by R.S. Bohn
A skull that fits entirely in her palm, with the downiest hair. He gasps, a single indrawn breath. Almost louder than the footsteps in the hall. Almost.
The closet door closes, and she counts.
*
Six elephants sway above the crib. He glances at the window – still nailed shut.
Son in crook of arm, he opens the closet door. Dust and extra blankets.
Just in case, he nails it shut too.
*
A decade for him, hundreds for her; she’s been carefully avoiding this thread, but today… She pulls.
Rusted nails plink to the floor; the door creaks open:
He’s still perfect.
Author bio: R.S. Bohn officially has no comment on allegations that Stephen Cosgrove based his 1978 book, "Misty Morgan," the story of a princess and her unicorn, on her. She can definitively say, however, that Scholastic book fairs at her school were, without a doubt, the best days of the school year.
Closet is part of 101 Fiction issue 25.
Showing posts with label Fantasy. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Fantasy. Show all posts
Sunday, 15 December 2019
L'Albatros
by Lara Haynes Freed
By accident, she learned she could Visit. It frightened her and she stopped.
But over time, the desire to Visit arose on an internal tide of weariness. Ennui. Maternal angst. That desire was a cumulative response: to eye-rolls, to rhetorical sighs. Phones always in hand, teenage attitude. “Whatever.” Visit-lust accompanied a surge of Baudelairean spleen, as if Charles himself had been a single mother of two.
First she Visited them as babies – precious but sleepless days. Then, three and five – needy but sweet. Six and eight – her favourite.
She always returned renewed. Reassured.
As time unwinds, love changes but abides.
Author bio: Lara Haynes Freed is a Midwest-born transplant to the Pacific Northwest. She studied linguistics and literature at the University of Kansas, and screenwriting and technical writing at the University of Washington. Lara is inspired by interests in mythology, psychology, language, and subculture. Her creative nonfiction has appeared in And/Both magazine, and her short fiction received an Honorable Mention in the Regulus Press 2018 Literary Taxidermy competition.
L'Albatros is part of 101 Fiction issue 25.
By accident, she learned she could Visit. It frightened her and she stopped.
But over time, the desire to Visit arose on an internal tide of weariness. Ennui. Maternal angst. That desire was a cumulative response: to eye-rolls, to rhetorical sighs. Phones always in hand, teenage attitude. “Whatever.” Visit-lust accompanied a surge of Baudelairean spleen, as if Charles himself had been a single mother of two.
First she Visited them as babies – precious but sleepless days. Then, three and five – needy but sweet. Six and eight – her favourite.
She always returned renewed. Reassured.
As time unwinds, love changes but abides.
Author bio: Lara Haynes Freed is a Midwest-born transplant to the Pacific Northwest. She studied linguistics and literature at the University of Kansas, and screenwriting and technical writing at the University of Washington. Lara is inspired by interests in mythology, psychology, language, and subculture. Her creative nonfiction has appeared in And/Both magazine, and her short fiction received an Honorable Mention in the Regulus Press 2018 Literary Taxidermy competition.
L'Albatros is part of 101 Fiction issue 25.
Remember
by Clare O’Brien
November 5th. She hesitates by the window, wanting to be out there to welcome him off the ship. She can almost feel his deep laughter, his delight.
Remember, remember. Her memory stands guard but the future frightens her. She’s lived it already, after all. She knows she can never stop him leaving, rejoining his men. Something always sets events back on track. That’s why this is her favourite time. She could almost believe he’ll live. That’s why she’s always here, tonight. The eve of their winter wedding.
Outside, the fireworks crackle and blaze. She turns back the bedspread and waits.
Author bio: Clare O'Brien has been a schoolteacher, a journalist, PA to a professor, press officer to a politician and social media manager to a rock star. She now lives in Scotland by the sea, writing her first novel, ‘Light Switch’. Her work has recently appeared in Mslexia, The London Reader, Spelk, Three Drops From a Cauldron, Cabinet of Heed, Northwords Now and poetry anthologies from The Emma Press and Hedgehog Poetry.
Website
Twitter
Facebook
Instagram
Remember is part of 101 Fiction issue 25.
