Office Hours
by Jarrett Neal
= = = = =
Cecil apologized to the three students waiting outside his office and closed the door. He unbuttoned his sport coat and crossed his arms. His jaw clinched. His brow furrowed. “I told you about coming up here,” he said.
Curtis placed the framed picture back on Cecil's desk and took a seat. “When mama give you this?”
“What do you want?”
Curtis opened his eyes wide and scratched his beard. “Man,” he said, “can you lend me fifty dollars?”
“Curtis,” Cecil said as he returned to his desk, “why do you come up here bothering me like this without calling? Midterms are this week. I have a hallway full of students I need to see.” He straightened his pictures.
“See man,” Curtis said, “Val 'bout to get her lights turned off and all she need is fifty dollars. She got them kids, man.”
There was a knock on the door, and when Cecil answered, Mary, a diminutive pear-shaped white woman, stood in the doorway. “Am I interrupting?” she asked.
“No, Mary,” Cecil said.
“I wanted to make sure you got the E-mail regarding the tenure committee.”
“Oh, yes. Yes. I've marked down the new time. I'll be there.”
“How you doin'?” Curtis craned his head over Cecil's shoulder and offered his hand to Mary.
Cecil glanced down at the calloused palm and dirty nails. The odors of motor oil, tobacco and marijuana mingled in his nose. He began to perspire.
Mary took Curtis's hand. “I'm Mary Zucker. Are you Cecil's partner Gary?”
“Partner? Nah, I'm his big brother Curtis.” He turned to Cecil. “What kind of partner you got?”
“Cecil's brother?” Mary said. “Oh. Well, it's good to know you.”
As Mary said her goodbyes Cecil saw two more students take seats on the floor beside his office. He closed the door and stood in front of the wall opposite his desk. Four diplomas hung from that wall, and the midmorning sun cast them in brilliant golden light.
“I don't have time for this,” Cecil said, and exhaled a short breath.
“Man look,” Curtis said, “I know how you feel about me but don't let Val and them kids suffer, know what I'm sayin'? They ain't did nothin'.”
“And how do I know this money won't get smoked up?”
“It ain't. Man I swear to God I ain't smoked nothin' in six months. I swear to God, man.”
There was another knock on the door. Cecil hurriedly reached into his wallet and took out three crisp twenty dollar bills.
“Thanks, man. Thanks. I'ma pay you back.”
Moments later Jamal Brinkley, one of only three of Cecil's black students, sat before him holding his last paper which bore a red C+ on the front. He looked at Cecil with patient wide eyes.
“What you must always bear in mind,” Cecil instructed his pupil, “is the Joad's background. They came from meager circumstances which were only exacerbated by the destruction the Dust Bowl left in its wake.”
Cecil glanced out of his window and spotted Curtis sprinting across the university quad. He reached the parking lot and got into a red sedan. The car was dented in several places and expelled a trail of thick smoke as it drove off with Curtis in the passenger seat and several children crowded in back. Cecil closed his eyes for a moment then resumed his talk with Jamal.
“At its heart, this is a novel about a family who love each other so much that they'd rather die in grinding poverty than live without each other. That's what makes this novel universal. It isn't a story about a poor Southern white family in the Depression. It's about all of us.”
Cecil gave Jamal a list of themes he could explore in his next paper before he sent him on his way and received his next student.
= = = = =
bio: Jarrett Neal holds an MFA in Writing from the School of the Art Institute of Chicago and is the author of the forthcoming novel "A Dangerous Man".
Thursday, August 24, 2006
Firefly Fiction
A forum based, free flash fiction workshop/ writer's community. Members supply each other with prompt, using them to write flash fiction stories that can then be submitted for critiquing/ reviewing. Also included are forums for asking grammatical type questions, for keeping up on who's recieved rejection/acceptance letters for flash pieces, and for general chit-chatting about whatever.
Wednesday, August 16, 2006
story: Innè
Innè
by Ricard di Costa
= = = = =
The unrelenting chase had all but beaten us. In a room overcome with shadows we paused. I gripped with one trembling hand a curious book, "The Flame of Rnyga". With the other, my cherished companion, Innè, a young girl. We had survived on the book's cryptic power those few perilous hours. In dodging the Beast of the house we had come to treasure the wicked and beautiful rituals held within it, and within ourselves.
