I told him I had a dream.
“Dreams are for starry-eyed saps.”
So I told him I had a goal.
“Goals are for bankers and life-coaches.”
So I told him I had a thing
and he said,
“What the heck do you mean by a ‘thing’?”
Shauna Robertson hails from the north-east of England and currently lives, writes, and draws in the south-west. Her poems are widely published in journals and anthologies on both sides of the Atlantic and have won, or been shortlisted for, a number of awards, including a nomination for the Forward Prize in the category Best Single Poem. A chapbook of poems, Blueprints for a Minefield
, was published by Fair Acre Press in 2016, while artwork and poem-pictures have been exhibited in a number of galleries. Shauna has performed her work at festivals, book launches and spoken word nights. Read some poems at shaunarobertson.wordpress.com
Alana was great with numbers. They called her “hypotenuse” behind her back. She was across everything in the office and her colleagues hated her for it.
She wondered how long it would take them to realise she was taking the company’s money. Alana knew she’d disappear before they ever knew.
Mark Konik is from Newcastle, Australia. He writes short stories and plays.
“That’s only if you take ‘dimwitted incompetent moron’ to have negative connotations,” he said, sliding his hand along her shoulder in a motion that could have been reassuring, patronising, controlling, threatening, loving or just brushing away lint. “No judgment implied.”
Later she hit him with a hammer. Non-judgmentally, but hard.
Tom O’Brien is an Irishman living in London. He’s been published, long-listed, short-listed and placed in numerous competitions and publications around the web. He has a short story appearing in a forthcoming print anthology published by Blood & Bourbon. He’s on twitter @tomwrote
and his website is tomobrien.co.uk
“To get to the other side!” he says, wiping tears from his eyes while I do my best not to roll mine.
Dad is getting harder to take, and holograms are expensive. In a couple years, when the kids are older, it might finally be time to let him go.
Dave James Ashton favours short fiction as he has a bad memory and poor attention span.
Grandpa’s pain stops with his heart. Amid brilliant white light and the fury of a whirlwind, he is lifted and flies rejoicing to God.
He wakes joyously. “Lord, I’m saved!”
His angel smiles. “Only just. It’s a miracle you got to hospital in time. We had to send a helicopter.”
Viv Burgess says her inspiration has been absent without leave, and she is not a-mused.
She’s going to burn him for the affair.
So she disguises herself and hides in the back corner of the swanky bar where her friend saw them together that one time. And then she takes pictures of them pawing at each other at the bar and tweets them. With tags.
A Pushcart Prize nominee, Jennifer Hambrick was a winner in the 2017 international Golden Haiku Competition (Washington, D.C.) and received the Merit Award in the 2017 Montenegrin International Haiku Competition (English). Her chapbook of free verse poems, Unscathed (NightBallet Press), was nominated for the Ohioana Book Award, and she has received many awards for her work, which has appeared in Santa Clara Review, Third Wednesday, Mad River Review, Muddy River Poetry Review, River River, Modern Haiku, World Haiku Review, The Heron’s Nest, Bones, Sonic Boom, Eucalypt, Haibun Today, the major Japanese newspaper The Asahi Shimbun (The Morning Sun), and in dozens of other journals and anthologies worldwide, in English and in translation. Jennifer Hambrick’s blog, Inner Voices, is at jenniferhambrick.com.
My two great aunts, Laura and Judy, loved to sidle up to me at weddings, poke me in the ribs and shout, “Don’t worry, you’ll be next … someday.” Then they’d shuffle off, cackling crazily.
They stopped after I did the same thing to them at my Grandma Minnie’s funeral.
Craig W. Steele lives in the lake-effect snow belt of northwestern Pennsylvania where, by day, he’s a university biology professor. He enjoys writing both short fiction and poetry and dreams of becoming a widely-read unknown author.
At 80, Gramp was unsteady on his feet. He didn’t want his nurse’s help, but waited ‘til she was gone, then stumbled to the bathroom.
He fell and broke his hip.
He died in the hospital two weeks later.
They say he died from pneumonia.
I say it was embarrassment.
Harry Demarest has had twenty of his 50-word stories and a few longer pieces published. This is a true story which happened to Harry’s grandfather in 1966.
Dr. Toms receives a soil sample from planet Mars. Dr. Toms views the sample under a microscope.
At 5000X she sees hints of something different. She turns the magnification up to 20,000X.
Dr. Toms can see: it’s writing. The words say,
“If you can read this you are too close.“
Denny E. Marshall had had art, poetry, and fiction published, including fiction at Postcard Shorts. See more at dennymarshall.com
He told me his secret to writing was that after he finished he would lock his manuscript away in the bottom of his desk drawer for three days. No more or less.
“Why three days instead of a day or a week?” I asked.
“It was good enough for Jesus.”
Tyler Hahn currently resides in the loess hills area of Iowa. Throughout his life, he has been an archaeological technician, soda jerk, and currently works as a college librarian where to his surprise he never has enough time to read.