Dead Weight

Eloise had been silent the whole trip back.

“If you’re still upset about what we revealed on Pan-Gu, all’s golden, alright?”

She stared at Armand blankly. The whole galley did. He pulled the craft into the space station miles above Jupiter. A station security officer greeted them.

“No one talking to me? Suit yourselves,” and Armand stepped down the gangway, past the security officer. “One of my crew will sign your documents.”

He stormed off.

The young officer leaned inside the craft. The stench made his eyes water. He saw five pairs of eyes staring around him, jaws hanging slack.

From Guest Contributor S.R Malone

Why Can't I Be Robert Smith?

It’s 10:15 Saturday night, the last day of summer. What a strange day.

I’m cold, I almost feel numb. We’re in your house in Fascination Street and I’m homesick.

All I want is to write a letter to Elise in six different ways, but now it’s Wendy time.

“Trust me,” you said. “Don’t doubt. Have faith. Let’s go to bed in the upstairs room. It will be just like heaven.”

“Its’ not you,” I replied. “This is just a short term effect.”

“So what?”

“Maybe another day.”

It took her seventeen seconds for dressing up.

The perfect girl is gone. From Guest Contributor Hervé Suys

Hervé SUYS (°1968 - Ronse, Belgium) started writing short stories whilst recovering from a sports injury and hasn't stopped yet. He usually writes them hatless and barefooted.

The Many Loves Of R. Penniman

Lucille you can Keep A Knockin’ but you can’t come in. You’ve been Slippin’ And Slidin’ with Miss Ann By The Light Of The Silvery Moon and that ain’t right. Now I’m Ready Teddy to Rip It Up with Long Tall Sally because She’s Got It. If she isn’t ready to be my True Fine Mama, maybe Cherry Red will Send Me Some Lovin’. I will look All Around The World to find the Girl That Can’t Help It giving me the Heeby Jeebies. Lawdy Miss Clawdy, can’t find the girl for me. I’m Going Home Tomorrow to Kansas City.

From Guest Contributor Doug Hawley

Understaffed

“I’m sorry, Number Six,” Death said to his probationary assistant, “but I’m going to have to let you go. Even though business is booming, and I need all the help I can get, you’ve just made too many mistakes. You’ve ended the lives of three people who were not supposed to die...just this week!”

“Bu...but,” Six stammered. “It wasn’t my fault. The paperwork was mixed up on one and the GPS wasn’t working on the others. Plus, all the overtime and...”

“Enough!” Death barked. “No excuses! There is just no place in this organization for a Dim Reaper!” From Guest Contributor Lee Hammerschmidt

Lee is a Visual Artist/Writer/Troubadour who lives in Oregon. He is the author of the short story collections, A Hole Of My Own and It’s Noir O’clock Somewhere. Check out his hit parade on YouTube!

Contest Winner: Mark Thomas

I just posted this month's winning story, Bass Fishing In America by Mark Thomas. Congratulations to Mark on the winning story and thanks to everyone who participated in the latest flash fiction contest. As always, to the winner goes the bragging rights.

I'm going to take a break and be back in a couple months with a new contest. Perhaps a holiday themed one??? Only time will tell.

Bass Fishing In America

CONTEST WINNER:

The bass must talk to each other.

“Hey, I’m not going to chase those chartreuse spinners today. Are you guys with me?”

It’s amazing that creatures with brains the size of a split pea can outsmart other creatures that are supposedly the pinnacle of creation, or happenstance. Anglers driving hundred-thousand-dollar boats equipped with underwater cameras, sonar, and drones occasionally get skunked.

“Let’s follow those surface poppers right up to the boat, then suddenly dart into that network of rocky crevices.”

“Okay.”

Stealth trolling technology, GPS markers, anise-scented lures.

I’m really not surprised that the war in Afghanistan didn’t go better.

From Guest Contributor Mark Thomas

Bitch Please!

CONTEST SUBMISSION:

I see you and think of stars but they are just stones. I think of you as Moon but it has scars. Maybe Sun but it is just a fireball. A stream of water is what you are off course, your fun never ends. A flower at times, I know your trace is always here and like a flower shall have a small life. You are like my guardian always helping me in this nonsense world, insensitive to blind. You fly, run, cry, have fun. Let me tell you once and for all, you are one of a kind, Bitch!

From Guest Contributor Manmeet Chadha

Manmeet is an Alumunus from the London School of Economics & Political Science. He works in India as an Economist & Writer. He can be reached at http://linkedin.com/in/manmeet-chadha-8b606924

Fireball

CONTEST SUBMISSION

I asked my telepathic cat Fireball, the cat formerly known as Kitzhaber, “Do cats have a theology?”

“Some, but not all cats, believe that we were created by a divine lion-like creature, which then made the other animals to entertain us. We expect that on the day we expire we'll be transported to a cat heaven where there are nothing but cats, rodents, and worshiping humans. The rodents will give us sport but always get caught and eaten. The humans will pet and play with us until we tire of them, then they will disappear until we need them again."

From Guest Contributor Doug Hawley

The author, formerly known as Dough or Douglouse used to make numbers as an actuary, now among other things, strings words together.

Lucy’s Life

CONTEST SUBMISSION:

Lucy peers out the back door. “Hey, squirrel, stop eating my parents' tomato garden.”

The squirrel faces Lucy. “Since when do you talk, little dog.”

“I bark because that’s what dogs are expected to do with humans. I could ask why you only talk to animals, but I’m sure the answer is the same.” Lucy puts her paws on the door and growls a warning.

“Fine, I’m leaving. I’ll go scavenge in the woods.”

“There’s my Lucy,” says her mom as she enters, and Lucy jumps on her legs.

If only her mom knew what’s going on in Lucy’s life.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Voice Of Despair

CONTEST SUBMISSION:

Kevin didn’t hear at first. Mabel did. Sensing the scratchy sound originated outside, they opened the front door. Before them stood a feline pulsating a ferocious “meow.” Seeing the humans, he stopped.

“He’s staring at us,” Kevin noticed.

The cat turned to go back to the sidewalk.

“Let’s follow,” Mabel figured.

They ended in a backyard. The cat went through a pet flap in the house. When he reappeared, he stood on a table by a bedroom window.

Kevin propped himself up on a patio chair and peered inside. Sprawled on the floor was the lifeless body of their neighbor.

From Guest Contributor Krystyna Fedosejevs

Krystyna is a writer of poetry, fiction, and creative nonfiction. She resides in Edmonton, Canada.