Fiction

Opposable Thumb by G. O. Clark
posted November 21, 2009
So there he sat, slumped in a quandary, nervously swigging his soda, sweat beading on his forehead, blankly staring at his hand. And that’s when his frozen thumb slowly swiveled around 180 degrees, and yelled at him in a baritone voice.

Exhibit A by Alex Myers
posted September 25, 2009
Melissa was mystified both by the whales and the mention of June Cornwall – she still thought of her as Mrs. Cornwall – who had been her father’s assistant for years before he died. She tried to puzzle out what her mom might be talking about, but gave up and asked, “Which whales?”

Revolt of the Zoo Animals by Stephen Muret
posted September 4, 2009
Finally Jackal spoke again. This time his reputation did not compromise his message. This time, in fact, Jackal found the zoo animals actively seeking a new belief, any new idea that pointed them toward independence and self-sufficiency. So he spoke, and they listened.

17C by J. T. Randolph
posted August 13, 2009
C twisted in his seat and turned his shoulders to directly angle toward his row partner.  “What did you say?” B sighed. “When I went up to use the restroom, the flight attendants and the co-pilot were discussing something. They saw me and asked if I could help...

Ken and Cat Touch the Sky by Aaron J. French
posted July 29, 2009
His cell phone rings, and he stops to answer it. It’s her. She’s at the front entrance, waiting for him. He tells her he’s almost there. When he rings off, there’s a smile on his face.

Spindrift by Jo Thomas
posted July 19, 2009
Maryke felt no more rooted in Jo’burg and several hundred years of history than she felt rooted to the Earth as a whole. Had her ancestors felt rooted to the European country they had left behind for what had once been South Africa? How would they have felt, knowing that their former home land was now under a kilometer of Arctic ice?

Polly the Pirate by Michael Angrosino
posted June 30, 2009
Then I noticed that crammed into a corner behind one of the bears was a figure who clearly hadn’t attended the hospital gift shop orientation lecture about bringing cheer to the afflicted. It was a parrot dressed in buccaneer garb, and he was crouched in the corner exuding truly piratical menace.

Final Story by Mel Oliveira
posted June 20, 2009
When did the world become so polite and politically correct that people won’t say what they think anymore? People have to come up with these articulated speeches, that until twenty years ago you’d only see in cartoons with pink clouds and talking bears, to be able to try and convey an idea to you in a way to not hurt your feelings. I bet even if someone would give you poison these days they’d put a nice layer of sugar on it and a cherry on top.

Disease by Carrie Cook
posted May 30, 2009
When you are 30, your thumb stops working – you know this because you can’t open up your scissors. This, more than the sit-ups, so much more than the sit-ups, terrifies you, and you call your mom and ask her if you might have that thing that Michael J. Fox has. “You don’t,” she assures you. “Just go to the doctor, you probably have carpal tunnel.”

Morning Routine by Lindsey Harding
posted May 18, 2009
Then, like every other morning, Macie reaches into her tote stuffed with case files and patient reports and pulls out a book. Today, it’s a love story. The picture of contentment, she sips coffee and flips the pages of the library hardback without thinking of either. She only makes it seem like she’s reading to make her eavesdropping more discreet, clandestine.

Chameleon Moon by RoAnna Sylver
posted May 9, 2009
Regan slumped against the cold brick alley wall and tried to catch his breath. He sucked in the chilly air; it burned his throat just as the cigarette always did. As he gulped in air, the dizziness and disorientation from the spotlight faded.

Los Seis Outlaws by Devin Miller
posted May 2, 2009
Every night for the next week, Rick cut off his Walkman when he ran past that trailer. They were always there, always talking and laughing and listening to 96Rock, volume low. Once, when he passed under the streetlight, he saw one of them jerk a thumb in his direction.

Memories of Inhuman Nature by Rick McQuiston
posted May 2, 2009
He focused on a small area off to the side of his car. The snow was gradually melting despite the falling temperature, revealing a viscous, black residue underneath. It was thick in consistency, loosely resembling used motor oil and absolute in its color.

Ride in the Moonlight by Doug Hiser
posted April 28, 2009
I can still remember the smile she flashed that night under the dim light at the gate. She was full of youth and excitement and her beauty was more than just flawless skin and smooth limbs. She had magic in her heart. Seeing her smile like that made me want to fall in love with her like Drake did.

Night Train to Kisumu by Paul Lamb
posted March 19, 2009
We were in the first class car, but the train had been too slow, and there was little left about it that could be called first class. The tattered upholstery, the dry sink, the spongy, peeling floor. A mirror that gave back only the vaguest reflection. The filthy windows. This car had seen finer days in another time, likely in another land, and now it ferried Kenyans and occasional, bemused Western tourists from Nairobi to Kisumu, through part of the Rift Valley.

The Seven Dudley Sibs by Anne Goodwin
posted March 6, 2009
Natalie-Veronica: not even a double name could compensate her for lacking what all her siblings had, for the loneliness of not being a twin. Especially when so many people’s tongues were too lazy to grapple with the seven syllables of her name and reverted to her initials, NV, instead. The others’ names were also problematic. Getting above themselves with their pretentious foreign names, said Mother. Even the apparently straightforward Tony was short for something unpronounceable beginning with G.

Winged Midwives by Sarah Ashwood
posted March 4, 2009
The maiden felt it—knew the time had come. The urge to push came from somewhere deep within, somewhere bottomless and primal: a reservoir of pain and strength that only the laboring mother knows. She heeded the call. With a final shove, a final spasm of pain that ripped her body, a final scream that burst from her lips, she pushed.

The Man Who Put Labels on Bricks by John Vespasian
posted February 6, 2009
The brick salesman was in his late thirties or early forties and had an intelligent look about him. Nevertheless, it was obvious that the poor man had lost his mind. As I walked away, I shook my head, feeling sorry for him.

Twilight Dance by Pamela Villars
posted January 20, 2009
When he was small, his father would make animals on the wall using candlelight. What a delight it had been to watch a mouse or dog or happy rabbit bob and dart at his father’s whim. “Go that way,” he would cry, and “Stop there!” His father’s nimble fingers were soldiers that snapped to at his commands; it was the only time he was in charge.

Trees by R W Nichols
posted December 31, 2008
Dee went out the window and climbed up into the tree. She sat on the lowest branch quietly swinging her feet. It was always so peaceful there. The smell of the warm bark and the wild flowers blooming below filled every inward breath, making her feel connected to the earth and the tree even more. The tree was so solid and stationary, while the leaves gently twisted and swayed on the ends of their little stems. The contented birds hopped and fluttered among the branches.