“Can I borrow your paper?”
I looked up and knew she was the one. The universe had thrown us together. Forever. We would tell our children about this moment.
“Please do.”
She finished reading and left without another word.
The universe and I haven’t been seeing eye to eye lately.
Ben has been trying to write happier stories. He’s not sure this is one of them.
Paul was enraged. He’d done everything right.
He’d aced the CPA exam at 22, slaved to buy the house with the backyard, skipped family vacations when busy season hit, put the twins through college. He’d held up his end of the bargain.
But his wife got old and died anyway.
Robb Lanum is a failed screenwriter in Los Angeles. His longer, epic works have appeared on 101words.org [link: 101words.org], and he was a winner of the Summer 2020 Los Angeles Public Library Short Story Contest.
I loved him, you know. He didn’t deserve it, but it still ripped my heart to shreds when he left me. Oh, I moved on, had a wonderful life, almost forgot, even came to understand and wish him happiness. But forgiveness? Ha! February 14th: time to again torture his effigy.
Eileen enjoys turning life into bite-size stories.
I enter the packed subway car, locate a seat and sit. Another day, another dollar. I open my newspaper, taking out my new prescription glasses. Ready to read, I look around. Panic engulfs me.
I am surrounded by faceless, shuffling bots! I remove the glasses. Reading the paper can wait.
Bob McWilliams retired and seeking a brighter 2021, Bob enjoys writing short fiction and poetry. When not writing, Bob enjoys reading, his dogs and the outdoors.
“I have misgivings about our new meteorologist,” an anchorman told his station manager. “In my estimation, she’s not at all well-suited to the job.”
“What’s her problem?”
“She consistently disregards National Weather Service forecasts for foggy, overcast, or rainy days. Instead, Annie invariably predicts the sun will come out tomorrow.”
John H. Dromey’s short fiction’s been published in Mystery Weekly Magazine and over 175 other venues.
With the weighty tome agape in my clutches, I strode across the antechamber, cantillating synonyms with imperturbable tenacity.
“What are you doing?” she inquired quizzically.
“Memorizing the thesaurus to become a better writer,” I expounded.
“I don’t think that’s how it works,” she propounded equivocally.
“Concede to nonconcur,” I retorted.
Dara Naraghi has written comics and graphic novels of all types, from self-published zines to New York Times best sellers.
She said, So what do you do?
I said, I’m a pickpocket.
Seriously, she said.
I handed back her phone and wristwatch.
That’s amazing, she said.
I produced her wedding band.
She studied it a moment.
Actually, I’m recently divorced, she said.
So I returned her credit cards and cash.
Bob Thurber is the author of six books. Regarded as a master of Flash and Micro Fiction, his work has appeared in Esquire and other magazines, been anthologized 60 times, received a long list of awards, and been utilized in schools and colleges throughout the world. He resides in Massachusetts. Visit his website at BobThurber.net.
The door of the pet shop opened, and the scientist entered. Mabel shuddered. The man was a friend of the boss, but she couldn’t help wonder what happened to all the pets he bought.
As he approached, Mabel gave him her best fake smile.
“Another cat, is it, Mr Schrodinger?”
Bill lives in Aberdeen, Scotland, where he exists in a state of quantum uncertainty until such time as somebody actually reads his work.
“What does he want?” asked the young woman suspiciously, fingering her frayed blouse.
Smoke gathered and swirled, darkening the crystal ball.
“The money!” her father cried. “It’s inside the urn!”
The old woman looked up, suppressing a smile.
“Oh, dear girl—he’s simply sending his love from the other side.”
SK Chynoweth is an aid worker by day, SFF writer by night, and parent to two vibrant kids at all times. She lives in Malaysia.
What color is my mind’s eye?
Does it match the two green orbs set in their sockets to gather and compress the world down into a space the size of a round melon?
Does it blink? Obviously yes: I walk into a room, stop, wonder:
“Why am I in here?”
Le Anne likes the cozy retreat afforded by a blustery winter day, no excuse needed to spend its entirety putting thought to paper. Even the dove is snuggled in the straw under the azalea bush, eyes closed. No, slightly open…no, closed…