November 5th. She hesitates by the window, wanting to be out there to welcome him off the ship. She can almost feel his deep laughter, his delight.
Remember, remember. Her memory stands guard but the future frightens her. She’s lived it already, after all. She knows she can never stop him leaving, rejoining his men. Something always sets events back on track. That’s why this is her favourite time. She could almost believe he’ll live. That’s why she’s always here, tonight. The eve of their winter wedding.
Outside, the fireworks crackle and blaze. She turns back the bedspread and waits.
Author bio: Clare O'Brien has been a schoolteacher, a journalist, PA to a professor, press officer to a politician and social media manager to a rock star. She now lives in Scotland by the sea, writing her first novel, ‘Light Switch’. Her work has recently appeared in Mslexia, The London Reader, Spelk, Three Drops From a Cauldron, Cabinet of Heed, Northwords Now and poetry anthologies from The Emma Press and Hedgehog Poetry.
Website
Remember is part of 101 Fiction issue 25.
Saturday, 14 September 2019
Flourishing
by Phil Dyer
“Just give us a name,” said the judge, waving again at the three slim volumes of incendiary manifesto. His eyes were not unkind. “This doesn’t have to fall on you.”
The woman in the dock spread her hands as far as manacles allowed. “I found them. I’m just the gardener.”
They burned the books in a pit behind the gallows. The ash fell with the rain, trickling grey through soil stained with thwarted revolution.
The first shoots appeared unnoticed. Pale leaves unfurled towards the sun, their irregular markings maturing from scrawl to careful text. A breeze ruffled the nascent pages.
Author bio: Phil Dyer does medical research in Liverpool and writes spec fic on the side. His stories have recently appeared in BFS Horizons, 101 Fiction, and Black Hare Press. He retweets animal gifs @ez_ozel.
“Just give us a name,” said the judge, waving again at the three slim volumes of incendiary manifesto. His eyes were not unkind. “This doesn’t have to fall on you.”
The woman in the dock spread her hands as far as manacles allowed. “I found them. I’m just the gardener.”
They burned the books in a pit behind the gallows. The ash fell with the rain, trickling grey through soil stained with thwarted revolution.
The first shoots appeared unnoticed. Pale leaves unfurled towards the sun, their irregular markings maturing from scrawl to careful text. A breeze ruffled the nascent pages.
Author bio: Phil Dyer does medical research in Liverpool and writes spec fic on the side. His stories have recently appeared in BFS Horizons, 101 Fiction, and Black Hare Press. He retweets animal gifs @ez_ozel.
Flourishing is part of 101 Fiction issue 24.
Paperwings
by Ben Kutina
The word we used was ‘paperwings.’ The learned ones who knew the symbols soared in their thoughts through worlds lost to time. Our tribe called them miracles, others named them sorcery. Wars were fought, blood was shed. We lost, and now they burn.
They made us watch.
They brought us to the pyre, their mouths smiling, eyes weeping from the smoke and exultation. They called themselves liberators even as our freedom burned. Our feathers clipped, our paper wings reduced to cinder, scorched and scorned and soaring, now nothing more than ash and memory.
The dead should stay silent, they said.
Author bio: Ben Kutina is a fledgling writer and graduate of SUNY Geneseo living in Western New York. He has been an editor for Gandy Dancer and his writing has appeared in Odyssey.
The word we used was ‘paperwings.’ The learned ones who knew the symbols soared in their thoughts through worlds lost to time. Our tribe called them miracles, others named them sorcery. Wars were fought, blood was shed. We lost, and now they burn.
They made us watch.
They brought us to the pyre, their mouths smiling, eyes weeping from the smoke and exultation. They called themselves liberators even as our freedom burned. Our feathers clipped, our paper wings reduced to cinder, scorched and scorned and soaring, now nothing more than ash and memory.
The dead should stay silent, they said.
Author bio: Ben Kutina is a fledgling writer and graduate of SUNY Geneseo living in Western New York. He has been an editor for Gandy Dancer and his writing has appeared in Odyssey.
Paperwings is part of 101 Fiction issue 24.
Bride
by PK Abiodun
‘Come here, let them see you.’
