He gave everything. Candles and wine and his undivided attention. He gave me a ring he had fashioned with twine into a lover’s knot. He gave me his love. He would have given his last Rolo.
I had my own agenda. I gave him my best smile as I left.
Jean lives in Bath, UK. She loves writing 50 word stories and won’t give up trying!
Target confirmed, advance fee accepted, Robert dresses that night to kill. Black pants, black turtleneck, black greasepaint covering every inch of face and hands. Stealthy, he waits in shrubbery. Hours pass. Lights dim. Robert heeds nature’s call at last.
Sirens erupt: the alarm!
He’d never considered greasepaint below the belt.
Alexandra Renwick’s literary pulp fiction has appeared in Ellery Queen’s & Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazines, The Exile Book of New Canadian Noir, and Imaginarium: The Best Canadian Speculative Writing. When not inhabiting urban wetlands in Austin, Texas, she can be found curating a crumbling historic manor near downtown Ottawa. More at alexcrenwick.com.
He’d been running for years—even hijacked a spaceship once, using a plasma rifle and a bluff. But they’d finally caught up.
Mirrored glasses reflected his mute, fearful face as they scanned him and nodded.
“At a fifty percent penalty, you owe back taxes in the amount of…”
Alison pays her taxes. Honestly.
People usually covered their ears, or skipped the aviary altogether. Oddly, the squawking didn’t phase the little girl or her mother. They smiled, admiring the large, colorful birds.
The zookeeper wondered how anyone could tolerate such obnoxious shrieking when suddenly the child lifted her tiny hands and signed, “Pretty feathers.”
Pontius Paiva is loud and colorful. And although he probably belongs in a cage, he’s flying high at pontiuspaiva.com
“If that boy ever bothers you again,” says my Uncle Tommy, “punch him.”
He shows me his prize-winning right hook, but I can’t take my eyes off his nose, spread across his face like a pancake.
“How many fights did you win?” I ask.
He laughs and ruffles my hair.
Daniel teaches English in Poland, among other things.
She saw him walk from cubicle to cubicle, and her heart filled with longing for him to drop by.
“Would you like a date?” his sweet voice softly whispered in her ear. She stopped breathing for a moment, until noticing a plastic bag of dried fruit next to her face.
Katya Duft is a translator, interpreter, and language teacher, and enjoys writing short stories, poetry and her blog Tales from the Bus
I was working my way through the wedding checklist, making sure I had thought of, paid for, and arranged everything.
Cars, reception venue, meal, gifts. I’d cracked it. A job well done… and with days to spare!
Now I just needed to find someone to marry.
Jon is an aspiring writer from the North West of England, currently boring himself to tears working in local government. He is looking forward to getting wed himself in the next month, but fears his own checklist is never ending… You can read more of his ramblings on the new web presence he has finally gotten round to creating at writingsonthewall645.wordpress.com
Nick was the lazy type but he did put on his best suit to chair the Orbital Station’s OH&S meeting on Tuesday which was just too bad because the station suffered an explosive decompression that day and he was the last person sucked out right before the emergency force-fields activated.
It may not be good for your health and safety but you can visit Joey at joeytoey.com
As she was leaving the office, she bade her coworkers farewell. “The end of days is coming at 12:27,” she reminded them, “and I’m stepping outside to witness the glory. I pray that one day we’ll meet again in a better place.”
Everyone was tactful when she returned at 1:00.
Alex believes that one person’s truth is another’s heresy.
I only married her to get citizenship, paid 15 grand and thought that was it. Then I couldn’t forget her.
She once asked me if I liked blondes or brunettes and I said, “Any colour, as long as she smiles like you.”
Five years later we got married for real.
Connell writes again.