“I dare you.” Three words and you could make me do anything.
“I’m not afraid.”
Inside, shouting, our voices echo. Brothers, best pals in the world.
A noise spooks us; running home.
We stop and you laugh.
You’ve lost that cap you always wore. I’m not going back for it.
Fraser never did get his hat back, but it looked stupid anyway. Sometimes David wishes they were still best pals in all the world.
1: You smile… Yet, you leave.
61: I still wonder what could’ve been.
93: Bumping into you doesn’t help.
367: Maybe I’ll need another year to get over you. I just suck that way.
394 or 451: You smile. Not sure why.
731: So why’re you even talking to me?
Joey doesn’t always count the days but, somehow, he does remember them. You can find him at joeytoey.com
I didn’t know what it meant—
my father washing dishes,
or carrying a heavy load
Dreaming of love
lit by candlelight
and roses, I didn’t see
that when my father told my mother,
“I’ll get that,”
he gave her sweet bouquets
gathered after work:
blanket flower, buttercup, honeysuckle.
Jennifer L. Freed usually writes poetry but likes the challenge of micro-fiction. She recently had a 100-word story, “The Lesser,” published in The Citron Review
. Her website is jfreed.weebly.com
My pillow greets me
My soft slumber
Recalls romantic memories
My soul whispers…
She finds my pillow
Entangles my dreams
We land eyes
walk within a summer’s breeze
Our hearts embrace
A moment held
Melt our reality
Will grace the earth
Fifty words is such a challenge. Patrick hopes to improve.
At each corner, she read the street sign. She studied the shops and houses, examined the faces of passersby, searching for someone or something that looked familiar. She squeezed her brother’s hand. He was too young to remember anything except their mother. Maybe the next one, she said each time.
Over the years Bob Thurber’s work has received a long list of awards and prizes. His most recent book is a collection of brief stories titled “Nothing But Trouble.” His first novel, “Paperboy: A Dysfunctional Novel,” was recently rereleased. Visit BobThurber.net.
Seventy-five-year-old Pete waved his gun, shouting, “He stole my shoes!”
Vera told the police he was wearing the “stolen” shoes. They talked Pete into turning over the gun and leaving with them.
Vera twisted the engagement ring she’d worn for 20 years as she waited for his wife to die.
Diane de Anda, a retired UCLA professor and third-generation Latina, has edited four books and published numerous articles in scholarly journals, short stories, poetry, and essays in Rosebud, Straylight, Storyteller, Pacific Review, Frogpond, Modern Haiku, Bottle Rockets, Presence, and others, eight children’s books, satires in Humor Times, and a collection of 40 flash fiction stories.
The train station convenience store cashier in the Austrian podunk where I’m homeless spices things up with foreign phrases. He might greet a customer with “Bonjour” or “Master Commander.”
As he hands me my change, I whisper, “Danke.”
He replies, “You are welcome,” and I fantasise that I finally am.
Angela Brett is a mathematician and linguist by training, programmer by trade, and writer by neglecting everything else. She is a New Zealander living in Austria and writing at angelastic.com
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
Today I notice the guy on the subway rising, in a swoop, and offering me his seat; the old man in the tattered coat and saggy skin waiting patiently for everyone to be seated before dinner begins; the teenaged cashier smiling.
Glimpses of goodness that I desperately need to see.
is a novice at flash fiction writing and is now a huge fan.
He watched her leave; quietly, impassively, resolutely.
She closed the car door and sighed.
She glanced over her shoulder, then glided into the traffic.
She didn’t look back.
He watched the car disappear round the corner, retreated inside, and gently pulled the door.
This is the way the world ends.
Joan is an educator in Australia.