A bow in hand,
she breathes to life
four magical strings.
A canvas of sound
paints my life
in fairytale colours
of distant dreams.
Her body swings, the strings sing,
tears release my joy,
smiles in refrain.
The music pulses
within my veins.
have touched me
Patrick listened to his grandfather, father, and daughter play the violin, with great delight.
The preacher’s wife saw them selling the deep fried butter balls dusted with icing sugar at the Texas State Fair. She ate three in a row. She ordered a Diet Coke to wash them down as penitence.
Oddly, she felt worse about these sins than the affair with the Deacon.
Michael Donoghue mostly lives in his head, but resides in Vancouver, Canada.
Granny Nanny’s mean.
She dances to pounding music then oils her knees.
I hide the oil can.
She creaks and freezes, right in front of the fridge.
I’m starving. I can’t reach the handle. I’m too small to push her out of the way.
Fine. I get the oil can.
Brenda Anderson‘s fiction has appeared in Andromeda Spaceways, A Cappella Zoo, Punchnel’s, and Penumbra. She lives in Adelaide, South Australia.
A SAM detonated just off the Intruder’s starboard wing, destroying the outer portion at the wing fold line. The airframe was finished.
A sidewise glance confirmed his best friend was dead as well.
Pulling the eject handle let the doomed airplane bury his friend at sea two hundred feet below.
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.
“A salad,” she ordered, waving the unopened menu.
“Certainly. Which salad would you like?”
She looked up, momentarily, then back to the phone. “I don’t care. A salad, with leaves and salad stuff in it.”
The waiter brought dandelion leaves he picked himself, from out back where the dogs go.
Stuart is absent without leave from the majority of life and finds that writing helps him remain that way. He occasionally blogs a story at diamondsanddross.blogspot.com.
The mailbox is empty today, again. Even though I know better, I keep expecting to find a letter from you waiting on me one of these days. To see your distinctive handwriting one last time would be like gazing on a minor work of art.
Email just isn’t the same.
Daniel Slaten writes short stories and poetry in small notebooks and on sticky notes.
In the castle dungeon, seven little men were strung up, waiting for a turn on the rack.
“All right,” said the Prince, flicking his whip, “anyone want to confess? No? Then let’s begin. You’re up first, Happy.”
After the birth of Princess Snow White’s half-dwarf daughter, things had gotten ugly.
Eliza Archer writes flash fiction and drinks too much coffee. She can be found at elizaarcher.com.
The story of the week from August 18 to 22 is First Impressions by Katya Duft.
There’s a great transition between emotions in this story, allowing the reader to feel like they’ve gone on a journey with the character. Well done, Katya!
Being the world’s humblest man was hard work at the best of times.
Will looked back on his journey: the full page advertisements, the talk show appearances, the posters he had erected along interstate highways proclaiming his humility.
He was humble all right, and he’d fight anyone who thought differently.
Connell enjoys a good oxymoron. Unfortunately, this is not one of those. See more of his literary misadventures at paragraphplanet, home.wtd-magazine.com and postcardshorts.com.
Didn’t enter the ring for the competition, but rather more for a discourse with the future. The brain more of a sponge soaking up the spill to feed its thirst than a tool used cleaning up the mess left behind.
A challenge barely begun and certain to last only moments.
D. Andrew Bradley is a currently unemployed truck driver wasting time on the internet. He has no writing experience or education beyond what would be considered normal. He just found this quick mental release of blah-blah rather satisfying. Not sure of what will happen next, but back to work means less writing.