours, and finally, it becomes as if it were a real scene on the canvas of life, but only the immensity of human imagination has made believable what could never be real.
Author: John RC Potter
John RC Potter is an international educator from Canada, who lives in Istanbul. His poems and stories have been published in: Fiction on the Web, The Globe Review, Fragmented Voices, The Write Launch, Literary Yard, Down in the Dirt, Bosphorus Review of Books, The National Library of Poetry & Jabberwocky. Upcoming creative writing will appear in: Plenitude Magazine, Blank Spaces, Suspended Magazine, Wayward Literature & The Stray Branch. John is working on a novel-in-progress set in WWI-era Canada, ‘Blood from a Stone’. A collection of his stories is currently being considered for publication by a Canadian publisher.
It was in the waning days of the late 1930s. The Great Depression was receding in the distance, but still being felt by many. In particular, there were still drifters, hobos, and men of all ages and descriptions riding the rails and wandering the roads as the 30s wound down.
Author: Gary Moore
Gary E. Moore identifies as a Poet, an Author and a Dad. Following up on his debut poetry collection from creativeonion press, Songs For The Cleveland Avenue Warriors, he released Songs For The Cleveland Avenue Warriors: reality and fame, as well as a short story collection, The Wayward Home For Retired Superheroes And More Astonishing Tales From The Hood. As the creator of Poetry With A Purpose, a workshop for junior high and high school students, Moore remains close to his beginnings as a career educator.
Grandma Pearl had a baby.
Nobody could figure it out.
Everyone knew that she had herself a beau, Dennis Earl, who used to come around to sit with her on the back porch, but he said it wasn't none of his.
Swore up and down that all they ever did was sit and look out across the Bottoms, where the trees still grew thick.
Uncle Remy wanted her to sell, exactly because of those trees.
Author: Emma Jarman
Emma Jarman is an emerging creative writer enjoying short fiction and memoir. She is an Ohio native and recovering journalist, currently working full time in special education at a small public school in Oklahoma.
If there was a window she’d have gone to it, poked her head through and sung to the night. If there was a bureau in the bedroom she’d have opened it first, for a warm woolen robe that was heavy and green. If the night air had fallen from the window on her legs, she’d have pulled the robe tightly around her thin, nightgowned shoulders. If the night had sung first from the garden outside, she’d have smiled from her bed, curled her toes in the rug and plodded with care across the moon-cool hardwood. She’d have gazed past the jasmine, the petunias and primroses, to the weather-worn headstones through the wrought iron gate. She’d have ached for the buried and those soon to be, and wonder what came their ones left behind. If there had been bed linens she’d have stretched out beneath them at first, in a back-arching, fist-clenching, head-tossing way that would remind her of lying beneath a man. If there’d been a man there he’d have pulled her back in, before the robe on her nightgown and moon on her feet.
“Such silly ideas,” cracked a voice from the rot, jolting her back from what once might have been.
Author: Mike Lee
Mike Lee is an editor and reporter at a trade union with stories published in a variety of venues.
I am on the train to work, looking through an interior design book. While going through its pages is cathartic, this is often fleeting with my realization this is only engaging in daydreaming, a matter of fantastical exercises.
I live alone and while the job pays well, I am past the age of anything better than retirement somewhere in the south, and quite diminished in size.