"In his pursuit of us," breathed my weary cosset in my ear, "the Beast has left me weak. We have ascended and recanted a dozen flights and flung ourselves about this prodigious House for such a time! I cannot--"
"Rest now, child," said I, "For a moment at least, we have discomfited him."
I had no wish to weigh further toil on my frail abettor, but our pursuer lay closer than I dared divulge. I hid the book away in my cloak, and with my remaining strength bore up my sweet one full in my arms.
No sooner had I brought her face to mine, than there came Bedlam echoing through the great House, just some few yards behind. In a second I was on my feet, and bid them out pace my fear. The bright slap of my naked feet on dead gray marble added to the cacophony of the Beast.
My beloved cried, "It is here! It is here!" and wrung her ams tighter round my neck.
"I have you! I have you!", was all I could manage, though my desire was to cover her completely, to posses, for the moment, both our souls in a single body.
Our breathing and crying coalesced, and the roar behind us grew staggering. My heart and my darling in my arms were baptized in hideous black light as the Beast thrust his full weight forward to catch us up.
"Inithanab iotachen! Bolegoth camithata eratu!" My mouth was not my own- my angel twisted herself so tight to me in that venery as to drive the air from my lungs, and with it the bewitchment that rang out from us.
Now- there is nothing. No light. No sound. No Beast. Though that black house lay far behind, I still carry my beloved, and she still breathes the air in my lungs.
"Can there be no soul but ours?" we asked.
Darkness.
"There can be no soul but ours."
= = = = =
Composer, Artistic & General Director @ Turing*Shop
http://www.TuringShop.com
by Ricard di Costa
= = = = =
The unrelenting chase had all but beaten us. In a room overcome with shadows we paused. I gripped with one trembling hand a curious book, "The Flame of Rnyga". With the other, my cherished companion, Innè, a young girl. We had survived on the book's cryptic power those few perilous hours. In dodging the Beast of the house we had come to treasure the wicked and beautiful rituals held within it, and within ourselves.
"In his pursuit of us," breathed my weary cosset in my ear, "the Beast has left me weak. We have ascended and recanted a dozen flights and flung ourselves about this prodigious House for such a time! I cannot--"
"Rest now, child," said I, "For a moment at least, we have discomfited him."
I had no wish to weigh further toil on my frail abettor, but our pursuer lay closer than I dared divulge. I hid the book away in my cloak, and with my remaining strength bore up my sweet one full in my arms.
No sooner had I brought her face to mine, than there came Bedlam echoing through the great House, just some few yards behind. In a second I was on my feet, and bid them out pace my fear. The bright slap of my naked feet on dead gray marble added to the cacophony of the Beast.
My beloved cried, "It is here! It is here!" and wrung her ams tighter round my neck.
"I have you! I have you!", was all I could manage, though my desire was to cover her completely, to posses, for the moment, both our souls in a single body.
Our breathing and crying coalesced, and the roar behind us grew staggering. My heart and my darling in my arms were baptized in hideous black light as the Beast thrust his full weight forward to catch us up.
"Inithanab iotachen! Bolegoth camithata eratu!" My mouth was not my own- my angel twisted herself so tight to me in that venery as to drive the air from my lungs, and with it the bewitchment that rang out from us.
Now- there is nothing. No light. No sound. No Beast. Though that black house lay far behind, I still carry my beloved, and she still breathes the air in my lungs.
"Can there be no soul but ours?" we asked.
Darkness.
"There can be no soul but ours."
= = = = =
Composer, Artistic & General Director @ Turing*Shop
http://www.TuringShop.com
Thursday, August 03, 2006
story: Marty Seeks Sympathy
Marty Seeks Sympathy
by Christopher Miller - psychic_mantis12 (at) yahoo.com
= = = = =
Silhouette and pasty watered skin. Gloomy. Brown, nonexistent. Dirt and ancient particles housed in atomic wasteland of photographs and dead memories. She's alone. She lays dying under comforter and stressful coughs. Shes dying under misconstrued conceptions of a timely death.
But she's dressed in fancy attire like attending golden ballroom. Outdated. Yellow prison ties in place of white blossomed flowers. Grandma Marty waits for ballroom dance guests to appear stricken with sympathy. To knock at the distant oak door and waltz through atomic battlefield. Asbestos. Little white darling dresses and smart gusto tuxedos with cigars optional. All to mock farewells. Mock farewells to get prizes.
