A final luxury granted to the condemned: “How would you like to go?”
He contemplated deeply, finally requesting the warm numbness of hypothermia.
In this land of sun and sand, his choice spoke to a greatness of spirit that moved the tribunal’s hearts.
But it didn’t move them that far.
Today’s story is based on a title suggested by @stealingzen.
Life on the river held steamboats, catfish, bluegrass, and plenty of other Tom Sawyerisms, too. But flash floods, sunburns, and Aunt May’s colon-clogging cornbread made life difficult for Franklin Waters.
He solved the third problem by tossing her into the first, but never got a handle on the second one.
He just can’t leave, thank God. He loves me too much, knows how much I need him. The vet said he’d be long gone by now. Months ago, in fact. There was no hope. What better way to prove them wrong than to simply thrive, living on love and devotion?
M. Elaine Moore is a North Carolina-based fiction writer and poet. Her work can be found in print in The Island Breeze, and Outer Banks publication, and online at Foliate Oak Literary Journal, Four and Twenty, and The Camel Saloon.
He dreamed of flying.
Every day he stayed home, sequestered himself in his workshop, and pursued his dream.
He considered himself the Noah of the twenty-first century. The global flood was coming, and he would live in the sky.
But he was not this era’s Noah: he was its Daedalus.
I am getting married tomorrow.
For those of you on the east coast, or in Europe, tomorrow is already today. I envy you.
Today has been a busy day. Tomorrow will be, as well. That’s why I’m writing this instead of a real story.
I hope you don’t mind. Thanks!
Scrib scrub, scrib scrub…
Inch by inch, the tiled floor returned to its original lustre.
The scrubber had mixed feelings about the procedure. On the one hand, it was a tedious chore. But on the other hand, it was a pain in the butt.
Actually, his feelings were pretty consistent.
I clutch the pink note in my sweaty hand.
My heart beats furiously.
The room smells like chalk.
“Welcome, Dads!” is written on a big blue banner.
The cruel children laugh at my shoes while I hand over the note.
It reads, “Dear Ms. Wheatley, Elena’s father died last year.”
This story was submitted by Elena Agnello.
Much to his chagrin, Tim discovered that several indispensable streams of life were converging at that precise moment. Unfortunately, they were not complementary. There was the possibility that he could endanger the enjoyment of one or the other.
Should he choose the honeymoon suite with the twenty-four hour sports channel?
Harv Thiessen, my soon-to-be uncle-in-law, wrote this story for me for my birthday. It’s playoff time in the NHL right now, so how am I going to be able to fully relax on my honeymoon unless I can watch the Canucks play!?
When Camille cried her crocodile tears and sang her songs of woe, it wasn’t really because she was lonely or sad. It was actually because she was a very dramatic crocodile, and she knew that great actresses could convey real emotion, so she was practicing.
That’s what she told herself.
This story is based on a title suggested by @Jesstrel.
When he wanted to stay in bed, he imitated a cozy blanket.
When he wanted to keep playing outside, he made himself look like a tree.
When he didn’t want to eat his broccoli, he blended into his chair.
Dad was usually fooled, but Mom could see right through it.
This story was based on a title suggested by @Vigafray.