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Aid from an Angel - Michael Sherlock
Terminal Velocity - Bill West
Today's Argument - Anne Black
Aide from an Angel
Michael Sherlock
Michael Sherlock
Hanging by your fingertips over a fiery chasm, your fingers are weak and your flesh is searing, you look to the heavens for help. An angel appears clad in divine, glowing robes and flexing snowy white wings. The angel stamps on your hand, glad to be rid of another responsibility.
Michael Sherlock is a writer from London always looking for a challenge as an incentive to write something, and found Boston Literary's challenge a refreshing new opportunity to try his styles to the limit.
Terminal Velocity
Bill West
Falling fast.
Limbs outstretched—a Christus Rex, hands cupped to catch the wind-rush.
Always the same.
Slowly turning; land, sea, the Hospice roof opening, waking in my bed, back to the whisper of the driver pumping morphine, the nurse opening the curtains: "Another lovely day!"
Heaven in my veins.
Anne Black
Limbs outstretched—a Christus Rex, hands cupped to catch the wind-rush.
Always the same.
Slowly turning; land, sea, the Hospice roof opening, waking in my bed, back to the whisper of the driver pumping morphine, the nurse opening the curtains: "Another lovely day!"
Heaven in my veins.
Bill West lives in Shropshire, England. He is a member of the Shrewsbury Scribblers Writers' Group and a number of on-line writers' communities. He is a founder member and Group Host of the WriteWords Flash Fiction Group.
His work has appeared in FlashQuake, Right Hand Pointing, 21 Stars Review, Foliate Oak, Heavy Glow, and other places. See further details at Writewords.
Anne Black
"No, that's stupid" Marcus shouted for the fourth time. "You're wrong!" He stormed from the kitchen.
Alone in the twilight, that icy calm crept into my heart. Tomorrow, I vowed, I will finally leave him.
"Jeanne, honey…" he whispered from the doorway. "I'm sorry—I was wrong." The ice retreated.
Alone in the twilight, that icy calm crept into my heart. Tomorrow, I vowed, I will finally leave him.
"Jeanne, honey…" he whispered from the doorway. "I'm sorry—I was wrong." The ice retreated.
Anne Black is a daughter of the American Midwest. She writes science papers by day and short stories by night.
