A Fly in Amber

Welcome to Issue 17, July 2010

Editor — Sat, 31 Jul 2010 06:00:15 +0000

Welcome the Flood

btakcs — Sat, 31 Jul 2010 05:00:13 +0000

Stranger’s Child

aschwind — Sat, 31 Jul 2010 04:00:29 +0000

I have one of those faces. The kind everyone finds familiar. Two or three times a week someone will ask me if I didn't bunk with them at girl scout camp, or if I didn't attend that poetry workshop last summer, or whether I go to a yoga class at the rec. center.

The Capture of Snake-Eyed Sue

dwashburn — Sat, 31 Jul 2010 03:00:33 +0000

Sheriff Max Steele stepped out into the dark, dusty street. Looking at The Wild Horse Saloon, he fixed his eyes on the light shining from the door. "Shame to have to ruin such a peaceful day, but a man has to do his job."

Music of a Family Man

gveazey — Sat, 31 Jul 2010 02:00:43 +0000

Braz forgot he had on sandals with no socks and ran as fast as he could up to Olin's Meadow where they played football. He stumbled a few times climbing the slope. Gaining the ridge, he saw no one anywhere, and ran all the way through the meadow, the tall grass, and beyond the rocks and pines to the blustery overlook. Shivering and panting, he was calmed by the cloudless sky and newly greening mountains all around. But God might as well have reached in his chest, grabbed his heart and thrown it down in the gorge when he saw what was strewn on the furthest boulder. Darren's new shoes, button up shirt, and jeans. He made himself step up and look over the edge, but it was hard to tell what was below except for trees. The time-stopping stillness ended as a hawk neared. Then another joined it, circling something below. No ... not hawks, buzzards.

Rainbow’s End

adionne — Sat, 31 Jul 2010 01:00:15 +0000

I stared at the neutral blossoms, trying to decipher shades of darkness and pale light. The language of colors eluded me, like a distant notion of another world I couldn’t touch. I’d played along, listening to my mother mouth the words and point to objects, but I never truly understood.

Seeds

mbergstrom — Sat, 31 Jul 2010 00:00:04 +0000

"This is your new baby brother," said Shala's mother as she pressed the small girl's hands to the warm, teardrop shaped fruit. "See how heavy the pod is? He will open soon."

Wagon Wheels

amorris — Fri, 30 Jul 2010 23:00:37 +0000

Somewhere around 1930 I lost my house to a fire that was deemed suspicious but never proven. Hell ya, it was suspicious, I torched the sucker. Lit it up like a firecracker rather than see it go to the county for a hunting lodge or something, anyway somewhere around there I started reading. First, I thought if I picked up a few carpentry books I could learn enough to build me a new cabin but the more I read the more my feet started itchin' to move. So I built a wagon. Nothing fancy. Just big enough to wrap myself in at night and still have enough room to lift up my head and hear the wind.

Welcome to Issue 16, May 2010

Editor — Tue, 18 May 2010 06:00:32 +0000

We hope you enjoy this month’s issue. Don’t forget to comment and rate your favorite stories!

Moonlight Bridge

mposey — Tue, 18 May 2010 05:00:41 +0000

The Bread of Ruth’s Unhappiness

fforrest — Tue, 18 May 2010 04:00:50 +0000

"Blood, sweat, and tears, that's your recipe," said the dog. "The sweat's in the kneading, as well you know. The tears--you've shed plenty already, and they've dried out and lie in the dust under your bed, so you must knead them in. As for blood, just a little will do. Your own. Can you manage it, or do you need my help?" Its mouth pulled back to reveal sharp white teeth.

Elegance

dpickering — Tue, 18 May 2010 03:00:53 +0000

He feels the vomit rising in his throat. It is thick. The ants are crawling around inside it. They are laughing. They are talking to each other. The rag creatures are back again, or maybe they were always there, maybe they were sitting around the table having dinner, maybe they were crushing his eyes. His body is wrapped around with rags. He's being mummified. They've taken out his insides and now they're wrapping him up.

