By Hadrian Hazlitt

She was sitting by the window, looking out into the starry sky. Behind her was her Mother; she was ill on her bed.

The night was cold, but she didn’t mind. She was waiting for a shooting stars — her only chance. Doctors were unable to cure her mother.

Perhaps a wish upon a star makes a difference. She waited for an hour. Then she rubbed her eyes. At last a streak of light passed through. She closed her eyes and she said her wish silently. She slept.

In the morning her mother was dead.

By Sarah Mitchell-Jackson

There were three unconscious years between them, leaving lasting scars in the silt of Cindy’s mind, like a birthmark returning in cold weather.

“Cindy should work harder at school,” their father said. “I’m prouder of Lucy.”

“How did you do in school?” His mother-in-law asked pointedly.

“It’s Cindy we’re talking about here,” he replied. She wasn’t so sure.

The girls’ mother added – her voice scalloped with exasperation. “Lucy looks unkempt; Cindy is pretty.”

“Perhaps she lacks your example,” her mother suggested. “My stylist could dye that grey out of your hair.” It was something she had always wanted to say.

     
Sarah Mitchell-Jackson’s debut novel, Ashes, is out now, published by Lorelei Press.

By Andrew Z. Foreman

“Sarah!” Tom shouted breathlessly. He couldn’t lose her; he wouldn’t lose her.

“This isn’t your choice, Tom!” Sarah screamed. She would do what she had planned. Then it would be over. She knew she must; she refused to see another choice.

“Sarah,” Tom choked on his words, tears welling in his eyes. “Please, don’t do this. I, … I love you.”

Sarah looked back at him, away from the painless fall the cliff offered. “Tom?”

Tom stepped impulsively forward and grabbed her hand. “Sarah, I love you.” Then he did something unplanned, something sporadic, he kissed her.

By Marissa Hoffmann

He insisted on listening to her pitch in his hot tub. He’s an apex predator. Before she sliced his warm belly open he said “I will kill you, don’t think I can’t.” The weight of him draped around her shoulders is familiar but what’s new and fresh and hot is the rivulet of blood that draws a line down her naked spine, over her buttocks, along the inside of her thigh and pools under the arches of her feet. She did say no, and when he was on top of her she said, “I don’t want to do this.”

           
The author writes because “there’s so much to say.” Her work has been short-listed at Bath Flash Fiction Award and variously long-listed. She has words at Bending Genres and forthcoming at Milk Candy Review.