Mysterious Photograph
Each issue features a Mysterious Photograph. Readers are invited to submit a 250-word (or less) flash fiction story based on the photo. The person who invents the best mystery story receives a prize of $25, and the story is published in a future issue.
The Story That Won the May/June 2026 contest:
The May/June Mysterious Photograph contest was won by Ed Ridgley of Phenix City, Alabama. Honorable Mentions go to Lex Wilson of Durham, North Carolina; Sheila Dene´ Lawrence of Birmingham, Alabama; Jeff Dycus of Benton, Kentucky; Michael Hamer of Williams Lake, British Columbia, Canada; Sarah Callanan of St. Johnsbury, Vermont; Michael J. Ciaraldi of Shrewsbury, Massachusetts; Karen Folques of Barrie, Ontario, Canada; Richard Hajdú of London, United Kingdom; Dr. Robert McNally of Caledonia, Wisconsin.
It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a theorist in possession of a good conspiracy, must be in want of a laboratory. The theorist, not one to travel for want of any identification, settled on Netherfield Labs, the location of which was a convenient walking distance from his cabin in the woods. Word traveled in light-speed conspiratorial velocity that said lab harbored “the virus,” a fact which consumed Lord Byron, the nom de guerre of Billy Bob Billington the Third. The first two Billingtons met early and awful deaths at the hands of rogue physicians, or so he oft repeated.
At midnight Lord Byron radioed his followers he was on his way to the Room of Death; a moniker he would have copyrighted were he one to trust such a process.
“I am at the room which houses the poisons, dear followers. I will soon dispatch this horrid establishment of its evil.”
Lord Byron picked the lock in seconds, opened the door, and said, “I only wish the so-called scientists could be here to witness my wrath.”
The entire room was empty save for a microscope and one lone Petri dish.
“They have disguised this room to appear as though no one notices their nefariousness, but we all know, don’t we?”
No one was listening.
Lord Byron grabbed the dish and twisted the lid yelling, “You will not enslave us anymore.” A drop of the liquid landed on his hand and began melting everything in sight.