The Fall

ddaw — Tue, 18 May 2010 02:00:53 +0000

Stars have always been there. I watch as they sparkle in the ebony blanket above me. I sit here and rub my cold feet. Fall is just around the corner. It crawls through the trees slowly, claiming every leaf in its path. No one knows where it comes from; but it changes everything. It would be the first Fall of my life. That I could remember, anyway.

Free

klarkindale — Tue, 18 May 2010 01:00:38 +0000

At first glimpse, the car is not ominous. Nothing about it suggests that it might change my life, although it is the kind of car you'd notice even if this weren't a small town where everyone knows everyone else. The chrome gleams and flashes in the afternoon sun. Every head turns to look as it passes slowly down Main, all glossy black paint and white-wall tires. I'm standing outside the post office and can't see the driver at first with the sunlight bouncing off the windshield, blinding me. As the car cruises by, I catch a glimpse of him through the too-long dark hair that hangs down over my eyes. It's not much: a worn-leather-jacketed elbow poking through the open window, the impression of a large man, well built and disguising the fact he's balding by shaving his head. A shrill laugh shatters my thoughts with its familiarity and I let my eyes slide past to him to see my mother in the passenger seat. I turn my gaze back to the driver and find myself staring into a pair of green eyes that perfectly match my own.

Hope You Get Him

kvukovich — Tue, 18 May 2010 00:00:49 +0000

When they all went back to school, Aaron wasn't there. He'd told Forrester he was leaving a bit early, just a couple of days, because his lease was starting then or something, but he wasn't there. Actually, no one knew where he was, exactly; if he was studying abroad or dropped out, and the registrar wasn't saying anything.

Mandala

sdavis — Mon, 17 May 2010 23:00:34 +0000

"My name is Andre Gremauld, and I ply the Cloforn line. I don't need to tell you it's lonely work, but it has its compensations: to be present at the birth of a star; to swing by a planet for a few minutes every seventy-five thousand of their years and watch them go from a scared little settlement to teeming alabaster cities before they even begin to get boring; to listen in the dark for messages beyond space and time only those on the cusp of light speed can hear. Is it like that for you?" I awaited her reply. A courier is patient, he has to be.

In Search of the Bearded Lady

ovambrogio — Mon, 17 May 2010 22:00:45 +0000

Ralph sent me the postcard from Germany. It was black and white, and her haunted eyes stared out from a starkly pale face; a beret, pulled back, covered her hair and neck, and-I was sure of it-a faint stubble covered her chin. Do you know this poet? One of my favorites, he wrote. I glanced at the postcard's information: Gerthe Missant, 1914-1967. I was fascinated. Against the blackness of the background, her face seemed to float, as severe and thin as a crescent moon. What poetry, I wondered, could she write, this woman with her odd, angular face and unhappy eyes?

Talking Heads

jmuller — Mon, 17 May 2010 21:00:53 +0000

Marty dropped the coin as though it were a searing ember. He scurried off the bed, clambered and crawled to the foot of the bed-and waited, listening to the darkness. Slowly he peeked over the top of the mattress, his eyes as huge as a nocturnal creature. The coin simply lay there on the sheets, glowing amid the darkness. "Peek-a-boo," said the coin. "I see you."

When the Lights Go Out

jwilliams — Mon, 17 May 2010 20:00:56 +0000

Ancient. That's what I am. And what a glamorous classification: ancient! Like the lost artworks of mysterious cultures long passed away! A surviving artifact from the old temples of America! The very idol of hardship and prosperity alike! My mind is a jewel to be cherished by those around me. But here I am. Here. In this bed. In a wet diaper that doesn't quite do its job. Considered deaf. Dumb. Senile. Left to die. Eroding the lines of character and life from my skin, the grip from my fingers, the faculties of my brain, with a wetness I can't control. I am old.

Welcome to Issue 15, March 2010

Editor — Thu, 25 Mar 2010 18:30:37 +0000

Spring has sprung, and with it comes our March issue — a tad late, but packed with goodness all the same! If you’re a fan of science fiction, then this month’s issue is sure to satisfy with several excellent selections in that genre. If you prefer the more down-to-earth story, we have some [...]