I wake to familiar tapping on my fingers.
I live with my family of five and seven others. Among the seven are a young girl and a grumpy old man. He says he belongs. She looks for her mum.
No cupboards flapping; it’s not your cliché haunting. This isn’t Hollywood.
Michelle is a freelance writer who writes both fiction and non-fiction. She is a regular contributor to the Briar Crier Magazine and has had her work featured recently in the Voice of the Farmer newspaper and the Focus 50+ newspaper. In April 2016 she was shortlisted as a finalist at the Ontario Writers Conference Story Starters Contest.
I’m always skeptical when my boyfriend says he’s a lumberjack.
There’s something about the way he cuts his hair every winter, how his checked flannel shirt hangs loose around his trunk and his thorny beard scratches my cheeks when we kiss—but I wouldn’t put roots down with anybody else.
Guy branched out into story writing to compensate for his wooden personality. This is his seventeenth 50-word story.
Red roses are cliché.
Daisies’ friendly faces look pitifully eager.
Orchids make you work too much for their beauty.
Lilies’ quiet elegance masks a faint bridal whiff.
Tulips: unassuming and perfect.
Later, I offer her the painstakingly-selected bouquet. “No!” she yelps, slamming the door. “I’m allergic to those!”
Nina Sudhakar is a writer, photographer, lawyer and wanderer. She writes about travel and culture on her website
“Dad, you can’t keep appearing in my bedroom as and when you want. Please respect my privacy.”
Dad just sits there on the end of my bed, nods, and leaves the room. The room suddenly becomes very cold.
Dad passed away over a year ago now. Still seems like yesterday.
Chris is a Network Manager involved in many aspects of IT. He loves writing short stories and technical articles, photography, and playing the guitar. He is from Dudley in the Black Country. He is also a member of The Oldbury Writing Group.
The baby dolls go with her everywhere. She cuddles the pale-faced one and croons, “Wittle sweet,” then kisses the dark-faced one and sings, “Wittle deaw.”
Everyone asks me why her babies have different skins.
I shrug. “She loves babies of all kinds.”
Why, they wonder.
I ask myself, Why not?
Rachelle Dawson is a wife, mama, and writer who loved books and baby dolls as a child. Now that she has her own children, she is rediscovering the delight of children’s literature and short stories. You can find more of her work at WritingRachelle.com
I don’t know why,
I don’t know when,
I just know that today
I wanna live again.
you are the one that makes me write
what my heart felt when we began.
You wanna know what I’m trying to mean?
I’m in love with your sis.
“Oranges and lemons,” say the bells of St. Clement’s.
“Cheating and stealing,” sing church bells in Ealing.
“Didn’t she earn it?” ask three bells at Barnet.
“One fatal blow,” says the bell of Harrow.
Big Ben deafens London. “We. Know. You. Killed. Her. Jack.”
Hands over my ears, I run.
Hannah is a technical author from London. She won the Junior Author International Short Story Award in 2015 and has published work in Myths of the Near Future and Writer’s Forum.
Confused by reflections, I take a wrong turn and come out to silence. No boyfriend; last seen checking his phone (again). No bearded man selling tickets. No child whining for candy floss. No-one. I’m not sure if I want to go back – perhaps this mirror world has more to offer.
Amanda Quinn is a writer based in Newcastle upon Tyne. She writes short fiction and poetry. Her work has appeared in the National Flash Fiction Day anthologies Scraps and Landmarks and in print and online magazines including Butcher’s Dog, Alliterati, After the Pause, and Paper Swans. Her poem Cast Away came second in the 2014 Black Country Living Museum Poetry Competition. You can follow her on Twitter.
On my last day I prepared a fabulous dessert, as my ex sat in the restaurant, his bottled blonde nibbling at lettuce with perfect lips. Whipped cream, crushed toffee, smoothest ice cream, and tiny crystals of sugar-like glass frosting. Irresistible!
As they say, revenge is a dish best served cold.
Viv Burgess suggests you do not try this at home.
The Royal Ballroom was not accustomed to motorbikes careening through its windows, but the helmeted man had a message.
A red triangle on the seal told the King all he needed.
“A storm nears,” he said. “We must ready.”
“Hang on,” said the biker. “Is this not 93 Privet Drive?”
Ben Reynolds quit his job to be a writer. What an idiot. Find more at justpunchtheclock.com