The train station convenience store cashier in the Austrian podunk where I’m homeless spices things up with foreign phrases. He might greet a customer with “Bonjour” or “Master Commander.”
As he hands me my change, I whisper, “Danke.”
He replies, “You are welcome,” and I fantasise that I finally am.
Angela Brett is a mathematician and linguist by training, programmer by trade, and writer by neglecting everything else. She is a New Zealander living in Austria and writing at angelastic.com
Today I slaughtered my other self in the mirror. I felt his pain as my own.
One of us was laughing, while the other was crying.
Stealing the light that enriched his eager eyes left me alone in darkness.
I don’t know which side of the glass I was on.
P.A.’s love for the fantasy genre started as a child. He connected his modem to another computer or Bulletin Board Service (BBS) to play a text-based fantasy game called MajorMUD. Along with reading Robert Asprin and painting D&D miniatures, his childhood was spent trading reality for the magical places inside his head. Now he’s put one of those places on the page. See more on his website.
Piles of mail and past due bills scattered all about
Empty boxes, notebooks, and bottles of pills all sprawled throughout
All part of her identity to claim and control
The constant source of structure she will never let go.
Worn and torn, it represents both her burdens and her strengths.
Debra was inspired to write this due to the many people who are diagnosed with Paranoia who walk around with a bag full of their belongings. Many people ridicule these people. It’s part of the stigma that others judge based on what they see, instead of the deeper reason for this need.
Mum came to stay the day after her funeral. She was waving from the doorstep when I returned with the groceries. I carried her suitcase into the hall then set a place for her at the dining table, beside the ghost of my father.
Neither of them enjoyed the meal.
Mark Farley was raised in Zimbabwe where he survived two dog maulings, a swarm of killer bees, and being run over by a horse. His story Knight of the Rocks has been published by Old Words Home.
Last night, Dad came round to introduce us to his latest bride to be. “There’s life in the old dog yet,” he said.
She said nothing.
This must be his third engagement since Mum died, or his fourth including Carol.
“Who’s counting, anyway?” he asked with a grin.
David is remarkably immature about these things. He finds that writing about it does help a bit.
Since my grandfather’s death
I’m convinced the clocks
have stopped working properly.
Hours are now arriving
equipped with extra minutes
that weren’t there before.
My throat burns from the scotch in my glass,
but it’s as impermanent
as the fuel trails of the planes above.
It won’t last. Nothing does.
EO is making a first attempt at a humorous fiction novelette called Id/entity, which, if it doesn’t suck, might actually see the light someday on Amazon Kindle. If not, EO will probably make some nice origami, or a LOT of paper footballs.
In the morning fog, the ocean bleeds into the sky like a watercolor painting. Below, Daeidra walks the sandy shore alone. She has forbidden me to accompany her.
A solitary tear trickles down my cheek as I watch her embrace the waves and dissolve into a spray of sea foam.
Devon R. Widmer is a grumpy graduate student by day, a scribbling daydreamer by night, and a sleep-deprived parent full-time.
Guilt burns my gut, only slightly sated by the whisky I sip.
The affair had been revenge for all the times his eyes had strayed. Joke was, I couldn’t tell him.
So my gut continues to burn as I take another sip and watch as his eyes stray once more.
Melissa is a writer, teacher, and dog lover in the Middle of Nowhere, Michigan.
You rounded the corner and stumbled across a shrine, all candles and teddy bears. Then you saw the photo posted.
It was the first boy you kissed. You had wrestled tongues before he retreated and called you ugly.
But that was 12 years ago. Your dealer waits for no one.
Christine Stoddard is a writer and artist and the founding editor of Quail Bell Magazine. She lives in Brooklyn.
Editor’s Note: Bed-Stuy is a neighbourhood in Brooklyn.
My mother gave me an enchanted copy of Goodnight Moon. Late at night, in my blanket tent, I’d shine my flashlight on it. Somehow, one day, its letters began to dance into words, its words into sentences. So strong was the magic, it’s transformed every book I’ve picked up since.
Ingrid Jendrzejewski grew up in Vincennes, Indiana, and studied creative writing, literature, and physics. When not writing, she enjoys cryptic crosswords and the game of Go. Links to Ingrid’s writing can be found at ingridj.com and she occasionally tweets @LunchOnTuesday.