His perfectly groomed mustache announced that he was a true gentleman. And gentlemen stayed awake past sunset to enjoy the quiet, finer hours of life.
He tugged at the lady’s arm, demanding her attention to convey this fact.
His mother looked down and startled. “Get that worm off your face!”
Sophia Netterfield is a first-year university student studying psychology because brains are bizarre.
She didn’t walk, she glided to the far end of the bar. She had a body most women would kill for, plus flowing blonde hair, aquamarine eyes, high cheekbones, and a dazzling smile.
Moving closer, it became clear to me that she was a natural blonde: her moustache revealed it!
Jim Purdy is a retired engineering manager who lives in Oregon and spends his day with his faithful dog who never gives him disparagement. She wags her tail as he reads her whatever he has just written.
Several of Lily’s co-workers grew moustaches that November. Her eyes watering, she forced herself to smile and congratulate them. She made a generous donation to fight cancer.
That evening, at the drugstore, Lily decided to try a different brand of bleach cream.
The electrolysis appointment was still two weeks away.
Deborah Davis lives and writes in Richland, Michigan, with her trusty dog, Gracie, by her side. Her work has been featured in The Great Lakes Review, Bethlehem Writers’ Roundtable Magazine, Halfway Down the Stairs, and Searchlights and Signal Flares.
“Have you decided on a style?” the man asked, donning an apron.
“Curved upwards. Similar to mine but without thinned ends.”
The snipping started. Grey facial hairs landed all about.
The client looked at his freshly trimmed terrier and sighed approvingly. “Perfect. Now our moustaches match, aligning Woofember with Movember.”
Krystyna writes poetry, fiction, and creative nonfiction. Her published works can be found online and in magazines and anthologies.
I walked in to get a delicious sub sandwich. Behind the counter was a person who had a beautiful black moustache that could have been waxed and morphed like Salvador Dali.
I got my usual. I purchased my food. I glanced at the name tag of the sandwich engineer:
Garrett Pierce is a fun person who play a total of eight instruments.
A nightmare, a horrible, disgusting nightmare. It must be.
The idea of killing his adored companion, his partner, terrified him.
But he did.
Placing the razor on the counter, heart pounding, sweat dripping; the deed was done.
His top lip felt cold, naked.
Maybe the Mrs. would finally be happy.
Landon Fatino is a 12-year-old who enjoys baseball, theater, and other sports and activities. He is very funny and likes to make people laugh.
“What happened to your moustache?”
“It just got up and left.”
“What kind of crazy talk is that?”
“Look, all I’m saying is when push came to shove it got pretty hairy. I told her to choose between me and my moustache, and go figure, she chose the moustache.”
Connell acknowledges the sex appeal of the moustache in the 1970s and has dared to answer the question, “What if….?” in this disturbing and dubious tale of hairy proportions. Connell has requested that comments, if any, be kept as cheesy as possible in keeping with the theme.
This guy in the restaurant had actually drunk straight from his soup bowl, leaving a neat pea-green soup moustache. Rolling up his sleeves to attack the main course, he’d splattered food up to his elbows. Watching him in the mirror, I supposed I really should address his lack of manners.
Peter Li-ping has yet to see an attractive moustache. He feels, however, that they are better than tattoos because they can be shaved off. Except when someone tattoos a moustache on themselves, which is really weird.
The story of the week for November 17 to 21 is Commuting by Anton Rose.
As someone who takes public transit to work every day, I appreciate the truth that underlies this story’s dark humour. On trains and buses, and in crowds in general, we get so buried in our bubbles of personal space. The fact that this story could essentially be true is what makes it effective. Congratulations Anton!
He stands where his father put him, white faced, tears staining his cheeks, little fists clenched at his side, listening to the silence. His mother’s stifled screams, moans, and sobs have stopped.
He is trembling, frozen with fear, eyes fixed on the belt hanging on the back of the door.
Ann Sangwin is a retired teacher, now a career grandmother. She has written all her life but until recently has not thought of submitting for publication. She lives in Kent, where she recently joined a writing group which has changed her life.