Dental Records – By A.M. Crenshaw
Micro Fiction / July 12, 2009

Charlie collected teeth from dead children and sucked on them and wore them in his mouth and smiled at parents across the street. He came into my house and stroked my sister’s teeth. I told him not to. I said, “I’ll shoot you, Charlie.” Charlie left and, later, did his thing to a dog. Charlie wore fangs for a weekend and haunted the neighbors with his barking and howling. Then one night when my sister cried and yelled for help, I blew Charlie’s head off with a 12-gauge. Took a dentist to identify Charlie’s body. That, eventually, made me smile.   About the Author A.M. Crenshaw A.M.Crenshaw’s work can be found in the “AGON Literary Magazine” and “Swords into Plowshares” publications.

Burned Boy – by Kevin Stadt
Micro Fiction / June 28, 2009

The man pulls in, parks, and takes the paper out from his bag again. A shiny hyperbolized character born of corporate imagination, all the eerier in its goal of children, ogles him knowingly. This is the only thing I’m good at. So what if turns out I suck at it? Why write “we need to talk” unless… He walks through the glass doors, brought home to learned smells long mastered, and stops to count money before taking his place in line. Damn. I can’t ask her for more, either. Worked full time with full time school and still had better grades than me. Cameras, computers, minimum wages, theoretical hierarchies, unguessed mercenary compliance professionals. He orders predictably nor does he feel good about it. Yeah, this’ll help a lot. Fatter’n hell. Fat and fucking hairy. And sweaty. Shit. Transporting this meal of value to the timed plastic chair and with a view of the parking lot full of cars redeemed for this very project, he checks his watch, the division and progression of change. She’s probably almost done moving out right now. Bet her mom’s there. Lovin that shit. He begins the tiny preparations left to him-the opening, pulling, poking, salting….

Duality – By RD Armstrong
Micro Fiction / June 14, 2009

Manx stared at the wall. The pictures of people and places and some things covered it like wallpaper. The pictures looked vaguely familiar but he wasn’t sure why. He liked the arrangement of them and there was a certain association that made them flow, as if there was an inherent, evolving theme to their arrangement. In fact, the whole room had a kind of accidental charm to it, as if the random placement of the items had a logical and subtle purpose. He realized that this room was really found art, an accidental architecture whose simplicity innocently disguised its pragmatic functionalism. He stepped to the center and appraised the room. This is nice, he thought. And it was. And then he realized why it was so nice. It was nice because it was his room, in his house, on his street, in his town. And very slowly, like a winter thaw, it dawned on him that he must be out of his fucking mind! Manx stood in the center of the room, a look of stupid wonder spreading across his face like gossip at a beauty parlor. How could this have escaped his attention. Was he really losing his mind…

Limbo – By Daryl Baldwin
Micro Fiction / May 31, 2009

I placed my suitcase by the door and draped my jacket over the solitary chair. Wallpaper peeled at the edges, exposing cracks in the plaster and ironic graffiti; ‘RIP all who enter this room’ scribbled in shaky handwriting. The faded flower motif carpet, threadbare with cigarette burns, almost covered the floor. Only the smell of nicotine unified the decor. The chair rocked on its uneven legs as I slouched onto it and lit a roll-up in a vain attempt to repress the onset of depression. I pulled the photographs from my suitcase and arranged them one by one. Three smiling children’s faces stared at me but I couldn’t focus through the fog of tears.   About the Author Daryl Baldwin Daryl was born in Gloucester, England. He still lives there today. He is married and has three children and 1 dog. He works in a local company making products for aircraft and other vehicles. In his spare time he likes to write screenplays and micro fiction. Reading has played a large part of his life. His love of films inspired him to start his first screenplay 2 years ago. This has progressed into trying his hand at prose and lately,…

An Excessive Number of Cases in the Children’s Institute – By KJ Hannah Greenberg
Micro Fiction / May 17, 2009

The other children, who were sired by the tailor, McMullen, were the nieces and nephews of the banker, McNeal. Their neighbor’s daughter, Sally Dunlop, worked in a shirt factory. Eventually, she sought a “proper husband,” married Fred McNeal, and spawned triplets. Two years later, drunk and homeless George McMullen killed Fred and Sally. The orphanage’s population doubled.   About the Author KJ Hannah Greenberg KJ Hannah Greenberg and her hibernaculum of imaginary hedgehogs recently found homes for their work in: 365 Tomorrows, AlienSkin Magazine, AntipodeanSF, Bards and Sages, Bewildering Stories, Fallopian Falafel, Morpheus Tales, and Winamop.

