The story of the week for October 27 to 31 is…
Cartwheeling Mama by Rita Riebel Mitchell
All posts by Tim
BILLIE-LEIGH BURNS: Valhalla-ween
My brethren’s rotting corpses litter the plucked marsh, victims of the elements – an easier demise than mine.
First, I’m scalped.
Then, my organs are scooped out with a spoon.
Finally, with gouged eyes and a toothless mouth, I’m set on fire, my body paraded like a trophy on some doorstep.
Billie-Leigh Burns is a writer from Liverpool. Her work has been featured by 50 Word Storues, 101 Words, Funny Pearls, and The Hooghly Review. She is also a maths tutor and a bookkeeper, making her the only writer she knows who owns an ‘I Heart Spreadsheets’ mug.
BOB THURBER: Spooky Trick or Inspiring Treat?
In the hereafter and evermore a group of deceased literary artists obtained permission to haunt on Halloween with the stipulation their disturbances be directed only at living writers. The ghosts wailed. A whooshing wind boosted their warbling hum. Blaring bursts of clamor transported an unembellished staccato rhythm layered with ambiguity.
Bob Thurber is the author of six books. 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 awards, and been utilized in schools and colleges throughout the world. He resides in Massachusetts. Visit his website at BobThurber.net.
TRACY ROYCE: October Thirty-First
Tomorrow morning, the spiderwebs will sag. I’ll clasp my trash-grabber, snapping up candy wrappers, empty sugar-shrouds nestled among fallen leaves. But tonight, the wind whistles through the trees and rattles the fence’s loose picket. My candy bowl is half full, and as another specter floats over my porch, I believe.
Tracy Royce’s work appears in 101 Words, Blink-Ink, The Dribble Drabble Review, MacQueen’s Quinterly, and elsewhere.
JAMES WHITMAN: Parenting on the Stairs
Nobody tells you how much parenting you’ll do on stairs. (And, me, scared of heights.) From tying shoelaces, to exploring Souter Lighthouse, to throwing socks at one another.
Now I sit on the stairs outside your room, waiting for the WhatsApp message that’ll say you’re not coming over this weekend.
James Whitman writes from Sunderland. There are twenty-six stairs in his home, and he has parented on every single one of them.
NELLY SHULMAN: Another Sunset
The grandfather clock struck five, and Jack went to the window. The wild ones were crepuscular and attacked only at twilight. Closing the steel blinds, he noticed black dots on the prairie. The herd was gathering under the blood-red glow.
“How many more sunsets?” Jack wondered, returning to his armchair.
Nelly Shulman authored three short story collections. Her work in numerous literary magazines.
MICHAELE JORDAN: Ambition
“I want to be a writer,” she said. She feared they’d try to stop her. But they didn’t. Her teacher promised to help.
“That’s wonderful!” exclaimed Mom. Grandma’s face lit up.
Dad set up a desk for her.
So she pulled the keyboard toward her.
Nothing happened to the paper.
Michaele Jordan wrote this story.
ELLEN TOWNSEND: New Semester
Same bus route to college; nothing had changed. New cargo jeans, angled bob haircut, laptop rucksack; ready for the semester.
At home, a single wineglass by the sink; the garage was full of old yearbooks, bikes.
Heavy backpacks jostled; she studied her course schedule: same college as sixty-five years before.
Ellen Townsend is an art teacher and writer. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Flash Fiction Magazine, Friday Flash Fiction, 50-Word Stories and others.
HAWKELSON RAINIER: Never Talk to Loons
Joe shuffles to water’s edge to see the sunset. He’s retired, widowed, nearly broke.
A pastel sky bleeds away into twilight, into grayscale, into an impossible inkiness.
He’s alone, except for the loons who call out from the terrible void. Joe suddenly understands what they’re saying but doesn’t dare answer.
Hawkelson Rainier lives in the American Midwest. He dabbles in prose and poetry from time to time.
RITA RIEBEL MITCHELL: Cartwheeling Mama
Drippy red wax stained the white carpet where the lava lamp leaked after it tumbled off the table and cracked open when Sandy kicked it while demonstrating for her ten-year-old daughter the one-handed cartwheels she performed at high school football games before she got pregnant and had to quit cheerleading.
Rita Riebel Mitchell writes in the Pinelands of South Jersey where she lives amongst the trees with her husband. Her work appears in HAD, Flash Fiction Magazine, Versification, and more. Find her at ritariebelmitchell.com/friday-micro.