The magic was long gone and left pesky murmurs, wretched smiles behind.
Before consulting a psychologist, I decided to cook dinner for us. We sat on the table; she examined the meat vigilantly.
“It’s the left ventricle of my heart,” I explained. “Or at least, whatever is left of it.”
George S. Karagiannis is an aspiring science fiction author whose love for writing never decays.
You say I am beating a dead horse. Maybe that’s the case, and if so, then I will continue beating a dead horse. I will beat it often and loudly. I will beat it until it becomes a drum demanding the protection of civil rights for all!
BAM! BAM! BAM!
P.J. is taking the year off and wandering the country and her mind. She has no publications of note.
“I need more money,” he said and ordered a book on computer programming. He sat in cafés each night, hunting and pecking for opulence. At first I shook my head, but soon became curious.
“Did you make any money from that book?”
“Depends. How much will you pay for it?”
Peter Burns grew up in Appleton, Wisconsin. He currently lives in Daejeon, South Korea and is an associate professor of English at Joongbu University.
My hand rested on the top of my Colt Dragoon, fingers wavering over the white vinyl grip.
Being a cheating scoundrel, he’d draw at two. They always did. Which meant I’d have to draw and fire at one.
I tipped my hat in his direction.
“On the count of three…”
Maxwell is a 9th grade student who has problems understanding tablets so sticks to books and his 2002 flip phone.
We raised our eyes to the ceiling in unison.
Thump, thump, thump.
“Storm?” my brother said.
Mom indicated the windows: dark but clear skies.
“The cat?” my sister said.
“Downstairs,” I said, my knees wobbly.
Mom drew her gun. Our family huddled together, shaking.
The clowns had escaped the attic.
Crimson Blackstone writes fantasy and horror, and is especially proud of her former students’ incurable addictions to books.
She threw me out; she didn’t like my tastes.
Flung on the rubbish heap, I was enveloped in a dark depression. I felt dead. Earth to earth.
Turning things over, I spread myself around. I met someone new, with potential. We sowed the seed.
We’re expecting a tomato this spring.
Margaret has a garden in Buckinghamshire, UK. She is currently writing
her first full length novel, while being distracted by short stories, flash fiction and her blog about all things writing.
He loved nothing more than to embarrass her.
Her face, blushing bright and scarlet, belonged in a museum: mortified among the masterpieces.
That’s why he told the security guard in the Contemporary Art gallery, when he was caught kissing his lover inside the dark art installation: “I’m painting my masterpiece.”
Ashley Naftule is a writer/performer living in Phoenix, AZ. He bears an uncanny resemblance to country singer Vince Gill.
Sunday I spotted an elephant destroying my cabbage garden so I shot the monster dead. Moments later, six clowns in midget cars bumped onto my lawn. They were armed with rainbow parasols.
“I’ve had this dream,” my wife said.
I cocked my rifle. “How’s it end?”
“Not good,” she said.
Over the years Bob Thurber’s work has received a long list of awards and prizes. His most recent book is a collection of brief stories titled “Nothing But Trouble”. Visit BobThurber.net.
Marvy the Mohair Squirrel asked me if yesterday was Squirrels Day. I explained it was Girls Day, which sounds a lot like Squirrels Day.
Marvy looked at me all sad-like, so I said we could create a Squirrels Day for Monkey Town’s squirrel friends.
Marvy said that would be fine.
Karen Waygood is a ruthless up-cycler, standup paddleboarder and former broadcast journalist. She grew up in Hawaii and now lives near Atlanta, Georgia.
His hands shook, spilling vodka. Thumping came from the small hotel wardrobe.
He’d hoped to spend quality time in Berlin, but had caught her on the phone with her BFF. He examined her scrawled itinerary map again: “Shopping” and “Spree” were still predominant.
He suddenly reddened. “Oh… The River Spree.”
Irish writer Perry McDaid lives in Derry close to the Donegal hills. His diverse writing disciplines and genres appear in international multimedia, recently with entropy2; Amsterdam Quarterly; Flash Fiction Chronicles; Plotters Ink; Alfie Dog; and 50wordstories. He has one imaginary cat, Stinky, mostly nailed to a board above a ruined allegorical flower bed.