The guard we call “Snake” saunters over to my cell door, opens the bean slot, and snarls, “Due to unforeseeable circumstances, Sweetheart, your execution will be held on your birthday,” then slams the metal door shut, like it was a guillotine.
I can almost taste my favorite flavor cake frosting.
Brad Rose was raised in southern California, and lives in Boston. Links to his poetry and fiction, which appear in print and on-line, can be found at bradrosepoetry.blogspot.com.
The African explorer stopped his topless Land Rover when he saw the approaching grass fire. Hundreds of terrified baboons were running directly towards him.
Baboons lighten their bodies when running from danger.
After they leapt over his vehicle and continued fleeing, he deeply regretted leaving his Pith helmet in camp.
Michael Coolen is a composer, actor, performance artist, pianist and writer who lives in Corvallis, Oregon.
It’s midnight and I still can’t sleep. I imagine lying down beside you, your arms around me. You slowly lull me to sleep, making me smile all the while. But in the end, it’s just an imagination. You’re still ten feet below me, sharing an eternal embrace with your mistress.
Le-an Lai Lacaba is an eighteen-year-old girl from Tacloban City, growing up in between everyone pressuring her to grownup and wanting to be a kid. She fills her blog, Imperfect is Beautiful, with her poems and short stories. Le-an has won multiple essay-writing contests in both local and regional competitions. She is studying for a B.A. in Communication Arts at the University of the Philippines, and struggling to become the writer she dreams of being.
I heard your old rocker creak, and for a moment I forgot.
It might have been a stray breeze, or maybe just the cat brushing against it, an old habit from all the years he rubbed contentedly against your legs.
But in my heart it was you, home once again.
Chris Fries is a still-developing writer, slowly working to hone his craft. He is an engineer by vocation, a guitarist by avocation, and a writer by compulsion. So far, his blog has been his primary outlet for his quasi-creative meanderings.
The note, scrawled in haste, read “be back in a min.” It didn’t mention a stop sign unnoticed or thumbs on the text pad. It didn’t say I would never again see your smile or taste your lips or feel your breath or share our silly dreams.
You didn’t know.
Jeff Switt is a retired advertising agency guy who loves writing flash fiction, some days to curb his angst, other days to fuel it. His words have been featured at Dogzplot, Boston Literary Review, Flash Fiction World, Nailpolish Stories, 50-Word Stories, 100 Word Story, A Story in 100 Words, 101 Word Stories, and Shotgun Honey, and have appeared at lots of places that take whatever you send in.
She removed her shoes. She tossed her coat to the couch. With a crooked gait, she made her way through the small apartment swaying from side to side, just as she did on her lonely walk home in the early hours.
From outside in the darkness, I watched and waited.
Fifty-word stories appeal to Chad Benjamin Smith because he is impatient and has a short attention span. Admittedly, Chad Benjamin Smith has more flaws than a short third-person bio can fit. He readily jumps at the opportunity to flaunt his shortcomings and embrace his negative qualities.
She starts to count the number of times her date uses the word “I”.
She doesn’t care about how many languages he knows or how he graduated cum laude from college.
“Let’s call it a night,” she finally blurts out, and hears him protest, “But I…!”
Debbi Antebi (@debbisland) lives in Istanbul, Turkey, and blogs
Finding easy ways to explain words and concepts was what she did best, although when she explained Jesus, the cross, burial, and rising from the dead, one of her students looked anxious: “You mean like a zombie?”
With no simple explanation she pondered and slowly said, “…Yes. Something like that.”
Connell wrote this based on a true story from an ESL teacher.
Abby cried at Easter as a child, watching the family across the street. Grownups hid sweets around their property. Children searched. “Easter egg hunt” it was called.
Such a silly custom, Abby’s mother said.
As an adult, Abby visited her married sister, becoming the Easter bunny for nieces and nephews.
Krystyna writes poetry, fiction and creative nonfiction. She delights neighbourhood cats with her singing.
The tension was so thick, you could cut it with a knife.
So she did. Blood surged into the air, splattering everything with
Rorschach patterns some detective would fail to analyze.
She pocketed the knife. No sense leaving it behind. Having an incomplete knife set would really drive her crazy.