Tommy gets antique furniture. Circa 1880. It'll be sold in a back alley pawn shop. Betty gets genuine silver coated silverware. Circa 1930. They'll be feeding plump disgusting red mouths with TV dinners. Richard gets grandpa's authentic rifle collection. Circa whenever the fuck those guns were manufactured. They'll be sitting underneath piles of forgotten items in attic. Sally gets Grandma Marty's pricey, one of a kind, diamond necklace. Circa 1920. It'll be worn during cheap sex and tonic self-indulgence. More generic names get more generic keepsakes.
Grandma Marty clicks teeth. Clicks teeth and counts down grandfather clock playing shuffle cards with drinking buddies. Counts down indigo blinds catching fire to a host of air born chemicals.
But grandfather quickly stops ticking and an overwhelming silence fills the room. She feels the need to clean it before the guests arrive.
She's up, scrubbing brown coated walls in elegant ballroom gown with tiara and all. She's pretty. She's dressed up from head to toe. She sparkles. She's deluded.
A whiff of gasoline and concrete spillage, of bolts and screws coated in dirt oil originate from outside the window. A thundering mechanized, industrial symphony playing over distorted memories of the kids climbing up the cherry oak wardrobe or little Tommy almost drowning at the nearby creek because his leg cramped up while swimming. Memories of grandpa's unprecedented dislike for home cooked apple pie, of staying up late at night watching re-runs of old comedy shows, the ironing board collapsing every time it's put to use, the dish washer never completely cleaning the plates, the huge crack in the foundation of the house, grandpa trying to fix the living room speakers by himself, Marty's childhood doll being destroyed under the twin blade of scissors.
All crashing and shattering before worn-out eyes. Particles of wallpaper and glass coated window seals. Picture frames and pillow cases. Furniture doorknobs and backboards. Ceiling crust and sofa cushions. Demolished.
= = = = =
bio: Christopher is 16 years old and lives in Texas.
by Christopher Miller - psychic_mantis12 (at) yahoo.com
= = = = =
Silhouette and pasty watered skin. Gloomy. Brown, nonexistent. Dirt and ancient particles housed in atomic wasteland of photographs and dead memories. She's alone. She lays dying under comforter and stressful coughs. Shes dying under misconstrued conceptions of a timely death.
But she's dressed in fancy attire like attending golden ballroom. Outdated. Yellow prison ties in place of white blossomed flowers. Grandma Marty waits for ballroom dance guests to appear stricken with sympathy. To knock at the distant oak door and waltz through atomic battlefield. Asbestos. Little white darling dresses and smart gusto tuxedos with cigars optional. All to mock farewells. Mock farewells to get prizes.
Tommy gets antique furniture. Circa 1880. It'll be sold in a back alley pawn shop. Betty gets genuine silver coated silverware. Circa 1930. They'll be feeding plump disgusting red mouths with TV dinners. Richard gets grandpa's authentic rifle collection. Circa whenever the fuck those guns were manufactured. They'll be sitting underneath piles of forgotten items in attic. Sally gets Grandma Marty's pricey, one of a kind, diamond necklace. Circa 1920. It'll be worn during cheap sex and tonic self-indulgence. More generic names get more generic keepsakes.
Grandma Marty clicks teeth. Clicks teeth and counts down grandfather clock playing shuffle cards with drinking buddies. Counts down indigo blinds catching fire to a host of air born chemicals.
But grandfather quickly stops ticking and an overwhelming silence fills the room. She feels the need to clean it before the guests arrive.
She's up, scrubbing brown coated walls in elegant ballroom gown with tiara and all. She's pretty. She's dressed up from head to toe. She sparkles. She's deluded.
A whiff of gasoline and concrete spillage, of bolts and screws coated in dirt oil originate from outside the window. A thundering mechanized, industrial symphony playing over distorted memories of the kids climbing up the cherry oak wardrobe or little Tommy almost drowning at the nearby creek because his leg cramped up while swimming. Memories of grandpa's unprecedented dislike for home cooked apple pie, of staying up late at night watching re-runs of old comedy shows, the ironing board collapsing every time it's put to use, the dish washer never completely cleaning the plates, the huge crack in the foundation of the house, grandpa trying to fix the living room speakers by himself, Marty's childhood doll being destroyed under the twin blade of scissors.
All crashing and shattering before worn-out eyes. Particles of wallpaper and glass coated window seals. Picture frames and pillow cases. Furniture doorknobs and backboards. Ceiling crust and sofa cushions. Demolished.
