She was crazy, but not like others
She had the madness of a woman who lives as if every day were Friday
She was the one who thought that betting on her was better than going to a casino
She was the one who had never regretted anything
Candela Martinez wrote this story.
Picking huckleberries, with no sense of time. Sunset. Dark shape breaks into three.
Your eyes focus on a bear and two cubs. They sniff the air.
Cubs climb a tree. Mama sits underneath.
Moving forward, you say, “It’s okay,” more for your benefit than hers. You are the trespasser here.
Roni Slye spends much of her time in the woods, trying to have as little interaction with wildlife as possible. You can find her on Twitter.
The silent man stepped into the train, dragging his heavy suitcase.
First station. A blurry graffiti on the ruined wall drew his attention: “One life and one love are enough.”
Everything passed so fast through the window.
Second station. “Excuse me, sir… How can I cross to the other side?”
José Jaime Pérez is a person who loves making up stories based on what he comes across ordinarily.
In Mount Isa, miners train their savage dogs to attack Aboriginals that wander too closely to their houses.
I jogged through neighborhoods panting polluted air, my afro curls caked in lead dust. Chained beasts pulled their leashes tight while snapping teeth through low built fences.
I screamed, “I’m an American!”
Khalilah Okeke was raised in the Pacific Northwest and now resides in Sydney, Australia, with her husband and two children. Her work has been published in The Plum Tree Tavern, Down in the Dirt magazine, The Red Eft Review, The Orissa Society of the Americas Journal, and 50-Word Stories. She has work forthcoming in The Scarlet Leaf Review. You can follow her blog at khalilahokeke.wordpress.com.
You told me the story of the blind man out in the rain: grabbing the bus stop sign and leaning into the wind. You were in the back of the car and wanted to get out and offer him an umbrella you didn’t have.
Some days are bad like that.
Kiah Mott has been published previously in Flash Fiction Magazine Online. She was also a finalist for the 2018 Moon City Fiction Competition.
Hansel never did like kids. They made too much noise. They had sticky fingers.
His wife pleaded, but he wouldn’t give in.
Unexpectedly, she gave birth to a blue-eyed angel. One look into those eyes and his heart melted.
He asked for his wife’s forgiveness.
Secretly, she prayed for his.
Susan Gale Wickes lives in Indiana and writes poetry, short fiction, and songs.
Just take a minute, it’s all we ask
We rose as one, fulfilled our task
Remember what we did and why
No need to mourn, feel guilt or cry
No need to seek revenge, or hate
Just take one minute, we can wait
Just one minute,
It’s all we ask
Paul Hock is an author, songwriter, and storyteller from Ontario, Canada. See more at paulhockpublishing.com.
Editor: Posted with my apologies for missing November 11 by a week and a half.
Charlie’s been rummaging through Great-Aunt Mary’s button box.
He holds a coin aloft. “I found treasure, Mummy!”
I take it, caress the inscription around the edge. Liberté, Égalité, Fraternité, 1914. Mary’s father died at the Somme, when she was two.
Charlie shimmers expectantly.
“Yes,” I say, throat tight. “You did.”
Tricia Lowther’s flash fiction, short stories, and poetry have won or been placed in several competitions and been published in Writer’s Forum magazine, Mslexia, and Brilliant Flash Fiction amongst others. Tricia was an award winner in the UK’s Creative Future Literary Awards 2017. Find her on Twitter.
The ground was so hard they could not dig a grave.
“We could wait until spring,” said Jack, his toes frozen.
“Or take her someplace warmer,” said Julia, her breath frosted.
Father smiled. “Or we could build a fire.”
The children looked at each other. “Father knows best,” said Julia.
Paul Negri has twice won the gold medal for fiction in the William Faulkner-William Wisdom Writing Competition. His work has appeared in Vestal Review, The Penn Review, PIf Magazine, Penny Shorts, and many other publications. He lives and writes in Clifton, New Jersey.
She seduces me each September—
warm summer kisses
tasting of frost and smoke;
her voluptuous dance,
flamboyant raiment discarded
piece by piece,
revealing more and more of bewitching nakedness.
But it always ends the same—icy tears each December.
Still, I know I
Tony Jasnowski teaches English at Bellevue University. Can there be any doubt which season is his favorite?