Every morning, rain or shine, after his breakfast, Roland negotiates the overgrown sidewalk to his mailbox. Most days he finds it empty, but occasionally there’s a bill or political ad.
Neighbors sent him a pamphlet highlighting snail mail addiction. Roland reviewed it, painstakingly resealed it, then specified “Return to sender.”
Roberta Beach Jacobson is a humorist from Iowa.
“Donald, you dropped the mirror on the floor.”
“I know. I was shaving and the thing was sneering at me.”
“You were seeing yourself.”
“I don’t care who I was seeing. I am the president and no one sneers at the president. Get me a new mirror that only smiles.”
Fillip Verdun wrote this story.
I went out with the Devil’s only daughter. Or so she said.
“You’d be surprised how many girls claim that,” I teased her. She just smiled.
It didn’t work out, but we remained friends.
Now I’m in Hell; God knows why. And the Devil just gave me an encouraging nod.
Anu Varik is not famous. She might be one day.
Tweety Bird smokes, skinny legs crossed, cage door ajar. Sylvester the Cat is unconscious on the floor — Tweety’s skilled at wielding the frying pan.
Tweety takes a long puff. Life’s good here with Granny, but far too boring. Looking at Sylvester, Tweety grins and decides that Granny needs a dog.
Maura Yzmore writes short-form literary and speculative fiction, as well as humor. Find out more at maurayzmore.com or @MauraYzmore.
Who needs a hammer when a fist can cause such racket? The pounding pauses. Beyond the door: “Sir, we have a court order.” Yet I refuse to open. Legal notices litter the floor beneath the mail slot, untouched. “A locksmith is coming.”
I have two choices. Neither involve my dignity.
Frank Ladd is a creative director in Boston. He is working on his first novel while his clients aren’t looking.
“Tell me about your girlfriend.”
“Lucinda calls herself a witch but I have my doubts. When she tried some closeup magic, she wasn’t very good at it.”
“Did she cause you to break out in a rash?”
“No. These red marks are where she accidentally jabbed me with her wand.”
John H. Dromey stands tall but often writes short.
The A/C crashes and I am alone, wishing for love. The heat creeps in. I sigh, knowing sleep will be difficult.
My head hits the pillow and I stick my foot out for relief. I hear from under the bed, “I’ll always love you.” And then claws tickle my foot.
Lucas Chapman studies English and History at Saint Louis University. He enjoys eating toasted ravioli and running unnecessary distances.
I sent you home with leftovers,
delicious homemade soup
spooned into a nice glass bowl
with a BPA-free lid.
I didn’t expect to never see you or it again.
I should have used a take-out container
from a less memorable meal.
You are quite forgettable.
It’s the bowl I miss.
Robin Lubatkin sings with the very young, the very old, and everyone in between.
She waits, in ambush…
Her DNA matches an amber-enveloped relative, one who drew blood from the Tyrannosaurus Rex.
She is of the Clan Culicidae, razor proboscis, a highlander’s blade.
Sweating, hiding undercover, I fall asleep, exposing an ankle. She launches, a creature from a Bram Stoker novel.
Bloodlust… Ectoparasite prevails.
Paul Hock is an author, illustrator, and storyteller. See more of his writing at paulhock.com.
Stare all you want, I think. It’s not happening.
I walk past without looking. I am young, beautiful, entering the ceramics shop. He is invisible.
Leaving, I am struck
by the sound of a vase smashing, by blood at my temple.
“I need a description,” says the officer.
Natasha de Carvalho, a British writer, is a newbie to flash fiction, a genre discovered at the Iowa Summer Writing Festival. This is her first published piece, but hopefully not her last.