= = = = =
bio: Christopher is 16 years old and lives in Texas.
Monday, July 31, 2006
story: Company Policy
Company Policy
by Peter Joseph Gloviczki
= = = = =
Just shred it. Someone might use it against us in court. That would be really unfortunate, wouldn't you say? And there is something else, too. It's about someone who works here. You haven't met Victoria. She has her Nokia super-glued to the left side of her face. She sends text messages like it's her job. I'm pretty sure she holds her phone in one hand and simply brushes her teeth with the other. She never puts it down. I've heard of talking during sex, but this seems a bit over the line – wouldn't you say? Anyway, she is someone to avoid. When you're here, we want you to be working. And cell phones are bad for you. They cause cancer. You knew that already? Good. But it was my job to tell you. Yes, I'm serious. No, I'm not kidding. Half of all things in life cause cancer, the other half will kill you. But using your cell phone will definitely get you fired. Any questions?
= = = = =
bio: Mr. Gloviczki is a student of media and politics. This fall, he will enter the London School of Economics and Political Science to pursue an MSc in Politics and Communication. His flash fiction has previously been published in Flash Flooding.
by Peter Joseph Gloviczki
= = = = =
Just shred it. Someone might use it against us in court. That would be really unfortunate, wouldn't you say? And there is something else, too. It's about someone who works here. You haven't met Victoria. She has her Nokia super-glued to the left side of her face. She sends text messages like it's her job. I'm pretty sure she holds her phone in one hand and simply brushes her teeth with the other. She never puts it down. I've heard of talking during sex, but this seems a bit over the line – wouldn't you say? Anyway, she is someone to avoid. When you're here, we want you to be working. And cell phones are bad for you. They cause cancer. You knew that already? Good. But it was my job to tell you. Yes, I'm serious. No, I'm not kidding. Half of all things in life cause cancer, the other half will kill you. But using your cell phone will definitely get you fired. Any questions?
= = = = =
bio: Mr. Gloviczki is a student of media and politics. This fall, he will enter the London School of Economics and Political Science to pursue an MSc in Politics and Communication. His flash fiction has previously been published in Flash Flooding.
Friday, July 28, 2006
submit: Fringe Magazine
Move over Wonder Bread! Fringe Magazine, seeks flash fiction for online publication. For Fringe purposes, a flash fiction (or short short) piece is less than 1,000 words. Submit 1-3 at a time, and please put "Flash Fiction" in the subject line.
We are also accepting submissions for our special February 2007 issue, which will focus on feminism. Please see our guidelines, available at http://www.fringemagazine.org/submissions.htm for further details.
Email submissions to FringeFiction@gmail.com. We look forward to reading your work.
We are also accepting submissions for our special February 2007 issue, which will focus on feminism. Please see our guidelines, available at http://www.fringemagazine.org/submissions.htm for further details.
Email submissions to FringeFiction@gmail.com. We look forward to reading your work.
Monday, July 10, 2006
story: Mission
Mission
by Kirsten Anderson
= = = = =
"I'm too quiet, too set in my ways to do something crazy like this," said Linda as she clutched her purse to her chest. "I don't take chances."
"Think about my offer," said the angel. He unbuttoned his dark brown leather jacket and tipped back his fedora. "You'll see I'm right."
"No," said Linda. "Really, I'll be fine if I don't do this. Pick another person. Someone like…" She looked around the diner and saw an elderly woman slurping soup. "Like her. She's old. Probably doesn't have many years left."
"She's already done it," said the angel. "She just did it yesterday, at her grandson's birthday party. The old gal knows how to have a good time."
A strand of thin hair straggled over Linda's gaunt cheek as she gasped. "I didn't need to know that. What kind of angel are you?"
He chuckled. "Well, I'm not one of those big-league angels, all halos, harps, and announcements. I'm a down-to-earth type on a mission to help people."
"Does your mission have to include me?"
"Eventually it includes everyone." He signaled to the waitress. "The special, please."
Linda cast a nervous look at the brown, square object on the plate. A soft white substance oozed across the top.
"It's horrible, I can't!" she wailed.
"Close your eyes and think back to better times." He reached his hand over and placed it on hers with a feather-light touch. "Just a bit of the corner there." His voice became silky. "Go ahead. Try it."
Linda looked at the plate with misgivings, then shut her eyes and forced a tiny piece of the square into her mouth. When the chocolate brownie and ice cream flooded her taste buds, a smile of relief melted her sharp features. She dug her fork in deeper.
