The story of the week from August 25 to 29 is Burial At Sea by Jim Purdy.
There was a lot of conversation about this story in the comments. It’s a touching tribute to a fallen friend, told in a matter-of-fact style, and despite its lack of flowery emotion it clearly resonated with the readers who have been rating it so highly. Thank you for contributing this story, Jim.
The hose barely displaced the red gunk clinging to the bumper. Liz adjusted the nozzle, her hands shaking.
The car was a mess, bonnet crumpled, lights smashed.
Just a deer, leaping out of the shadows.
The fact that it had a childlike face was merely a trick of the night.
Andrew writes flash fiction and drinks black coffee. Find out
what else he gets up to by following @imageronin
He orders for his wife. The waitress scribbles something on his napkin, slipping it under his whiskey glass.
His wife returns, applies lipstick.
“Not at dinner, dear,” he says.
His wife sips his whiskey and wipes her mouth with his napkin, smearing the phone number with her Revlon 43 lips.
Deanna Morris is a MFA graduate of Butler University (2013) with publishing credits for poetry, short stories, interviews, and freelance articles. Her work can be found in First Stop Fiction, Subtle Fiction, Clever Magazine, Scissors, and Spackle, among other places.
As the bartender prepares her a drink, he tells her how he’s a poet at heart and will publish a book of poems one day.
“Will you write one about me?” she asks, grinning.
He starts to recite something of Frost’s as though it’s his, drunk with his own lie.
Debbi Antebi (@debbisland) lives in Istanbul, Turkey, and blogs at debbiantebi.wordpress.com.
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.