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WEIRDYEAR daily flash fiction
http://www.weirdyear.com
Set to offer you a new bite of quality offbeat flash fiction every day, 365 days a year, Weirdyear is the brain child of author E.S. Wynn. His vision was to create a place where writers of flash fiction that falls outside the mainstream could get the exposure they need to get noticed within the mainstream of society, all while providing a constant dose of short fiction for those who need just a little weirdness in their year.
- Added on: Oct 28th, 2009
- Country: United States
- Language: English
- Author: E.S. Wynn
- Listed in: Fiction Poetry
- Tags: poetry science fiction fantasy horror flash fiction short fiction
Recent Posts
12/2/09
On ScarBy Brad NelsonHi, and welcome to OnScar. The owner of the automobile you are attempting to steal has requested activation of OnScar theft-deterrent protocol 789-346-528-ZULU.Doors locked.Seatbelt disengaged.Steering wheel disengaged.Remote nav...
12/1/09
What They Want,Monday,Or The Three Strangers You Nodded To On the StreetBy Linda SandsWhat Shelly Wants.She wants to be the girl who slices his roast beef. She wants to be the one who teaches him the difference between Lacey Swiss and Buckeye . Shell...
11/30/09
Not in the Military, SonBy E.S. WynnThis arm? You’d never guess it, but - -Yeah, the war. I was a chain-AEtherist, had the whole Mortis Cultes how-to and troubleshooting ritual checklist manuals memorized, could tell you the expected yield of an AE...
11/29/09
Flesh Tradeby Scotty WilliamsStories are like assholes.You only needed one to start. How you got one, not much matter: piece of meat, piece of shit. One in hand, we used the body of that first red-snapper-snatch to snatch more. They are, after all, c...
11/28/09
Dulce et Decorum estBy Wilfred OwenBent double, like old beggars under sacks,Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,Till on the haunting flares we turned our backsAnd towards our distant rest began to trudge.Men marched asleep. Man...
11/27/09
ExorcismBy Sheldon Lee ComptonTrish spat in the floor and watched the dribble dance from a flat form to a rounded hill of a thing until it was at last upright. The dribble twisted and grew, black from too many cigarettes and thick from too much drin...