"I've been on a diet so long I forgot how good this tastes," she exclaimed. She looked up at him. "Thank you."
"My work is done here." The angel stood up. "You're now free."
As he left the diner, he took out his appointment book and ran a pencil over the list of names. A full day stretched ahead of him, filled with hundreds of carb-starved souls just waiting for salvation. The angel sauntered down the street with a peaceful smile that made passersby remember the smell of their mother's cookies cooling on the kitchen counter or dream of offering chocolate-covered strawberries to their beloveds.
= = = = =
Bio/publishing history: Ms. Anderson's short fiction has appeared in the ezines Flashshot, The Rose & Thorn, Wild Violet, and MicroHorror.
by Kirsten Anderson
= = = = =
"I'm too quiet, too set in my ways to do something crazy like this," said Linda as she clutched her purse to her chest. "I don't take chances."
"Think about my offer," said the angel. He unbuttoned his dark brown leather jacket and tipped back his fedora. "You'll see I'm right."
"No," said Linda. "Really, I'll be fine if I don't do this. Pick another person. Someone like…" She looked around the diner and saw an elderly woman slurping soup. "Like her. She's old. Probably doesn't have many years left."
"She's already done it," said the angel. "She just did it yesterday, at her grandson's birthday party. The old gal knows how to have a good time."
A strand of thin hair straggled over Linda's gaunt cheek as she gasped. "I didn't need to know that. What kind of angel are you?"
He chuckled. "Well, I'm not one of those big-league angels, all halos, harps, and announcements. I'm a down-to-earth type on a mission to help people."
"Does your mission have to include me?"
"Eventually it includes everyone." He signaled to the waitress. "The special, please."
Linda cast a nervous look at the brown, square object on the plate. A soft white substance oozed across the top.
"It's horrible, I can't!" she wailed.
"Close your eyes and think back to better times." He reached his hand over and placed it on hers with a feather-light touch. "Just a bit of the corner there." His voice became silky. "Go ahead. Try it."
Linda looked at the plate with misgivings, then shut her eyes and forced a tiny piece of the square into her mouth. When the chocolate brownie and ice cream flooded her taste buds, a smile of relief melted her sharp features. She dug her fork in deeper.
"I've been on a diet so long I forgot how good this tastes," she exclaimed. She looked up at him. "Thank you."
"My work is done here." The angel stood up. "You're now free."
As he left the diner, he took out his appointment book and ran a pencil over the list of names. A full day stretched ahead of him, filled with hundreds of carb-starved souls just waiting for salvation. The angel sauntered down the street with a peaceful smile that made passersby remember the smell of their mother's cookies cooling on the kitchen counter or dream of offering chocolate-covered strawberries to their beloveds.
= = = = =
Bio/publishing history: Ms. Anderson's short fiction has appeared in the ezines Flashshot, The Rose & Thorn, Wild Violet, and MicroHorror.
Friday, July 07, 2006
story: Tuesday
Tuesday
by Rod Drake - mrdrake@cox.net
= = = = =
“I’m in position. Target sighted.” Ray York, SWAT sniper, whispered into his headset. He crouched on the roof, his rifle resting on the parapet wall.
“Copy. Stand by,” came the response from his captain.
Through the high-powered scope, Ray could see one guy, the target, either drunk or high, yelling at his ex-wife, now the hostage, and waving his handgun around. A real piece of work. Beer belly, balding, wearing a wife beater t-shirt. Every so often he would fire out the second-story window at the police cars barricaded below and shout obscenities.
Sushi. That would be good for supper, Ray decided as he waited. Maybe stop at Samurai Sushi on the way home tonight. And stop next door to pick up a lottery ticket. I’m feeling lucky today.
He shifted his position slightly. Planet of the Apes movie marathon on cable tonight. All five of the films, one after the other in order. It didn’t get much better than that, Ray smiled to himself. I really love the second one, Beneath the Planet of the Apes. Those surviving mutant freaks worshipping the last atomic missile. Classic. And even good old Charlton makes a cameo at the end.
The t-shirted target weaved around the apartment, still shouting it looked like. Ray followed him with the rifle. The marathon doesn’t start till later; with any luck, I can be home before Beneath the Planet of the Apes begins with my sushi. That would be sweet.
