I stumbled over uneven ground. Out of the dark woods came vicious growls. Looking out, I saw a mountain lion, a coyote, and a brown bear hemming me in. I heard a voice and saw a figure stretching out a radiant hand.

The brightness somehow increased through the thin layer of his eyelids. He did not open his eyes, but heard a man respond to the woman. There was a melody to their interaction that harmonized with the choir and the birdsong floating through the garden.

The pulsing drone of locusts smothered even the sound of their own breathing as they picked their way through the trees and underbrush, hugging the edge of the tobacco field.

They had no stomachs today. Just my luck. I woke up this morning feeling frail and weak; hell was in my belly. Or maybe my liver? Nevertheless, immeasurable core pangs were going on.

His hands began to shake as the blues guitarist on stage played the final chords to an original number that had the audience on their feet with applause. The waiting was always the worst part.

At the edge of a forest, under the shadow of the Appalachian mountains, there was a cabin. Only a year old, it would soon be used as a foundation for a proper home come spring.

Fr. Timotius ‘Tim’ Sinaga was a busy man. As the parish pastor of a sizable Catholic parish in the Indonesian capital of Jakarta, he had a lot of responsibilities pertaining to his flock.

“It’s almost over,” Timmy thought for what must’ve been the fourth time as he could count no higher. Not that he hadn’t tried – he just couldn’t remember what his ma said his thumb was called.

He sat satisfied and in silence next to the dying fire he had built after his day’s work. The pit and his chair sat atop the flat stone platform he laid during the course of summer.

“I believe in God the Father almighty, creator of heaven and earth. And in Jesus Christ …” the small congregation chanted. Six young boys dangled their bare feet over the edge of a pew,

Kenzie was far too beautiful to transition to a man. Exceptions were sometimes made, but they came with the consequence of being looked down on by the industry.

It was a brisk winter evening and a deep auburn glow welled up behind the mountains in the distance where the sun sank below the horizon. There was a light snow,

Don’t got a lot of time left, so I’ll make this quick. Gotta say something though. Somebody’ll miss me sooner or later and go looking, and if they look in the right place—this is my goodbye, I guess.

The Reformed Mallard makes his nest on Twitter here. The Ghost and the Machine Reformed Mallard Harold Boxley stepped through …

Here’s another story that gained an honorable mention in the October Flash Fiction Contest.