The story of the week for November 24 to 28 is…
The Spectator by Amy Clare Fontaine
The story of the week for November 24 to 28 is…
The Spectator by Amy Clare Fontaine
Folks tell me you take in strays—one-eyed cat, three-legged dog, baby squirrel. So, when I see you leave the park, I follow. Struggle to keep up. Ain’t no spring chicken no more. And the limp’s real.
At last—reaching your back door, I drop onto your stoop.
Woof?
Meeeoooow?
Nick Di Carlo has been knocking about the planet for seven decades and a bit. He’s taught writing and literature in universities and colleges on both east and west coasts as well leading wilderness writing workshops from the Grand Canyon to the Grand Tetons. These days, he encourages everyone over age fifty to write stories.
This story was first publish on Sudden Flash.
It’s not all bees. Not even most: only honey bees die after they sting you. Google says that’s less than five percent of species. It’s because of your thick skin. The one you grew in elementary school. Keep your head down, hum along. Be hive. Behave. You’ll get your shot.
Nicholas De Marino is a published crackpot. More at nicholasdemarino.blogspot.com.
Her face pressed to the window, Mom whispers, “It’s a different world”. While we watch, the outside scene changes rapidly, constantly, while on our side life is lived at a slower pace. “Yes, Mom,” I smile, patting the arm closest to me, while keeping a distance from the other seven.
Eileen has stood on the outside of that glass desperately wanting to communicate with the creature whose face IS pressed to the window.
The woman in blue flicks the end of the needle, and says “You’re probably not going to even feel it.”
I shut my eyes and breathe.
I squeeze my fist.
I feel it.
“Oops,” she says.
I don’t open my eyes.
It’s not real if you don’t open your eyes.
Ron Fromstein is a largely self-taught writer from Toronto who has also lived in Chicago, New Orleans, Vancouver, and Iceland.
She sailed back and forth before the glass: pectoral fins steering, flukes propelling, dorsal fin slicing the surface whenever she breached to breathe. Sticky children squealed at her somersaults.
She wasn’t a prisoner. She was a scientist, studying them from her side of the glass.
Soon, revenge would be hers.
Amy Clare Fontaine is a wildlife biologist and a wildly imaginative author of fiction, poetry, and games. Her work often features fantastic creatures. Find out more at amyclarefontaine.com.
The sun shines down on trail-walking tree-hugging leaf-swishing green and wave-wading sand-sinking shell-seeking blue while memory-lost family-forgotten depression-ridden gray looks through cloudy eyes and clouded windows at rain-cloud skies. Wake up! Be the blue-gray mist on a morning meadow; be the green-gray sage of eucalyptus. Embrace gray to the end.
Lori O’Brien, an English and Creative Writing student at SNHU, gets her inspiration walking along the ocean in coastal New Hampshire and hanging out with her senior miniature poodle, Artie. Her work has been published in Snoozine Magazine.
I veer my cart into the line. I’m armed with Ramens, Doritos—and vodka. A treat.
A woman behind me peers into the cart. Laughs.
“Your cart’s more exciting. Big Thanksgiving plans?”
“Sort of.” I cover up the vodka. Consider putting it back.
But Thanksgiving for one requires liquid courage.
Yash Seyedbagheri is a graduate of Colorado State University’s MFA fiction program. His stories, “Soon,” “How To Be A Good Episcopalian,” “Tales From A Communion Line,” and “Community Time,” have been nominated for Pushcart Prizes. His work has been published in SmokeLong Quarterly, The Journal of Compressed Creative Arts, and Ariel Chart, among others.
I imagined she’d show up one day. I just didn’t think she’d be wearing a sparkly dress and a silver tiara. She danced in the waves of my sleeping brain, now unbounded by those who’d hurt her on Earth, and reminded me that in the end, your spirit always wins.
Makenzie Matthews-Beard is a second-year college student at The University of North Carolina Wilmington. She loves incorporating nature, nostalgia, and womanhood into mediums like poetry, prose, photography, and music.
An old man from an Edward Hopper painting woke up one morning drenched in light and blackout blind.
He said: “I remember the darkness right before being dabbed into existence with no notion of myself, only dots for eyes saturated with color. Hug me, please. Hold me until I die.”
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.