The story of the week for October 24 to 28 is…
The Mole by TR Jordan
The twist is surprising, the use of “mole” implies alternate interpretations for the creatively minded, and the execution is smooth. Good work!
All posts by Tim
JOHN FOWLER: The Call
The recorded voice named the place and said, “Be there at eight.”
It was probably just a wrong number, but maybe I’d won the dating lottery. Her voice suggested she’d be worth the trip to find out.
While I was out chasing this beautiful wild goose, they robbed my house.
John Fowler served twenty years in the US Air Force before retiring and starting a second career in the IT field. He is also a Lay Pastor serving a small church near his home in Texas. His hobbies include reading, golfing, and writing.
TR JORDAN: The Mole
When I got home, my ungrateful wife wasn’t complaining. I thought hell must have frozen over as I popped a top.
Agitated, she said, “I shot him dead in the backyard.” That mole had her number for over a month.
Glancing out the window, I noticed the gardener face down.
T. R. Jordan is a civil engineer living in Dallas, TX. He focuses on vulnerability.
CK BLACK: Maybe Tomorrow
Mary opened the refrigerator and sighed.
The television remote control lay in a puddle of milk, the container on its side. In the vegetable crisper sat his soiled boxers. From the living room, her husband yelled in frustration while waving a banana at the dark screen.
Maybe tomorrow, she thought.
C.K. Black resides in the quiet town of Sherman, Connecticut with his daughter. His work as appeared in numerous on line publications including story of the week in 50 Word Stories. You can follow him on Twitter @ckblack21. This story is dedicated to the memory of his wife Brigett, his biggest cheerleader.
MONICA PEREZ NEVAREZ: Solve the Problem
“It’s raining.”
“Shush.”
“Focus.”
“Write what you know.”
Writing:
Posit: the here and now.
Twist: the here is grubby, the now is relative, but menacing concerns lurk in the shadows.
Outcome: blocked; none of it matters.
Not knowing how long my cardboard shelter will last isn’t letting me think straight.
Monica Perez Nevarez is a sustainability manager by day, but is trying to transition into writing full time.
CONNELL WAYNE REGNER: A Titillating Tragedy
“When he saw her helpless and forlorn, there was a stirring in his loins.”
“Cut, cut, CUT! His lions started to stir. His lions, Narrator! This is a circus tragedy, not a Nuevo Erotic Romp!”
“What about swear words?”
“I wouldn’t test me if I were you, Sunshine.”
“Oh, BUM!”
This is perhaps Connell’s first and last ever foray into the steamy world of Erotic literature. He sometimes succumbs to character development, but always to the absurd.
JAN OWENS: The Last Notes
The orchestra had lulled the audience with a sweet adagio before the violins began to reach the crescendo, urgent in tone and tempo.
The music swelled towards the climax; the audience, enveloped in its energy, anticipated a tumultuous finale.
The sound of the exploding bomb mingled with the last notes.
Jan lives in the Riverland of South Australia where abundant wine helps with the creative process.
CAROLE NESE: Chatterboxes
We all know them,
the ones that never stop talking
or take a breath and allow others to speak.
The men are big boors,
the women are clacking teeth.
Maybe it’s a disease,
or they like listening to their own voice.
The simple solution?
Equip them with an OFF button!
Carole Nese enjoys reading people and observing and writing fiction, creative nonfiction, editorial prose, and sometimes poetry. Her stories are a combination of imagination, daily conversations, and real world experiences.
ALAINA UMSCHEID: Gone
The gunshot echoes through the alley.
“That’s what you get for leaving me for this pig!”
She falls. He drops to his knees.
“Stay with me, baby, please! Don’t go!”
Sirens echo in the distance; too late.
His sanity is leaving him. Laughter fills the alley.
His lover is dead.
Alaina Umscheid is in 8th grade and loves to read and play her french horn.
GABBY LOPEZ: Lost in the Storm
Running in the cold rain had made my breathing shallow. Fierce lightning illuminated the alleyway. I stopped, knowing I would never find Buster tonight.
I studied the rhythm of my footsteps though my vision was blurred by tears.
His bark rang through my ears. “Buster! Oh thank goodness you’re safe.”
Gabby is a 13-year-old who enjoys playing basketball hanging out with friends.