Two siblings had been obsessed with the afterlife all their days. When she was diagnosed with terminal cancer, she undertook to contact him from the other side.
After her funeral he received a text from an unknown number.
“Brother,” it said, “I made it!
“But the roaming charges are terrible.”
Bill is living the dream in Aberdeen, Scotland. Unfortunately, he’s not sure whose dream he’s living.
Vaccinated. Antibodies ready to protect. Carpe diem.
Target is busier than I remember. Is that man wearing a mask? I can do this.
People chatting. It’s been so long since I’ve heard this many voices. So much noise. I can do this.
Did someone cough?
I can’t do this yet.
Robert Burns is busy writing and editing his first full length thriller novel that will be published later this year. Please follow him on Twitter to keep up with his progress, for all book updates, and hopefully a few laughs.
The tinny melody finds our ears. “Ice cream!” we squeal through unfurling grins.
Granny supplies the funds. Drumstick for Chris, pushup for me. Licking eagerly, I inch the sherbet cylinder skyward, taunting fate.
Powerless, I watch its slow-motion topple. Despair, a creamy orange puddle, bleeds outward on the hot pavement.
Elizabeth Barton has been making stuff up for most of her life. A day job as a medical writer pays the bills, but her true passion is fiction. Her work has appeared in Gemini Magazine, Skirt!, and Prime Number Magazine, among other journals and anthologies. She loves cats, ice cream, Halloween, and Hungarian aggressive piglet jokes.
When arguments became absurd,
old grandpa wouldn’t say a word
but he’d lean back and feign surprise
(a doting tease with crossing eyes)
and soon he came to realize
a fact which common sense belies—
for in his silence, what they heard
was proof that he’s a wise old bird.
Ken Gosse usually writes short, rhymed, light poetry but sometimes departs from that. He was first published in First Literary Review–East in November 2016, later in The Offbeat, Pure Slush and others. He was raised in the Chicago suburbs but is now retired. He and his wife have lived in Mesa, AZ, over twenty years.
Following his annual checkup, Herbie’s doctor recommended he get more fresh air and exercise. He also referred him to a dietician.
“Do you get three square meals a day?” was her first question.
“Not most days,” Herbie admitted. “The majority of the microwavable entrées I buy are in rectangular boxes.”
John H. Dromey has had short fiction published in Mystery Weekly Magazine and 190 other venues.
She is sitting at the table, laughing and talking. No special occasion, just one of those days when you are grateful to be surrounded by family.
There’s serenity to it. Ineffable, really.
She glances at her wrinkled hands with a deep sigh.
For a second the picture comes to life…
Andrea Damic lives in Sydney, Australia with her husband and a six-year-old daughter. She is an accountant by profession but writing was always her first love. The only time she can actually write is at night, when everyone is asleep. She has written two children’s picture books (no publications yet) and is working on a novel as well.
Suddenly he’s an expert on whales. Their weight, their songs…
…evolved from land animals the size of goats. And eat 5,000 pounds of fish every day. If they still lived on land…
Tuning him out, I watch the whales. Imagining all the delicacies they missed out on, settling for krill.
Kayleigh Shoen is a writer and teacher in Boston, MA. Her stories have appeared in X-R-A-Y, Milk Candy Review, [100 word story], and elsewhere. She holds a Master of Fine Arts in Creative Writing from Emerson College. Her tweets can be found at @Whowantssoup.
The artist sold portraits from a sidewalk display.
“How much for this piece?” asked the matron from the Cadillac.
“$25,” the artist said.
“I’ll take it.”
She leaned the canvas against her car while she fumbled for her credit card. Her dog Ruffles sniffed the painting and cocked his leg.
Tom Snethen writes about the humorous saints and scoundrels he worked among during a career as a manufacturing chemist. His stories range from throwing a flaming mattress out of a working brothel’s window to borrowing a bank robber with needed skills from the penitentiary.
“Here’s the thing,” she said.
We all leaned in as she stood up, put her hands in her pockets, and examined us over the top of her glasses.
She pulled out a paper clip and tossed it onto the table, nodding as she watched it land. Then she walked away.
Leia Zvya does many things. She is better at some than she is at others, but she tries to find the joy in all of them. This is her first attempt at microfiction.
People rudely ask, “How old are you?” and then look shocked when I answer, “Ninety.”
“Well, God bless you,” they say.
Ninety isn’t that old. Millions of turtles are older than me.
My grandson yearns to be older, so he’s “six and a half.”
Therefore, I’m now 60 and a half.
Gene Newman wrote this story. See more at GeneNewmanImagineThat.com.