Monday motivational meeting. Eleven frowning people surround the board room table.
Door opens; eleven heads bow, eyes staring at the floor.
Heels click across the hardwood.
New voice. “I’m Nancy from Human Resources. There’s no meeting today. Sylvie is no longer with the company.”
Nancy leaves. Eleven smiling people follow.
Connie Taylor is an Operations Manger by day, a writer and reader by night. Her writing aspirations began in grade school with her heroine Pantoulia who leaped over football fields of fire. She’s contributed to the Journal of Integrated Studies and enjoys writing both fiction and non-fiction.
Ummm, my favorite part of the day is when I colored on the table.
I touch things with my yucky hands.
I spill milk on my sister’s bed.
Listen to your Mom and Dad and listen to policemans or else they’re gonna put you in jail and don’t get cavities.
This story was written by three-year-old Chase Sciacchitano. He told his mother that he will win and she will not. (Mommy hasn’t submitted yet. She’s not sure she can compete!)
Amplitudes of emotion
coursed his veins, his young flesh
wed to eyes in constant motion.
On her perch he envisioned heavenly
auras enhanced by multitudes of color
from his imagination.
With a tongue numbed by inaction,
he sensed little to risk and quipped,
“Don’t I know you from church camp?”
Fred Miller is a California writer. Over forty of his stories have appeared in various publications around the world. Some of these stories appear in his current blog
“The boogeyman isn’t real,” was the last thing my dad said before I shoved him into the closet and slammed the door. I plugged my ears and sang “la la la” until he stopped screaming. Of course, I felt bad later, but nobody talks about my best friend like that.
Larry Hinkle is an advertising copywriter living with his wife, two dogs, and a cat in the suburbs of Omaha, Nebraska. When he’s not writing stories that scare people into peeing their pants, he writes ads that scare people into buying adult diapers lest they get caught peeing their pants.
I couldn’t have anticipated such a boisterous reception, just for winning a preliminary heat at a swimming gala.
The crowd went wild the moment I left the pool! People fist-pumping! Woop-woops echoing everywhere!
Overcome, I took a bow.
Then I realised.
Those were my red trunks bobbing on the water.
Neil writes what he likes. Sadly, nobody likes what he writes.
Death’s hand, which I shook reluctantly, was a plumped pillow.
“You’re safe,” he said. “For now.”
“I pictured you as a, you know—”
“Skeleton? You should’ve seen me before the Western diet.” Laughter rippled his corpulence. “Doctor’s telling me to eat better, but she thinks I’m lying about my work.”
Iain Young hasn’t forgotten the childhood nightmare in which he was chased by angry vegetables. That might explain a lot.
One afternoon, a priest, a lawyer, and a dentist walked into a bar.
The priest ordered himself a martini, promptly choked on the olive, and died. The lawyer jumped up, crying, “This isn’t funny!” and bolted from the joke.
The dentist, never one for punchlines, quietly called for another round.
The doors of the church closed behind me as the congregation quieted for the baptismal service. Shivering, a woman stepped into the water. The pastor plunged her under. She came up shouting. I thought, Finally, a church with some Spirit.
Eyes heavenward, she announced, “That water’s cold!”
I sighed deeply.
Eddie D. Moore travels extensively for work, and he spends much of that time listening to audio books. The rest of the time is spent dreaming of stories to write and he spends the weekends writing them. His stories have been published by Jouth Webzine, The Flash Fiction Press, Every Day Fiction, Theme of Absence, Devolution Z, and Fantasia Divinity Magazine. Find more on his blog
Four AM, there’s the garbage truck. Every other morning it wakes me up. I wonder if he’s as tired as I am.
Hopefully he doesn’t notice how big that darn bag is. It’s heavier than I had expected. I always told her she should diet.
Then I forgot the T.
James P. Spitznogle is an aspiring writer from the early yet dark hills of West Virginia
Finding no medical explanation for his patient’s intermittent aches and pains, Dr. Ffarrigut said, “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’re the victim of a hex.”
Later, the patient asked his wife, “Where’s our little ragdoll souvenir from the Caribbean?”
“I gave it to Mother. She needed a pincushion.”
John H. Dromey has had short fiction published in Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine, Crimson Streets, Stupefying Stories Showcase, and elsewhere.