One fidgets, shivers a little, One is not ready for this. Does not like this. The whole ceremony of it all. One has read too much. And that is the problem.
‘Come here, stand with your other sisters. Let him see you very well.’
One is paraded. Her hands akimbo, her chin up, her gown cut short, kissing her knee. One is presented.
‘You see, too many books have spoiled her. But she will listen. Take your pick.’
One waits for his touch. Spits. One has read too much. And that is the problem.
Author bio: PK Abiodun is a storyteller who codes and creates machines that understand literature. He is a lover of irreconcilable arts and music that do not announce themselves. PK writes from Nigeria.
‘Come here, let them see you.’
One fidgets, shivers a little, One is not ready for this. Does not like this. The whole ceremony of it all. One has read too much. And that is the problem.
‘Come here, stand with your other sisters. Let him see you very well.’
One is paraded. Her hands akimbo, her chin up, her gown cut short, kissing her knee. One is presented.
‘You see, too many books have spoiled her. But she will listen. Take your pick.’
One waits for his touch. Spits. One has read too much. And that is the problem.
Author bio: PK Abiodun is a storyteller who codes and creates machines that understand literature. He is a lover of irreconcilable arts and music that do not announce themselves. PK writes from Nigeria.
Bride is part of 101 Fiction issue 24.
Catalyst
by J.S. Myth
“How much will you ponder upon it?” the old archivist pushed the book in front of the young mage. “So, will you have it or not?”
“That is no easy question. On the one hand, I will take this book and fulfil a destiny. On the other…” his eyes lingered on the heavy leather cover. “I have seen where this could lead. Cities turning upside down, lamp lights becoming pyres, seas falling from the skies…”
“So you’ve seen it. Does it mean it will happen?”
The mage touched a page, felt the earth shudder beneath him.
“It has already begun.”
Author bio: J.S. Myth is an author and a theatre director preoccupied with the interdisciplinary value of art. She perceives fantasy as being intertwined with reality and she believes in the importance of artistic expression in the process of changing the world.
https://www.amazon.com/Notes-conquest-J-S-Myth-ebook/dp/B07T6CGHJB/
“How much will you ponder upon it?” the old archivist pushed the book in front of the young mage. “So, will you have it or not?”
“That is no easy question. On the one hand, I will take this book and fulfil a destiny. On the other…” his eyes lingered on the heavy leather cover. “I have seen where this could lead. Cities turning upside down, lamp lights becoming pyres, seas falling from the skies…”
“So you’ve seen it. Does it mean it will happen?”
The mage touched a page, felt the earth shudder beneath him.
“It has already begun.”
Author bio: J.S. Myth is an author and a theatre director preoccupied with the interdisciplinary value of art. She perceives fantasy as being intertwined with reality and she believes in the importance of artistic expression in the process of changing the world.
https://www.amazon.com/Notes-conquest-J-S-Myth-ebook/dp/B07T6CGHJB/
Catalyst is part of 101 Fiction issue 24.
Bookwyrm
by John Xero
Oscar walks the high library walls, reassured by the strike of his armoured feet on strong stone. Forty feet below, the undulating treetops shift like the seas of his homeland and his heart aches.
A susurration breaks his reminiscence: the whisper of pages in the wind – wing beats. He looks up.
Her hide is leather-bound, gold-edged. Her hundred tails are ribbons of rainbow silk. Her eyes reflect his inner self and her voice is a thousand voices.
“Give/return/surrender me/I/my eggs/children/books.”
Oscar braces himself and raises his flickering torch, meagre fire against the mighty bookwyrm.
Author bio: All stories are eggs that hatch in your soft wet brain space; the strongest, the fittest, dig deep and live there a while. John Xero lays a lot of little eggs, but one day... one day, he dreams of bigger things.
The nest: xeroverse.com
The tweets: @xeroverse
Bookwyrm is part of 101 Fiction issue 24.
Oscar walks the high library walls, reassured by the strike of his armoured feet on strong stone. Forty feet below, the undulating treetops shift like the seas of his homeland and his heart aches.
A susurration breaks his reminiscence: the whisper of pages in the wind – wing beats. He looks up.