Batter Up! – By Larry Centor
Micro Fiction / May 3, 2009

The pitcher nodded at his catcher’s signal, glanced at the wisp of smoke that was the leadoff batter, and went into his windup. The ball hurtled straight at the batter, who sucked in some wisp, then bent in toward the plate. “Strike one!” said the umpire, pumping his right fist for emphasis. The wisp whirled around and screamed, “Are you out of your mind? That was inside!” “This is your only warning. I called it a strike. Now face the pitcher, or I toss you.” “You’re going to toss me?” The umpire ripped off his mask, stepped right up to the wisp and bellowed, “You’re outta here.” “You can’t toss me. I’m God!” “You’re a batter in a ballgame – and you are gone!” The umpire turned away, the wisp of smoke following in a series of agitated puffs. “I’m not just a god; I am God,” screeched the wisp. “I don’t care who you are. Here, I’m the boss – and you are gone! Any more and I’ll take it to the league office.” “I am the league office.” “And what would you decide?” asked the umpire, quietly. The wisp seemed to shrink as it turned and trailed slowly…

Schimmler – By Richard Grossman
Micro Fiction / April 19, 2009

It’s been ten days. No desperate craving, no headaches, no obvious depression. Carole asked me earlier why I’d quit smoking. General health considerations, or is there something wrong? I knew I’d have to stop some day. Why not now? That was very nice, what you did for that couple just now. Breaking the rules to change their flight. Without nicotine you’ve become more charitable? I wanted to see their faces light up. Did you notice when I said, about the fee, we’re going to waive that? It was as if the room became brighter. You see yourself as Edison? Or Dr. Phil? I remembered a friend’s story. How his parents were able to escape Nazi Germany because a Gestapo officer gave them forged papers. Really broke the rules. In my imagination, the official calls himself Schimmler, a compound of schlemiel and Himmler. In your imagination, how would he know any Yiddish? From remarks of people he had saved? Referring to him as a schlemiel? That’s the point. He has a Jewish grandmother. She’s Italian so they don’t recognize the name. If it comes out, he’s in the concentration camp. The Gestapo doesn’t recognize Italian Jewish names? They’ve asked the Fascist…

Rorschark Attack – By John Wiswell
Micro Fiction / April 5, 2009

A Washington D.C. Rationalist Think Tank was on holiday at the undisclosed beach that day. Three employees saw it break the surface. Tammy saw a deck of playing cards. Guido saw a platter of fried shrimp. Ironically only one of the rationalists, Virginia Welsley, saw a shark fin. Even more ironically, she was the only rationalist in the water. She swam like Hell. Tammy would attest that the shark went straight after Virginia, while Guido swears it swam in the opposite direction. Other beach-goers looked when they heard the screams, but the majority said they didn’t see a shark at all (while three saw an ice cream truck treading water behind Virginia). When Virginia looked over her shoulder mid-breaststroke, she saw the gaping jaws of her third grade Math teacher – the one who always put impossible bonus questions at the end of his quizzes, presumably just to watch his pupils struggle and fail. That pungent memory felt apt as she swam for her life, and even more apt when she was seized in the middle-aged Math teacher’s overbite. She was fortunate enough to awake, alive, in the local ICU. Apparently the shark had nearly ripped her in half. After…

Favourite Spot – By Heather Grange
Micro Fiction / March 22, 2009

Striding out with the dog by her side in the late afternoon was where Clare wanted to be. She and Mike had always loved this part of the country. In the summer he’d lounge in a soft backed chair, a rug over his knees with a sketch-pad or a book while she wandered off for a couple of hours or, in the winter they’d sit in the car watching the landscape and feeling part of nature. The river had brought them together. They’d met, worked and fallen in love in a hotel which stood on the cliffs. It had been pulled down years ago. They’d explored the coastal paths and meandered along the towpaths and boatyards. The cockle boats were still out at sea, the flames from the refineries still burned yellowish-blue and the old castle ruins still guarded the entrance to the estuary. They’d married in a local church under Norman vaults thirty-eight years before and then moved away and worked abroad. When they retired they’d come back to live nearby. It was when Mike said: “Why don’t you write about it?” But what was there to write about? Clare wasn’t a writer or a poet. It was true…

Lunchtime – By Ian Lamberto
Micro Fiction / March 8, 2009

Surrounded by the foliage of fall, Charlie and Sarah sat on the only bench in the park still made of wood, the only one that still creaked and cracked when used. They liked the sounds, the way the aged pine reminded them of its presence, the warmth that it kept between its decade-old wrinkles. There was something reassuring about it, something gentle, something that helped sweeten the taste of the peanut butter and strawberry jam sandwiches that they shared. It was their lunch hour. It was their tradition. “Nice day today,” said Charlie, as he always did. “That it is,” responded Sarah, as she always did. “Busy in the office.” “The phones won’t stop.” “Wouldn’t be much work if they did.” “Suppose not.” A few moments passed. Birds chirped from above, making their own idle conversation. The trees, ruffled by a cool breeze, released a sampling of golden leaves to the air. And Charlie stared at his half-eaten sandwich resting idly upon its bag. “I’m leaving,” he stated. “Okay, bit early though, isn’t it?” “That’s not what I meant,” Charlie’s leg started to shake. “I’m leaving…tomorrow…for good….” Sarah took a drink of water from her thermos; this new script was…