Natalie adopted Balthazar one December day. Leery at first, he hid in corners. But, like the Star of Bethlehem, hunger led him daily to his food bowl.
Finally, on January 6th, Balthazar found his way to the cradle of Natalie’s lap, with no gold or frankincense, but plenty of purr.
Thomas A. North has had several cats during his lifetime. The current one is on his lap as he types this. See more at itrhymesattimes.wordpress.com.
The skinny cat slinks through damp alleyways with hunger in her eyes, desperation sharpening her senses to a degree that she never thought possible. She’s found freedom in starvation, purpose in the chase, salvation in the feeling of blood between her teeth.
She will never be a house pet again.
Ethan Noll writes short stories and poems. He hopes to write something longer someday.
I asked how I would know and he said by listening, which is not the same as standing still and shielding oneself in silence while practicing acts of self-discipline, but actively living and listening for a voice that sounds like no one else saying something you’ve never heard said before.
Bob Thurber is the author of “Paperboy: A Dysfunctional Novel” and four collections of short fiction. Regarded as a master of Flash and Micro Fiction, his work has appeared in Esquire and other magazines, been anthologized 60 times, received a long list of of awards, and been utilized in schools and colleges throughout the world. He resides in Massachusetts. Visit his website at BobThurber.net.
She farted the color yellow. She perspired the color blue. Her most angry thoughts created a greenish aura around her head, while both her lusty imaginings and lightning-like pangs of envy created an orange fog around her feet.
Her tinder date was color-blind. It might have worked.
It did not.
There are no answers at kentoswald.com about why it is evolutionarily preferable that males are more likely to be color blind, but there are additional words.
Capturing those final shots
On the eve of an execution
I wonder what words
Her lips do not speak
I wonder, yes, but I do not ask
Because I know
In my shadowed heart
That a look as blue
as her eyes in that light
Is an answer in itself.
Casey Laine comes from a long line of talkative women. She works as Fantasy Editor at Cosmic Roots and Eldritch Shores and publishes an annual anthology of fiction and poetry for her writing group, Writers Assembled. In her spare time, she chases butterflies with her camera. Find her at Facebook, Cosmic Roots and Eldritch Shores, and Amazon.
I’ve been collecting things since I was very small. Conkers, feathers, snow globes. Then onto stamps, butterflies, coins.
It was only natural for me to progress to larger, more beautiful and precious things. Hard to find, harder to keep.
People demand their freedom in a way that stamps never did.
Charlie Swailes writes short and very short stories when not teaching English or looking after her two small boys.
The Story of the Month is chosen from the Story of the Week winners announced from the past month.
The finalists for November were:
Sundays by Una Nine Nine
Rain Dance by Raymond Sloane
Surrender by Eileen Hansen
Shadows by Dmitri Christopher
The winner of the November 2019 Story of the Month, and the $10 prize, is…
I expect this story represents different things to different readers. I see a portrait of depression or other forms of mental illness. It can hide in plain sight, even in the midst of “happy” moments and friendly faces. And like a spy, it may feel like it is always lurking just out of sight, nefarious, waiting for the worst moment to emerge.
When I saw him the other day, I felt the strangest urge to strike up a conversation. Most peculiar, seeing as we’ve hardly been close. But the moment passed and I saw it wasn’t him, remembered it couldn’t be so.
A curiosity indeed that we’re always friendlier towards the dead.
Gretchen wants to make being out of place her comfort zone, so she’s going to keep on sharing her thoughts.
Displayed in front of the Catholic school assembly, Lydia felt like an ostrich: swollen belly perched on teenaged stork-thin legs, dying to bury her head in the sand.
Afterwards, the nuns expelled her. It was then she decided “pro-life” was a crow veiled in a habit, not an olive-branched dove.
Krista Robey is an unapologetic Midwestern Millennial, who will advocate for Oxford commas until the day she dies.
The story of the week for December 2 to 6 is…
Balloonman by Melody Leming-Wilson