Her hide is leather-bound, gold-edged. Her hundred tails are ribbons of rainbow silk. Her eyes reflect his inner self and her voice is a thousand voices.
“Give/return/surrender me/I/my eggs/children/books.”
Oscar braces himself and raises his flickering torch, meagre fire against the mighty bookwyrm.
Author bio: All stories are eggs that hatch in your soft wet brain space; the strongest, the fittest, dig deep and live there a while. John Xero lays a lot of little eggs, but one day... one day, he dreams of bigger things.
The nest: xeroverse.com
The tweets: @xeroverse
Bookwyrm is part of 101 Fiction issue 24.
Chimera
by Liz Tuckwell
‘I was paper and ink,’ I tell the pathetic human cowering in the abandoned library, ‘until a sorcerer spelled me into flesh and blood.’
Sunlight streams through the ragged oilcloth at the windows. The foolish humans think me nocturnal. They have tried many times to spell me back into the bestiary. I can smell them over the mustiness. They have always failed. I hear someone by my nest of books and bones. A tiny whoosh. Paper catching alight. Blue-gold flames lick the pages, burn my skin, which blackens and cracks. My flesh smokes and my veins are molten agony. I…
Author bio: Liz Tuckwell is a British science fiction and fantasy writer, living in London. She’s recently had a short horror story “A Monster Met” published by Demain Publishing and a short story in the anthology "MCSI: Magical Crime Scene Investigations". Her stories have been published in 101 Fiction and Speculative 66. Follow her on Twitter @liztuckwell1. Or have a look at www.liztuckwell.co.uk.
‘I was paper and ink,’ I tell the pathetic human cowering in the abandoned library, ‘until a sorcerer spelled me into flesh and blood.’
Sunlight streams through the ragged oilcloth at the windows. The foolish humans think me nocturnal. They have tried many times to spell me back into the bestiary. I can smell them over the mustiness. They have always failed. I hear someone by my nest of books and bones. A tiny whoosh. Paper catching alight. Blue-gold flames lick the pages, burn my skin, which blackens and cracks. My flesh smokes and my veins are molten agony. I…
Author bio: Liz Tuckwell is a British science fiction and fantasy writer, living in London. She’s recently had a short horror story “A Monster Met” published by Demain Publishing and a short story in the anthology "MCSI: Magical Crime Scene Investigations". Her stories have been published in 101 Fiction and Speculative 66. Follow her on Twitter @liztuckwell1. Or have a look at www.liztuckwell.co.uk.
Chimera is part of 101 Fiction issue 24.
Monday, 10 June 2019
Thousand
by A.F.E. Smith
From the shop window, it speaks to me: love and loss, beauty and despair, all caught on a single canvas.
A bell jangles as I walk in.
"How much for the painting in the window?" I ask.
The shopkeeper smiles. "It's worth what every picture is worth."
I hesitate, before nodding. It's a small price to pay.
He raises his hands to my temples, taking the thousand with a touch.
When I get home, I hang the painting on the wall. So perfect, the way it captures… those feelings…
But I can't name them. I no longer have the words.
Author bio: A.F.E. Smith is a fantasy author. You can find her on Twitter @afesmith or visit her website, www.afesmith.com.
Thousand is part of 101 Fiction issue 23.
From the shop window, it speaks to me: love and loss, beauty and despair, all caught on a single canvas.
A bell jangles as I walk in.
"How much for the painting in the window?" I ask.
The shopkeeper smiles. "It's worth what every picture is worth."
I hesitate, before nodding. It's a small price to pay.
He raises his hands to my temples, taking the thousand with a touch.
When I get home, I hang the painting on the wall. So perfect, the way it captures… those feelings…
But I can't name them. I no longer have the words.
Author bio: A.F.E. Smith is a fantasy author. You can find her on Twitter @afesmith or visit her website, www.afesmith.com.
Thousand is part of 101 Fiction issue 23.
Understudies
by Graham Scott
Carol’s husband left her for a hairdresser just before her daughter went to camp.
"I'm okay," Carol told May. "I'm fine. Go have fun."
But when May looked out the bus window, her mother was shaking.
