Welcome to the One Million Stories Creative Writing Project.

We aim to discover, select and showcase some of the very best new
short fiction being written today!
We are always on
the hunt
for new
voices, new visions
and new ideas, new
ways of telling the
story of what life on
Earth is all about.

So Send Us Your
ory Today!
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New short stories are added regularly from some of the best new authors
writing in the English language today, selected by us, for you...

The deadline for submissions to the next issue is on Friday March 21st
Submit Your Story
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Meet some of our
regular contributors

old and new. Check out
their blogs to read more
of  their latest writing.
Connect with your
favourite new authors.
Simon Kellow Bingham
has been a contributor
since 2008. Read his
latest work at

A Day at the Beach
Troy Johnson
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Next Issue Deadline is
Friday March 21st...
At The Sharp End
Flash Fiction by Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois
One Million Stories
One Million Stories
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One Million Stories
One Million Stories
Wrath  of  God
Mark Bruhwiller
Mike Deller's dark tales
always fascinate so try:
Rapunzel on the
Octopus Ride  for a
Jack Chavoor has been a
contributor since 2009.
We loved his first story

'Song For
the Boss'.
Read his latest work at
The Talking Wall
Marian Brooks
is another
superb author
read her writing
Dark Corner
Something Trapped
Gabriella Harding

Readers who may not be familiar with the Moon’s
environs are referred to An Atlas of the Moon, by
Theodore Dies, which has gone through several
editions. It shows all the geographical features,
towns, rivers, political boundaries, and contains
as well individual topics on flora and fauna,
geology, resources, and demographics.
We embarked on the twenty-second of March, a
day cloudless and fair, and a harbinger of many,
for we enjoyed fine weather, and were favored by
a stiff solar wind at our tail for the entire crossing.
Our anti-gravity vessel reached its destination in
just over twenty-eight days, a speed that
astonished and delighted our Selenite pilot,
Lothmar, for it had taken him forty-two to cross
the immense divide in the opposite direction. He
had become our friend during the voyage, we had
grown accustomed to his quiet and reserved
demeanor, and it amused us to see the difficulty
he had in containing his jubilance when in record
time we plunged safely into the Oceanus
The water on the Moon being somewhat thick
and frothy, our ship pitched languidly as we
awaited arrival of the city...

Funny how one can contemplate life when life
seems no longer important, so here I sit on the
edge of a world slowly disintegrating before my
eyes and no longer considering life at all.
I am here with my dog, Fellow, up in the ranges
away from everyone and no one, although there
are a few stragglers scattered about throughout
this last bastion. I occasionally see a couple of
fires but am unsure as to their origin, since the
turmoil we are facing creates such fires, only on a
bigger scale. I have concluded those that are left
do not wish to join with others and are quite
happy to be on their own confronting what is to
come next. Maybe happy is not the correct word.
Resigned would be more appropriate, I think.
My family have gone now. My partner of many
years went to collect our then grown family in our
people mover to bring them to our, what we
thought, was a safer place on our isolated
property. She disappeared with them all into a
sinkhole. And how do I know this? I saw it on the
news by way of a helicopter crew filming the end
for us all...
My Life Unfolds

I was born in the Bronx. Our building was
destined to become a burned-out tenement
populated by rats, crack heads, meth heads, and
severed heads. We fled to the suburbs.
In New Jersey, the kids aped their parents’ status
preoccupations: the right jeans, the right madras
shirt. In the Plymouth Park Candy Store, Shapiro
humiliated Steven C. because he was wearing
green socks.
The aerospace industry moved west. So did we.
In southern Cal you could surf and smoke pot, but
the air was not breathable.
In Berkeley, the streets were lined with cars and
their windows fed me my reflection, distorted. I
got fat on it.
In Humboldt County, the redwoods and the rocky
coast renewed my ugly soul. I worked in a
sawmill and got pneumonia four times. I found a
wife and baby, but not a decent job.
In the Florida panhandle, I learned to drawl, say
“y’all,” eat catfish and collards...

The day we left, Aunt Martha complained all the
way there how her back hurt and how her corns
and bunions on her toes were bothering her.
Every bump in the road I hit, she would cry out.
“Oh…oh, my back is killing me,” she cried.
“Martin can you please slow down some.”
“Yes ma’am,” was my reply. It was all I could say
and all I was going to say out of respect for not
only her being my aunt, but she was still my elder
It stunk some in my dad’s SUV. I knew it was
Uncle Odell breaking wind. He always broke
wind. No matter if it was in the house, outside at
a Bar-B-Que or inside watching T.V. He always
said that he had a bad stomach problem.
And, it was crazy because when he broke wind,
and everybody heard it, he would say, “Sorry,
constitution.” Sorry, constitution, what in the hell
did that mean. You break wind and then say
“Sorry constitution.” Like that was a difference

It had been raining for days, and Fiorella felt her
depression deepen. She couldn’t help staring at
the streams flowing on the curved window, and it
made her want to blink back tears. The park was
resounded with the screeching of swings and
squeals of children was drenched and dead. The
climbing frames, dripping wet, looked as if they
were bleeding.

“There is no joy in the world,” thought Fiorella.

She had been sitting on that bed for days on end,
without eating, sleeping with her eyes open in
case she heard the door. She missed the cats;
every moment now she would hear them enter
noisily through the cat flap, hungry for food and
love, prodding her with their moist noses and
biting her hair. That is how they knew how to love.
One Million Stories
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