Jim sniffed. “Smell the sweetness?”
“Yes. Lovely,” Sam said. “I like the ones that have just fallen.” He studied the plump morsel, the nectar inside straining against its skin. “A real peach.”
Jim took a bite and licked his muzzle. “It’s werewolf heaven, all these humans dying from sun stroke.”
Barb Ettridge is totally bemused by life, but enjoying all the randomness.
“Pick a pig,” said the farmer. “Oh, Pig 3’s half price.”
Suzanna surveyed the oinking, grunting shapes wallowing in the sty. “Are you sure they’re all actually pigs?”
“‘Course I’m sure. I ain’t no swindler!”
“I only ask,” said Suzanna, “because Pig 3 looks like a stump with a tape recorder.”
This story is based on a title suggested by Michelle Sevenhuysen via Facebook.
The helium balloons lost their lift in my car trunk overnight.
I presented them as a bouquet to my granddaughter on her fifth birthday, holding the bundle at the knots.
When I let go
…
they all fell,
…
as did her face.
Cutting off ribbons got two airborne.
She smiled again.
Rammy “Saba” (“grandfather”) Meyerowitz is a Puzzle Person, a foodie, and a prize-winning microfiction author.
Jonathan had a special relationship with his shirt buttons.
You see, Jonathan was corpulent, rotund. He relied on his buttons to keep his portliness in check.
But Jonathan never said “Please” or “Thank you” to his buttons, and they got fed up.
So during an important meeting, they ran away.
This story is based on a title suggested by @kinogami.
A man sits in an overstuffed chair in the middle of a room. There is nothing else in the room except for about twenty dogs, most of them barking. There is a loaded revolver beside the chair.
Once a day the man gets up and shoots one of the dogs.
Richard Pannbacker is a retired biochemist/teacher/sheepfarmer living in Manhattan, Kansas. He writes short stories, short short stories and still shorter seven-line flash fiction. He is the winner of the 22nd Annual “Kansas Voices” short story contest and has had short stories accepted by Pill Hill Press and The Right-Eyed Deer.
There was a complete stranger in the house, and no one else seemed to care. Jill and Bobby even seemed to like the trespassing feline.
So Mitsy began sneezing and sniffling and mewling.
She knew how things worked: they’d never keep the new cat if it was creating allergy problems.
At the End of the Road Thrift Store, bins held discarded items without much hope of being rescued, almost everything destined for the trash; used up; original value greatly diminished.
Still, treasure seekers in varying stages of salvation rummaged desperately, as eager as the objects were for one last chance.
Janet Yung lives and writes in St. Louis. Her short fiction has appeared in several online journals, including “Ineffective Ink,” “Write From Wrong Lit,” and “Flash Party.”
I learned a lot during my time at university. Like how to tie a perfect blindfold knot, how to throw a knife accurately, how to keep my bearings when I’m dizzy…
It was an eclectic skillset, and certainly not employable, but I won my wife’s heart at the county fair.
His flapping jaws still locked in high gear, frowning men yearned for sonic blasts from a jet squadron to maybe momentarily mute him. They wondered loud, clear, and audibly if even a city nicknamed “The Big Decibel” for its constant and deafening clamor could outdo that son of an amplifier.
Tom McDade lives in Monroe, CT, with his wife, no kids, no pets. He works as a computer programmer in the home plumbing supplies industry.
Like many other runty rodents, Gus had an entirely undeserved nickname.
“Goofy Gopher,” his mom had affectionately called him. But the weasels found out.
Gus’s father said, “Reappropriate it. Go into stand-up. Make a name for yourself. Show them up.”
But it turned out Gus’s jokes just weren’t very funny.