The camp's rec room has a box of stubby old crayons. May draws animals she sees and sends them home, touched by tears and kisses. These, Carol posts on the fridge.
Every night, the animals scamper down, and for two weeks, they do dishes, bring Carol breakfast, nestle with her on the couch.
They keep all of May’s spots warm until she’s home again.
Author bio: Graham Robert Scott has published science-fiction in Nature, horror in Barrelhouse, and tiny stories in 50-Word Stories and on his Twitter feed (@graythebruce). His personal website, hemicyon.wordpress.com, takes its name from the prehistoric bear-dog, a toothy hunter that couldn't make up its mind what it was. As a college professor by day and creative writer by night, Graham identifies.
Understudies is part of 101 Fiction issue 23.
Carol’s husband left her for a hairdresser just before her daughter went to camp.
"I'm okay," Carol told May. "I'm fine. Go have fun."
But when May looked out the bus window, her mother was shaking.
The camp's rec room has a box of stubby old crayons. May draws animals she sees and sends them home, touched by tears and kisses. These, Carol posts on the fridge.
Every night, the animals scamper down, and for two weeks, they do dishes, bring Carol breakfast, nestle with her on the couch.
They keep all of May’s spots warm until she’s home again.
Author bio: Graham Robert Scott has published science-fiction in Nature, horror in Barrelhouse, and tiny stories in 50-Word Stories and on his Twitter feed (@graythebruce). His personal website, hemicyon.wordpress.com, takes its name from the prehistoric bear-dog, a toothy hunter that couldn't make up its mind what it was. As a college professor by day and creative writer by night, Graham identifies.
Understudies is part of 101 Fiction issue 23.
Appropriation
by Laila Amado
The artist came to town in September. He was quite a celebrity, his work evocative of early Picasso with its dancing shadows and splashes of ethereal light.
In the Arts School auditorium students crowded the stage, asking for autographs, offering to pose. She was thrilled when he chose her to sit for a portrait. After the first session, her roommate said she looked pale. After the second, the colour of her eyes dulled.
At the vernissage, the viewers praised the painting for its vibrant colours, its unique palette. Rumours were that the model had gone missing. Disappeared without a trace.
Author bio: Laila Amado has lived in four countries on two very different continents and is now settling into her new island life. A scientist by day, she is a writer of fiction and poetry by night. You can find her work in 365 Tomorrows, 101 Fiction, Enchanted Conversation Magazine, Gyroscope Review, and other publications. Follow her on Twitter at @onbonbon7
Appropriation is part of 101 Fiction issue 23.
The artist came to town in September. He was quite a celebrity, his work evocative of early Picasso with its dancing shadows and splashes of ethereal light.
In the Arts School auditorium students crowded the stage, asking for autographs, offering to pose. She was thrilled when he chose her to sit for a portrait. After the first session, her roommate said she looked pale. After the second, the colour of her eyes dulled.
At the vernissage, the viewers praised the painting for its vibrant colours, its unique palette. Rumours were that the model had gone missing. Disappeared without a trace.
Author bio: Laila Amado has lived in four countries on two very different continents and is now settling into her new island life. A scientist by day, she is a writer of fiction and poetry by night. You can find her work in 365 Tomorrows, 101 Fiction, Enchanted Conversation Magazine, Gyroscope Review, and other publications. Follow her on Twitter at @onbonbon7
Appropriation is part of 101 Fiction issue 23.
Airbrushed
by A.F.E. Smith
I stare at the photo. You. Her. Eyes creased in sunlight. Matching smiles.
My replacement is young. Beautiful. As flawless as a cover model.
Save. Open. Edit. A frenzy of clicks. She may be lovely, but I can make this picture perfect.
First her face. Erase. Replace with sky.
Extend the wall, one brick at a time, to conceal her body.
Reconstruct your arm, occluded by her shoulders. Try not to remember the strength of it. The safety.
Finally, I've finished. The photo shows you, alone. Happy. Embracing empty air.
Elsewhere, you wake with a start to find her gone.
Author bio: A.F.E. Smith is a fantasy author. You can find her on Twitter @afesmith or visit her website, www.afesmith.com.
