Friday, 30 November 2012


by Robert Morschel

I stand under the moonlight, my long, sinewy arms outstretched, my hands splayed to catch her silvery rays.  She is mine and I am hers: the Lady of the Night.  I shiver as she smiles at me and caresses my naked body with cool, tender whispers.  From deep within a howl emerges, rising to my lips, and slowly I lift my head to declare my love to the world.

A voice cries through the stillness of the night, interrupting.

“Honey, supper will be ready in 5 minutes.”

Reluctantly I turn from the maisonette window and draw the curtains.

Reality calls.

Author bio: Robert Morschel is a writer of software in London, and words at

Follow him on Twitter.

Wednesday, 28 November 2012


by John Xero

Shuka was a mage of subtle magics.

While her peers waged wars for various kings, she became a queen.

Other wizards challenged and fought and ranked each other. They wrestled with fire till infernos were theirs to command, forged armies from ice or reshaped the very land itself. They were so mighty and so proud.

But Shuka stayed silent, and no one knew the power that welled within her. She simply smiled shyly, spoke softly and practiced unseen spells.

Now it was widely known her king employed no mages. Yet any sent against him, mysteriously, came back broken, empty, weeping.

Author bio: John Xero believes there are as many kinds of writers and writing as there are of mages and magic, more even. And that words can be obvious, and they can be subtle, and both can be powerful.
blog | twitter

Friday, 23 November 2012


by Angel Zapata

The quarter sat face-up on the schoolyard ground. I squatted beside it, stared into Washington’s eye. I had expected to pick it up and be done with it, but then it spoke to me.

“I’ll make him stop hurting you,” it said.

I took it back inside the school; found Lucas alone in the second floor bathroom. He didn’t anticipate me turning the table, didn’t see me until I’d already pinned his shoulders down with my knees; pried open his mouth.

The newspapers printed his death as an ‘accidental choking’.

The coins in my pocket can barely contain their laughter.

Author bio: Angel Zapata knows money talks. His published and upcoming poetry and fiction can be found at Bewildering Stories, Devilfish Review, The 5-2: Crime Poetry Weekly, Microw, and Mused: Bellaonline Literary Review. Visit him at

Wednesday, 21 November 2012


by John Xero

Padraig was a little goblin of a man, wizened and bitter, always preceded by the tap-tap of his cane. He was old - ancient - but his tongue was still spear-sharp and keen as his eyes. His pale, piercing gaze flickered from person to person, scrutinising, judging their heart and soul.

He seemed eternal. Younger folk grew old and died, while Padraig tap-tapped ever onwards.

And in the world beyond this one, there was Padraig, waiting. He would judge folk, and guide them. And sometimes the path wound lazily upwards to light, and sometimes it sloped down, down to lakes of fire.

Author bio: John Xero is not eternal. But that doesn't mean he won't be waiting for you on the other side... Be good.
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Friday, 16 November 2012


by Chris White

I don't watch the news anymore, the same flickering images of riot shields and snarling police dogs, of explosions in caf├ęs - the lightning strikes of revolution.

The world captured in moments of violence, the voice of civilisation drowned out by the screams of the people as flames lick at their feet.

It started with people marching in the streets, demanding to be heard.

It ended when our governments stopped pretending, when Trafalgar Square became Tiananmen, revisited.

I don't watch the news anymore, pretending to be surprised.

I watch the streets outside and all I see are cobblestones, slick with blood.

Author bio: Chris White is an author living in Brisbane, Australia, which he realises is on the other side of the world. He writes mainly dystopian SciFi and speculative fiction. More of his words can be found (almost) daily at

Wednesday, 14 November 2012


by John Xero

A child's toy: a caricatured man: squat and broad, black trousers, black and white striped shirt, black domino mask, bulky bag labelled: SWAG.

What if the cause was the effect? Cause: effect.

Oh, the Earth is missing. Did I mention that?

Earth: missing.

A mishap, perhaps: misplaced. Or stolen, whole: thieved.

Burglarised or magicked? Stolen, or concealed.

Sleight of celestial event: "Look, supernova! Oh, where's you planet gone?"

Converted, maybe, to energy. Or thought: a conceptual theft.

Everyone in the world imagining a SWAG bag: the world in a SWAG bag in everyone's imagining.

Are you imagining it? Good. Bye.

Author bio: John Xero wants one of those sunlight lamps for the dark days ahead (otherwise known as winter). And not because someone's about to steal the sun. But if they do, it definitely wasn't him, no sir.

Friday, 9 November 2012


by Milo James Fowler

For days, the Effervescent Magnitude, star cruiser of the indomitable Captain Bartholomew Quasar, had been dead in the water, so to speak, with no systems functional.

Garbed in environmental suits, most of the crew had exhausted their O2 supply and were drifting off to sleep, never to awaken. Quasar punched the intercom on his deluxe-model captain's chair with what strength he still possessed and prepared to exhort all hands one last time-

Suddenly all systems, including life support, came back online. Quasar's console read: IMPROMPTU SURVIVAL TRAINING COMPLETE. WELL DONE!

The ship's computer could look forward to a complete reformatting.

Author bio: Milo James Fowler is a teacher by day, writer by night. Stop by anytime:

Wednesday, 7 November 2012


by John Xero

Gobbets of meat adorned the beast's barbed hide, like tufts of wool on a horrific hedgerow.

Harwen was on his knees, his crude sword hanging limply from a hand that a week ago had held a crook. Around him lay villagers and friends, armoured up and cut down.

The soldiers were gone to war but battle had come to Little Daleberry regardless, because Harwen had let his flock stray too near the caves.

The troll-thing, its rage sated, was shambling away.

Harwen tightened his grip, clenched his jaw and stood. He owed penance. He yelled and the beast turned back.

Author bio: We all have to face our troll-things, at one time or another.
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Friday, 2 November 2012


by Adam Lynn

The corn told a story none of the experts wanted to hear.

The boys from NASA stood by and scowled, repeated bad jokes and blamed the farmers.

The farmers stood by and scowled, bitched about the weather and blamed the teenagers.

The journalists stood by and scowled, talked to the NASA boys, farmers and teenagers, and blamed their editors.

Geometric shapes stamped into fields far from home tended to make people nervous and defensive.

So they hunted clues among the churned-up husks and clods of earth, failing, again, to imagine the truth just might be in the gleaming galaxies above.

Author bio: Adam Lynn writes nonfiction for a living but lives to write fiction. Follow him @spark1019.