NIFTY-FIFTY WINNING ENTRIES

That Creature Is Me By Nicole Wilson
My body felt eerily fine yet my mind kept whirling around the word: vomit. Moonbeams illuminate a rippling stream. I drudged down to the riverbed; the corpse smearing behind me. I hunch low to drink and see the reflection of dripping fangs, matted fur, ravenous eyes. The creature is me.
 
That Creature Is Me By Dave Phillips
Suki, fresh from showering, watched tv in her motel room.  News bulletin: two hikers dead.  Mutilated beyond recognition.  Dental records required to identify.  Suspected bear attack.  Unusual for these parts.  Suki used a toothpick to remove the sinewy flesh stuck between her teeth.
 
Blood On The Steering Wheel By Nisa Andrade
I rushed to my wife, box in hand.
“You promised to come back.” Her too-thin form shook as she hugged her pregnant belly. 
“I’m here.”
“You’re not.”
Feeling helpless, I looked at the wrecked car. Blood on the steering wheel － so much of it, even the seats stained crimson.
 
Blood On The Steering Wheel By Dave Phillips
My car got a puncture in Death Valley.  My worst nightmare.  Nails in two tyres.  A tow truck came an hour later.  I’ll give you a ride, he said.  In the cab I noticed the blood on the steering wheel.  Turned out, my worst nightmare had only just begun.
 
Blood On The Steering Wheel By Vaibhav Sharma
This was the easiest score in his fifteen years as a car thief. A top of the line unlocked car was as rare as the sun in October. A heavy thud from the trunk at every speed breaker didn’t really bother him. Neither did the blood on the steering wheel.
 
Blood On The Steering Wheel by Alison Lowenstein
Harriet, PhD candidate, couldn’t study for this test. In the doctor’s office, she made a fist, as the nurse filled vials of blood needed to diagnose Harriet’s persistent pain, exhaustion and nose bleeds that left her car steering wheel covered in blood. When the test results arrived, they never left.
 
Blood On The Steering Wheel by David Walton
BA DUM BA DUM !!!
There was no way of avoiding the pheasant.
Thoughts ran from shock and remorse to excitement… and roasting.
Quiet country road. Nobody looking. She put the feathered body in the car.
Three minutes later, the bloodied bird flapped back to life.
PANIC! SWERVE! OAK TREE!
 
The Wrong Gravestone by Nathalie Roos
They have left me.
Only I remain, lost between the red petals, forever bound to the ground.
Yet, I can still hear the bombs, the screams. A faint echo from the depths of the earth.
 I look up at the sky. Maybe the winds will carry me home one day.
 
The Wrong Gravestone by J.B. Polk
Looking at the gravestone, she remembered another man´s eyes after the body had been shifted: open, alert, despite the rictus of death. Once, he had said that the retinas of a dead man retained the last image they had seen before death.  Was it her image engraved on his pupils?
 
The Wrong Gravestone by Dave Phillips
Leave it on the grave of Stan James, they said.  $20,000.  Then you get Janey back.  I swear, I did leave the money on Stan James’s grave in a blue holdall, just like they said.  I got Janey back.  In pieces.
 
Take A Closer Look by Nathalie Roos
Is there any chance to start anew?
After all, whatever will be, will be. No matter what terrors I've been through, all I see in the mirror is still just me.
But something will grow from what I've been through.
In the end, I know that it will be me.
 
Take A Closer Look by Heather Graz
Perfect peace in the mid-summer garden. Sunshine, wind-still, surrounded by red, purple, white and pink splashes. Nothing stirring.
Then: ”bzzzz…bzZZZ!”
“A bee?”, she wonders. Absentmindedly, she walks over. It turns out, “bzzz” is the sound of the Common Candy-striped Spider’s lure to “come, take a closer look inside this flower”.  
 
Alarms & Sirens by Nisa Andrade
It's been a long day. My room looks full but feels as empty as I am. I put down the phone beside the pill bottle and empty glass of vodka － my mouth bitter, throat on fire. Tonight, I rest. No snoozed alarms and blaring sirens will wake me tomorrow.

Alarms & Sirens by Dave Phillips
The water is cold.  My float is leaking air.  My clothes weigh me down.  Ahead of me, the faint lights of the city.  Miles to go.  Behind me is the island.  Search lights aglow, scanning the water.  No one ever made it before.  Maybe I will be the first.