Airbrushed is part of 101 Fiction issue 23.
I stare at the photo. You. Her. Eyes creased in sunlight. Matching smiles.
My replacement is young. Beautiful. As flawless as a cover model.
Save. Open. Edit. A frenzy of clicks. She may be lovely, but I can make this picture perfect.
First her face. Erase. Replace with sky.
Extend the wall, one brick at a time, to conceal her body.
Reconstruct your arm, occluded by her shoulders. Try not to remember the strength of it. The safety.
Finally, I've finished. The photo shows you, alone. Happy. Embracing empty air.
Elsewhere, you wake with a start to find her gone.
Author bio: A.F.E. Smith is a fantasy author. You can find her on Twitter @afesmith or visit her website, www.afesmith.com.
Airbrushed is part of 101 Fiction issue 23.
Regret
by E. M. Eastick
The grown children greeted him cordially, curiously; a long-lost relative come to pay respects to their father, the family resemblance unmistakeable – a familiar stranger.
The widow paled and reached for the photo frame perched on the coffin. Every detail was the same: the hair, the clothes, the casual smile. She remembered the day, a week before their wedding. They were young, in love and shamefully naïve.
“How?” she whispered, conscious of her age-torn face.
“Forgive me, dear.” He smiled sadly and turned for the door.
In her hands, the picture faded. Tears streaked the glass of wasted years. “I do.”
Author bio: E. M. Eastick is an Australian writer of no-fixed form or genre, whose creative efforts have appeared in The Literary Hatchet, Space Squid, and many fine anthologies.
Regret is part of 101 Fiction issue 23.
The grown children greeted him cordially, curiously; a long-lost relative come to pay respects to their father, the family resemblance unmistakeable – a familiar stranger.
The widow paled and reached for the photo frame perched on the coffin. Every detail was the same: the hair, the clothes, the casual smile. She remembered the day, a week before their wedding. They were young, in love and shamefully naïve.
“How?” she whispered, conscious of her age-torn face.
“Forgive me, dear.” He smiled sadly and turned for the door.
In her hands, the picture faded. Tears streaked the glass of wasted years. “I do.”
Author bio: E. M. Eastick is an Australian writer of no-fixed form or genre, whose creative efforts have appeared in The Literary Hatchet, Space Squid, and many fine anthologies.
Regret is part of 101 Fiction issue 23.
Sunday, 10 March 2019
Tattooist
by Ted Underwood
Dip. Scratch. Draw. Repeat. He was nothing if not methodical. A celestial map tattooed upon two favoured concubines was The Emperor's wish.
Tsi, whose hair smelt of the tundra, whose eyes shone the fierce blue of winter skies, was The North.
Shun, whose lips tasted of oceans, whose generous curves were adorned with nothing but pearls, was The South.
His days were filled with soft flesh, deep moans and the metallic scent of drizzling blood. Sweat played upon his temples and the needle slipped between trembling fingers. He breathed deeply. And longed for night, where his dreams were his own.
Author bio: Ted Underwood is a teacher, poet and occasional (bad) actor. He lives in the shadow of the beautiful Malvern Hills with his wonderful, and much appreciated, family.
Dip. Scratch. Draw. Repeat. He was nothing if not methodical. A celestial map tattooed upon two favoured concubines was The Emperor's wish.
Tsi, whose hair smelt of the tundra, whose eyes shone the fierce blue of winter skies, was The North.
Shun, whose lips tasted of oceans, whose generous curves were adorned with nothing but pearls, was The South.
His days were filled with soft flesh, deep moans and the metallic scent of drizzling blood. Sweat played upon his temples and the needle slipped between trembling fingers. He breathed deeply. And longed for night, where his dreams were his own.
Author bio: Ted Underwood is a teacher, poet and occasional (bad) actor. He lives in the shadow of the beautiful Malvern Hills with his wonderful, and much appreciated, family.
Tattooist is part of 101 Fiction issue 22.
Sunday, 2 September 2018
Date
by Grove Koger
Handsome brute, she thought, and he heard the faint words, saw them shimmering across her face. Smelled them. He passed his hand across his rough cheek, knew she’d notice. He was like that.
