“We could sit there?” She points tentatively at a cafe table facing the busy market square.
He heads for their usual unpopulated corner. Following obediently, she glimpses a hanging cobweb. At its centre, a desiccated corpse spins slowly.
She watches him suck his drink dry and plans her escape.
Viv Burgess wrote this story.
The tragic play unfolded in reverse. From the kitchen window mother saw the ragged hole in the ice on the frozen pond. Footprints in the snow backtracked to the door. The little red boots were gone, and toys lay abandoned on the floor. The television droned on, speaking to emptiness.
B.C. Nance is a native of Nashville, Tennessee where he works as a historical archaeologist. In his spare time he writes fiction and poetry and has published several of his short stories.
I remember him when we were just kids. Giggly, noisy, nearly manic, and already world-renowned. He practiced and practiced, eight hours a day, and his violin sang and cried for him.
He died alone at 35. Some people whispered that he’d climbed onto his kitchen counter and dived off headfirst.
Alex knew Michael.
The girl in that house burned to death. Her father was burning leaves.
She was pirouetting round the fire.
The hem of her dress swirled over the flames, just long enough to ignite.
She didn’t feel it until she stopped, dizzy with her dancing.
She shouldn’t have, but she ran.
Jennifer M. Smith is an author and adventurer. She is working on a memoir of her sailing adventures, a tale of 40,000 miles at sea with her husband aboard their sailboat Green Ghost. She also enjoys writing creative non-fiction short stories about her childhood.
Rukmini was tremendously busy throughout her vacations, clicking eye catching snaps and then continuously checking for new notifications on different sites.
“How were your holidays?” you ask.
“Great fun!” she answers, but her face does not light up.
She’s still awaiting that one comment for which the trip was made.
Vijai Pant is a language teacher in a school in India. He is also a freelance writer.
We’re alone, for now.
Her dusty mane dances, muscles ripple in her neck, but her saddle remains unmoved.
Unleash the buckles! Cut the rope! every part of me screams.
My right boot scrapes against the gritty trail, refusing to lift.
Her rider returns, mounts.
Feeling the weight, I slump away.
A storyteller at heart, Sara fans the writing flames in young people as a BAWP Teacher Consultant at UC Berkeley. As founder of MindMyEducation.com
she helps students take charge of their education, so they can write the stories of their lives instead of simply playing the roles laid out for them.
Behind a bench, on the empty side of the park, you see some letters upended.
Maybe they fell off a sign. Maybe they were part of an art installation. They’re very three-dimensional and very white on the green grass.
But that’s the problem with metaphors – they’re always ultimately reading practice.
Kerry works in adult education in Santa Fe, New Mexico. He thinks that most people have really great stories to share, except boring people, and that learning to tell stories empowers people to learn to learn from them.
Give me creosote, sidewinders, the lone call of a coyote on top of a mesa, the silver sliver of a cold desert moon. Follow the train whistle scream, the chug and iron stink of steam.
Pull the handkerchief over my mouth. Spare the women and children.
Ride like the wind.
Alison grew up in the Wild West, but hasn’t robbed any trains… yet. You can read more of her writing at alisonmcbain.com
“I’m fed up with this music.”
“Hush! You’ll upset the other opera-goers.”
“I don’t care. This infernal tune keeps me awake at nights, swirling round my head. It’s driving me mad.”
“Mother, you must get used to it. After all, it is the national anthem, and you are the Queen.”
PJ is a British writer living in Switzerland with his wife and Parson Russell Terrier. He sees the Alps every day but misses the Cairngorms. The music swirling round his head is usually Linkin Park. Follow him @Tweeting_Writer
After weeks of making eyes from the other side of Fiction, he plucked up the courage.
His scrawled note said, “Coffee?” Her reply said “Convince me.” She’d read the novels: true love needs a little jeopardy.
But he missed her punctuating smile. He snatched up his satchel and marched away.
Tamsin also believes too much of what she reads in novels.