I just wanted to make it big, be useful, go clubbing, to the beach, take photos of all of those things, maybe call 9-1-1 sometime.
I’m an iPhone! A must-have gadget! I deserve an owner who uses me properly.
Sure, I’m user-friendly, but…
With grandma, I’m nothing but a paperweight.
Lis Boquete is a student of English as a foreign language, born and raised in Buenos Aires, Argentina. She is a book lover and is currently studying to become a sworn translator.
Marian fumed at Todd for knocking over her juice. A storm marched in above them at school. Marian remembered a joke, and the cloud disappeared.
“Mommy! I can control the weather with my mind,” Marian said.
After extensive psychiatric evaluation, Marian was given medication.
The weather has never been nicer.
Anthony is a writer who loves his family. He works with numbers by day and words by night (or early morning). He is obsessed with his bloodhound, wife, and daughter, and has a love affair with Indian food.
Scars cover my body. Small and jagged; thick and bumpy. Scattered across my skin, a constellation of pain.
They bind me both to the past and to the person I have become.
My scars are a constant reminder of the day I embraced my fate, adopting my first five cats.
Isley is an avid reader and aspiring writer and just keeps swimming.
A blizzard of term papers settles onto the oak floor around Professor Taylor’s shattered skull.
He’d always known a student would kill him.
By gun? Knife?
Certainly not by writing a thesis so absorbing that he’d forget about the stairs.
Shame; Randy Barton wouldn’t know he’d earned his first A.
After chasing his muse from Virginia to Manhattan, Richard Day Gore settled in Southern California, where he spends his time pushing around words, paint brushes, and guitar strings. See more at richarddaygore.com.
I think your atoms and my atoms were pressed close in that dense, hot ball at the beginning of the universe.
Then everything expanded, but not us.
Maybe that’s why you annoy me so much: because we’ve been stuck together for infinite eons, and I just really need some space.
Lex T. Lindsay is a queer writer living in Texas with her two cats and probably more spiders than she’d care to know about. Let the record show that she enjoys both Captain America and tacos a normal amount.
A paw tapped Dan’s face, and he cracked open an eye. The clock said 4:30. He waved a hand the cat’s direction and grumbled incoherently.
The cat softly meowed.
Dan mumbled, “Go away,” and fell back asleep.
Sharp claws tapped Dan’s forehead. The clock said 5:45.
The cat said, “Now.”
Eddie D. Moore travels extensively for work, and he spends much of that time listening to audiobooks. 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, Kzine, Alien Dimensions, Theme of Absence, Devolution Z, and Fantasia Divinity Magazine. Find more on his blog.
Every Friday morning patrons packed Mrs. Cook’s study. She’d serve them sponge cake, but not without sharing the ingredients first: Sally’s rejection, Mary’s offer, George’s pauperism. Delicious, they’d quip, giggling wildly.
But this week, her patrons’ persnickety appetites grumbled as she baked something never served before: a dense humble pie.
Maja Scheler’s debut Flash Fiction, Exposed, received runner up in Women On Writing’s 2018 fall contest. When she is not working on a story, she can be found chasing after her three young boys in the beautiful outdoors of the Pacific Northwest.
“Am I a monster, Mum?”
“Of course not, Franklin. Don’t be silly. Now comb your fur and brush your fangs. Remember to keep sniffing to a minimum and always retract your claws before shaking hands. You don’t want to make a bad impression on your first day at Obedience School.”
John H. Dromey has noticed some fifty-word stories are short and sweet while some are not.
When I submit a customer service request online, I’m told to prove I’m not a robot.
To do this I have to look at nine images and pick the ones with cars or trees or traffic lights. I always need a few tries.
I’m sure a robot could do better.
Barbara Mende lives in Massachusetts, where she fends off retirement by working as an editor, bookkeeper, and webmaster.
I stumbled into the kitchen. Last night’s party was wild.
Loose word tiles from the magnetic poetry kit were scattered all over the floor.
I glanced at the refrigerator door. One foot up were two tiles: FEED ME.
I called out. Someone must have stayed.
But only the cat answered.
Candace Kubinec posts her stories at storydribbles.wordpress.com and her poetry at rhymeswithbug.com.