The evening had gone well. The food was good without being fussy, their waiter unobtrusive, the murmur of voices around them soothing. The moonlight spilling into the courtyard outside was a perfect touch. Should they share another bottle? Probably. He picked up the wine list, smiled at her, knowing she’d smile back. Yes.
But what, he wondered as he thought ahead, will she make of my tail?
Author bio: I’m the author of When the Going Was Good: A Guide to the 99 Best Narratives of Travel, Exploration, and Adventure, and Assistant Editor of Laguna Beach Art Patron Magazine, Palm Springs Art Patron Magazine, and Deus Loci: The Lawrence Durrell Journal. I blog at https://worldenoughblog.wordpress.com.
Handsome brute, she thought, and he heard the faint words, saw them shimmering across her face. Smelled them. He passed his hand across his rough cheek, knew she’d notice. He was like that.
The evening had gone well. The food was good without being fussy, their waiter unobtrusive, the murmur of voices around them soothing. The moonlight spilling into the courtyard outside was a perfect touch. Should they share another bottle? Probably. He picked up the wine list, smiled at her, knowing she’d smile back. Yes.
But what, he wondered as he thought ahead, will she make of my tail?
Author bio: I’m the author of When the Going Was Good: A Guide to the 99 Best Narratives of Travel, Exploration, and Adventure, and Assistant Editor of Laguna Beach Art Patron Magazine, Palm Springs Art Patron Magazine, and Deus Loci: The Lawrence Durrell Journal. I blog at https://worldenoughblog.wordpress.com.
Date is part of 101 Fiction issue 20.
Tinderwolf
by John Xero
“I’ve never used Tinder before.”
“Me neither,” she lied.
“My sister convinced me. Silly. Happy I did, though.” He smiled at her, awkward.
She smiled back. “I know what you mean.”
She did know. He was happy they’d met. It was wonderful, because she was beautiful and his love life was saved.
Idiot.
She brought him back to her den, bade the cubs at the window hide and wait with a single yellow-eyed glare. In the hallway she kissed him, tasted him, felt her jaw shifting in anticipation, felt a sharpness at her breast.
“Silver.” He smiled at her, dangerous.
Author bio: John Xero wonders how age-old myths would take to the modern world and its rapid, occasionally monstrous, shifts in form. It seems sometimes the changes happen as often as the phases of the moon...
Notepads: beside the desk
Blog: xeroverse.com
Twitter: @xeroverse
Next thing: coming soon (probably)
“I’ve never used Tinder before.”
“Me neither,” she lied.
“My sister convinced me. Silly. Happy I did, though.” He smiled at her, awkward.
She smiled back. “I know what you mean.”
She did know. He was happy they’d met. It was wonderful, because she was beautiful and his love life was saved.
Idiot.
She brought him back to her den, bade the cubs at the window hide and wait with a single yellow-eyed glare. In the hallway she kissed him, tasted him, felt her jaw shifting in anticipation, felt a sharpness at her breast.
“Silver.” He smiled at her, dangerous.
Author bio: John Xero wonders how age-old myths would take to the modern world and its rapid, occasionally monstrous, shifts in form. It seems sometimes the changes happen as often as the phases of the moon...
Notepads: beside the desk
Blog: xeroverse.com
Twitter: @xeroverse
Next thing: coming soon (probably)
Tinderwolf is part of 101 Fiction issue 20.
Sonata
by Cassondra Windwalker
Moonlight dripped from his open hand hanging over the edge of the bed. She padded closer. His heavy breathing, born of the words and whiskey that had carried him past midnight for months, reassured her he would remember these hours as naught but a dream. She stretched before the open window, revelling in the exquisite agony that transformed her feline form into human. If the other cats discovered her curse, they would pity and revile her. She curled against his belly, pulled his arms close, and smiled. Better to be the poet’s pet for one night than run free forever.
Author bio: Cassondra Windwalker has lived under the guise of many transformations, but she always returns to her true state of poet under the full moon. Her work has appeared in numerous literary journals and art books, and two of her novels were released this year. You can find her at facebook.com/CassondraWindwalkerWrites and at twitter.com/WindwalkerWrite. She writes full time from the coast of Alaska where she resides with an assassin, a ghost, and a very patient dog.
