Evil Roots
Brett Dworski Brett Dworski

Evil Roots

LIAM OPENED HIS EYES AND JOLTED UPWARD AS IF HE’D BEEN ELECTROCUTED. Bridget, standing beside the king-sized bed, shook him like he was a salad that needed more dressing. Liam winced in pain — Bridget wasn’t helping his shoulder arthritis. He looked at his wife: her grey hair blended with the white concrete wall behind her, and her green nightgown — a massive tank top that covered her naked body — blurred against her pale skin as if he were gazing into a kaleidoscope.

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Overcoming the Dreaded Writer's Block
Contributing Writer Contributing Writer

Overcoming the Dreaded Writer's Block

Maybe if I couldn’t go over it, I could go around it? Surely it couldn’t be that long of a walk. All alone, I set off on the trek to find the edge of the Block with just my walking stick and my lack of thoughts (this is why I was over here after all). I kicked at a couple rocks as I trudged over the dismal landscape that was mostly gray and gloomy. Dirt and other sand-like material made up the terrain behind the Block and it perfectly reflected what every writer felt: self-doubting, unworthy, and lost.

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The Wrong Side of the Rainbow
Mike Vinopal Mike Vinopal Mike Vinopal Mike Vinopal

The Wrong Side of the Rainbow

Lauren, even from an early age, was incredible. Even now, when she sets her mind on something, she’s going to make that shit happen. She got it in her head one St. Patrick’s Day that she was going to catch herself a leprechaun. A bona-fide, emerald green leprechaun! And she was going to catch it by building a state-of-the-art leprechaun trap. 

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Small World
Fiction Guest User Fiction Guest User

Small World

The sand almost burned the spaces in between my toes, but felt delicious. Little stubs of thick and thin palm shoots would poke up into your feet if you didn't walk carefully.

When the plateau melted the blue water came into view. Sure enough there it was- three figures on a mid-sized daysailer. No chop, but close, and the broadsheet was full. Two orange stripes and the number D-850 standing out near its apex.

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Ariadne
Fiction, Roberta Miles Roberta Miles Fiction, Roberta Miles Roberta Miles

Ariadne

Ariadne, dressed sensibly. Sensible hat, sensible shoes, little white gloves, some said she was a very sensible girl. She was thirteen when all sensibility flew out the window. She laughs about it now. Those teenage years were difficult for a girl so sensible.

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