A New Community of Writers
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“Oh, there is one, of course, but you’ll never know it.”
The assertion, laughingly flung out six months earlier in a bright June garden, came back to Mary Boyne with a sharp perception of its latent significance as she stood, in the December dusk, waiting for the lamps to be brought into the library.
“Phil, I’m getting fearfully hungry. When are we going to strike civilization?”
Her small chest woke her. The heart rattling inside it. Like an alarm clock palpitating in secrecy, until the time came that she could no longer ignore it. She searched for the key in her pocket
This is a real account taking from eye witness testimony collected for the book Vampires and Vampirism published in 1919.
I spent fifteen years celebrating Christmas in share-houses around Brisbane, Australia. As a poor student, I rented rundown Queenslanders with two, three or four friends, so I could still afford food after rent and bills. I rode my bicycle to uni, work or the grocery shop
Megan Denese Mealor echoes and erases in her native land of Jacksonville, Florida. A survivor of bipolar disorder, she incorporates her kaleidoscopic emotions and manic fire into her writing. Her poetry and short stories have been published worldwide, most recently in Spillwords, Ginosko Literary Journal, and The Stray Branch.
Manny drove through the night on a narrow highway that curved constantly to the right, threading its way through a forest. The trees hung low over the tarmac like they wanted to take back every square inch.
Gray morning. The clouds did not lift as the forecast had predicted. I spent a sleepless night because I drank a cup of a strong black tea earlier in the evening. I look at my watch on the nightstand; it shows nine o’clock. I am cold and trying to get warm under a lightweight summer blanket.
It was December 23rd, only two days before Christmas. Children play outside in the snow and families rush into stores to get last minute items for their holiday gatherings. But I am in the hospital with you, Max, my love.
The Gift of the Magi One dollar and eighty-seven cents. That was all. And sixty cents of it was in pennies. Pennies saved one and two at a time by bulldozing the grocer and the vegetable man and the butcher
Steven was placing ant traps around the house when his wife Sylvia returned.
I looked for the ‘Ten items or less’ checkout. This one read ‘Four items only,’ so I joined the queue.
It started with a clock that was facing just slightly the wrong way. Of course, I didn’t think of it like that until much later. At the time I was sleepy and confused because the streetlight outside glinted off the clock’s shiny plastic surface and I couldn’t see what time it was.
I’m very passionate about the exciting work I get to be a part of each day here at the cloning lab. Everything about it always seems new to me. Mans’ seemingly god-like ability to create life from little more than a strand of DNA and a few tiny cells has intrigued me for a very long time.
The bell went. Class started but only seven of the twelve expected students had arrived. No surprise. Suddenly, Jezebel teleported into her seat at the front.
