“I don’t like this alternate universe, Lucy.”
“Why not, Jerry?
“I’m afraid I’ll be bored to death. The only web browsers here are spiders.”
“You want excitement? Did you look closely at the steam-powered train?”
“What about it?”
“Forget cows and buffalo; the locomotive is equipped with a dinosaur catcher!”
John H. Dromey recently had short fiction published in Saturday Night Reader and a novella in Weird Western Yarns Vol. 3.
“Nine-one-one. What is your emergency?”
“My boyfriend dumped me.”
“I’m sorry, Miss, but ending a relationship is not an illegal activity. There’s nothing I can do for you.”
“What about Phil’s smooth talking and handsome good looks? Can’t you arrest him for possession of burglary tools? He stole my heart!”
John H. Dromey had his story “Hunger Gamesmanship” posted at Stupefying Stories Showcase.
When asked if I am retired I respond:
“Although I draw Social Security, I get up rested in the morning, I enjoy my work through the day, and I become tired.
“Next morning, I’m rested. Though I enjoy my work through the day, I become re-tired.
“That is my retirement.”
Larry Darnell worked as a Manufacturing Engineer, then in sales in different fields. Now he is working on a book titled How I Evolved From A Chicken Into An Eagle, along with various other projects. He doesn’t think of himself as being “retired”; he just has more freedom to choose what he does during the day.
“I’m worried about our youngest daughter,” a concerned parent said.
“I’ve been monitoring Carrie’s online activity. In recent weeks, she’s posted dozens of photos on social media sites, and I’ve noticed she doesn’t appear in a single one of them. I think she’s suffering from low selfie esteem!”
John H. Dromey has had short fiction published in Black Denim Lit #7, Plan B Magazine, Plasma Frequency Magazine, and elsewhere.
“I love to see a man cooking. It’s something sexy to see the pot being mixed and the vegetables added. The aroma is out of this world. Mind you, only a man could spice up a dish like that.”
“You’re some kind of sicko. I’d much rather see beef cooking.”
Connell went off cooking programs a long time ago, but unfortunately not food. Read more of his fractured words at paragraphplanet, home.wtd-magazine.com, and postcardshorts.com.
“A grande Americano,” said the barista, smirking, “for…”
“Don’t say it,” I snapped, plunging my hand threateningly into the tip jar on the corner of the counter in the coffee shop.
“…A grande Americano.” He grinned broadly.
I withdrew the dollar I had deposited there earlier.
“Worth it,” he proclaimed.
A graduate of the Master of Professional Writing Program at the University of Southern California, Chad Greene experiments with twitter fiction at @TheShortCourse.
Secret Ops briefing.
“Our suspect is addicted to tanning salons. His getaway dogsled team was one husky short, so he substituted a gnome.”
“Sir, in mushing, haw is left, right?”
“Right, but the replacement was on the right.”
The sergeant pressed on.
“Welcome to the Hue Man Gee Gnome Project.”
John H. Dromey has had short fiction published in Gumshoe Review
, Plan B Magazine
, Plasma Frequency Magazine
, and elsewhere.
After the cheesy introduction of the chefs, it was almost time to unveil the competition’s mandatory ingredient.
In their stomach-churning anxiety to start whipping up dishes, the contestants waited… Most hoped for potatoes. Or beef. Or even scallops.
The host tore off the covering:
Sour glances were all around.
Joey wasn’t interested in writing while at school but has been writing on his own in recent years, mostly to amuse himself. He has been published at The Story Shack and Needle In The Hay. He dislikes cooking game shows.
“I wasn’t really expecting it to work.”
The door hangs off its broken hinges.
“I thought that she’d be so grateful.”
Elixir soaks into the discarded bandages.
“Why do women always leave me?”
The gilded sarcophagus is empty.
Tears are streaming down his face.
The professor really misses his mummy.
Deborah thinks: least said, soonest mended. Find her on her blog: Deborah Walker’s Bibliography.
“Eat up!” said Mom.
Victor stared at his plate. Yuck. What was this slimy, moldy, mushy gunk?
“Don’t you like it?”
“Gross!” said Victor. “Is this rotten food?”
“It’s your winnings,” said Mom. “The ones you gloated about after Monopoly. Like you said, to the victor go the spoils!”
I’m happy to announce the birth of my second son, Victor! This story is for him.