Should I ask Caitlyn over? Caitlyn lived in an apartment on the floor below him. They had done a few things together recently. I’m guessing she’s not a big fan of scifi films, but I know she likes sushi. I wonder if she’ll be home tonight? Probably. It’s Tuesday.
Ray’s headset crackled, “Still have the target?”
“Affirmative.”
Was Tuesday the night Caitlyn took that night class? Or was it Thursday? What was that night class; cooking? No, some kind of art. Pottery maybe. Ray flexed his fingers, one by one, maintaining his grip on the rifle all the time.
Ray suddenly remembered his nephew’s birthday was only two days away. I’ve got to get something for him tomorrow, without fail, and drop it by the house before I forget.
I was late last year and still haven’t heard the end of it from my sister. Maybe a super soaker. That would be a cool gift for a nine-year old.
The headset ordered, “Take the shot.”
Ray fired, once, and the target went down hard and fast. Ray put the rifle aside and stood up. For some reason, the line “Get your hands off me, you damned, dirty ape,” flashed through his mind.
= = = = =
Biography: Rod Drake is a native of the Midwest, but currently resides in Las Vegas, Nevada. He has written creatively for himself and a few friends for many years who advised him to share his stories with a larger audience. His favorite writers are Kurt Vonnegut, Richard Brautigan, Ray Bradbury and Mickey Spillane. He hopes to be a success one day.
by Rod Drake - mrdrake@cox.net
= = = = =
“I’m in position. Target sighted.” Ray York, SWAT sniper, whispered into his headset. He crouched on the roof, his rifle resting on the parapet wall.
“Copy. Stand by,” came the response from his captain.
Through the high-powered scope, Ray could see one guy, the target, either drunk or high, yelling at his ex-wife, now the hostage, and waving his handgun around. A real piece of work. Beer belly, balding, wearing a wife beater t-shirt. Every so often he would fire out the second-story window at the police cars barricaded below and shout obscenities.
Sushi. That would be good for supper, Ray decided as he waited. Maybe stop at Samurai Sushi on the way home tonight. And stop next door to pick up a lottery ticket. I’m feeling lucky today.
He shifted his position slightly. Planet of the Apes movie marathon on cable tonight. All five of the films, one after the other in order. It didn’t get much better than that, Ray smiled to himself. I really love the second one, Beneath the Planet of the Apes. Those surviving mutant freaks worshipping the last atomic missile. Classic. And even good old Charlton makes a cameo at the end.
The t-shirted target weaved around the apartment, still shouting it looked like. Ray followed him with the rifle. The marathon doesn’t start till later; with any luck, I can be home before Beneath the Planet of the Apes begins with my sushi. That would be sweet.
Should I ask Caitlyn over? Caitlyn lived in an apartment on the floor below him. They had done a few things together recently. I’m guessing she’s not a big fan of scifi films, but I know she likes sushi. I wonder if she’ll be home tonight? Probably. It’s Tuesday.
Ray’s headset crackled, “Still have the target?”
“Affirmative.”
Was Tuesday the night Caitlyn took that night class? Or was it Thursday? What was that night class; cooking? No, some kind of art. Pottery maybe. Ray flexed his fingers, one by one, maintaining his grip on the rifle all the time.
Ray suddenly remembered his nephew’s birthday was only two days away. I’ve got to get something for him tomorrow, without fail, and drop it by the house before I forget.
I was late last year and still haven’t heard the end of it from my sister. Maybe a super soaker. That would be a cool gift for a nine-year old.
The headset ordered, “Take the shot.”
Ray fired, once, and the target went down hard and fast. Ray put the rifle aside and stood up. For some reason, the line “Get your hands off me, you damned, dirty ape,” flashed through his mind.
= = = = =
Biography: Rod Drake is a native of the Midwest, but currently resides in Las Vegas, Nevada. He has written creatively for himself and a few friends for many years who advised him to share his stories with a larger audience. His favorite writers are Kurt Vonnegut, Richard Brautigan, Ray Bradbury and Mickey Spillane. He hopes to be a success one day.
Monday, July 03, 2006
submit: MicroHorror.com: Short Stories. Endless Nightmares
This just in from the Flash Forward mail bag:
MicroHorror.com is a free online archive for short-short horror
fiction, and we're accepting submissions! You'll find no stories
longer than 666 words. Come and browse!
MicroHorror.com: Short Stories. Endless Nightmares.
http://www.microhorror.com
Nathan Rosen, editor
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