Sonata is part of 101 Fiction issue 20.
Moonlight dripped from his open hand hanging over the edge of the bed. She padded closer. His heavy breathing, born of the words and whiskey that had carried him past midnight for months, reassured her he would remember these hours as naught but a dream. She stretched before the open window, revelling in the exquisite agony that transformed her feline form into human. If the other cats discovered her curse, they would pity and revile her. She curled against his belly, pulled his arms close, and smiled. Better to be the poet’s pet for one night than run free forever.
Author bio: Cassondra Windwalker has lived under the guise of many transformations, but she always returns to her true state of poet under the full moon. Her work has appeared in numerous literary journals and art books, and two of her novels were released this year. You can find her at facebook.com/CassondraWindwalkerWrites and at twitter.com/WindwalkerWrite. She writes full time from the coast of Alaska where she resides with an assassin, a ghost, and a very patient dog.
Sonata is part of 101 Fiction issue 20.
Encagement
by Ann Roberts
He stayed on his knees, hope reflecting in his azure eyes. Her hands fidgeted, wringing a pinch of her skirt on her lap. She looked over his shoulder. But his earnest gaze kept drawing her in, engrossing her in the sincerity of his intentions. She looked down at her quivering hands and his steady ones waiting for her. How could things be so full of joy inside a reality of misfortune? Her voice shook. “Are you sure?”
“Until the day you use the silver bullet to stop me, I’ll love you.”
“I’ll marry you and pray that day never comes.”
Author bio: This is A.E. Roberts' first attempt at flash fiction and found the challenge exciting and enjoyable. Roberts is interested in writing in every genre and style at least once and is now a fanatic for flash fiction. Thank you for reading!
He stayed on his knees, hope reflecting in his azure eyes. Her hands fidgeted, wringing a pinch of her skirt on her lap. She looked over his shoulder. But his earnest gaze kept drawing her in, engrossing her in the sincerity of his intentions. She looked down at her quivering hands and his steady ones waiting for her. How could things be so full of joy inside a reality of misfortune? Her voice shook. “Are you sure?”
“Until the day you use the silver bullet to stop me, I’ll love you.”
“I’ll marry you and pray that day never comes.”
Author bio: This is A.E. Roberts' first attempt at flash fiction and found the challenge exciting and enjoyable. Roberts is interested in writing in every genre and style at least once and is now a fanatic for flash fiction. Thank you for reading!
Encagement is part of 101 Fiction issue 20.
Abomination
by M. Yzmore
I didn’t leave when my family called me an abomination, then sent me to conversion camp because I liked women.
I left after a gang of my brother’s friends had descended upon me, yet my family shrugged, hoping I had been cured.
Then I met my werewolf wife. She knew all about being an abomination.
When she says she needs space, I don’t mind.
Because the moon was full when my brother’s friends died gruesome deaths.
Because my werewolf wife birthed six werepups, who became six babies, whom I love more than life… Whom no one will ever call abominations.
Author bio: Maura Yzmore writes short-form literary and speculative fiction, as well as humour. Some of her darker fare has appeared in Trembling with Fear, Occulum, and The Sirens Call.
Find out more at https://maurayzmore.com or on Twitter @MauraYzmore.
I didn’t leave when my family called me an abomination, then sent me to conversion camp because I liked women.
I left after a gang of my brother’s friends had descended upon me, yet my family shrugged, hoping I had been cured.
Then I met my werewolf wife. She knew all about being an abomination.
When she says she needs space, I don’t mind.
Because the moon was full when my brother’s friends died gruesome deaths.
Because my werewolf wife birthed six werepups, who became six babies, whom I love more than life… Whom no one will ever call abominations.
Author bio: Maura Yzmore writes short-form literary and speculative fiction, as well as humour. Some of her darker fare has appeared in Trembling with Fear, Occulum, and The Sirens Call.
Find out more at https://maurayzmore.com or on Twitter @MauraYzmore.
Abomination is part of 101 Fiction issue 20.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)