When, four hours ago, at the bottom of a dormant cinder cone, our guide had casually mentioned the possibility of a cloud of poison gas wafting over us from the active cone, we’d all laughed. Standing atop the dormant cone, hearing Jorge’s alarm blaring over the deep, resonant rumbling of an erupting cone, a bright…

Jill sat at the sleek, white formica bar sipping her café au lait and mentally kicking herself for agreeing to meet with Michael. Again. I could just leave and go back to the hospital, she thought to herself, he wouldn’t even know I had been here.

Announcing the launch of the 505. The idea is to write one story post, every week, consisting of no more than 505 words based on a writing prompt of some kind: images, words, thoughts. Why 505 words? Because, why the hell not.

“Good! Everyone remember the first time they see Dinosaur Elvis. T-rex performin’ t’night. He do an amazin’ Heartbreak Hotel!” it said, waving us into the tent with its short arms.

“Watch for blood on the floor,” it said, with a deep, growling laugh.

Castagere hunkered down behind the parapet of the ten-story walk-up as he watched the two shadowy figures slink into the back entrance of the nondescript Thai restaurant across the street. He grinned. The effort he’d put forth baiting these two-bit thieves with promises of an easy score had paid off. Tonight was the endgame; he was getting his life back.

From the bottom of the crater they watched the mostly-water bags buzzing about in their tin flying machine. They probably should have positioned the observation lab much deeper, below the mantel. It wouldn’t have been that difficult, and it certainly would have been a more comfortable temperature. No; it would have been impossible to hear the thoughts from such weak minds.