Tick.
Tock.
Tick.
Tock.
The slow barrage echoes down the empty hallway, bouncing off the battered lockers and the scuffed tile floor. Heavy footsteps clank closer; you huddle under a teacher’s desk, hoping, praying.
Metal glints at the doorframe; claws, long and spindly, bite into the soft wood.
Tick.
Tock.
Millie is an aspiring Australian author with far too many finished stories collecting dust on her harddrive, who is finally trying her hand at this whole being published thing.
In my room of books, a tower of hardcovers supports a lamp. Neat short stacks serve as low tables. Even the bookcases are constructed of books supporting books, the volumes compacted pyramid-style. Old dogeared pillowy paperbacks are available to sit upon or kneel upon, depending on your degree of devotion.
Bob Thurber is the author of six books. Regarded as a master of Flash and Micro Fiction, his work has appeared in Esquire and other magazines, been anthologized 60 times, received a long list of awards, and been utilized in schools and colleges throughout the world. He resides in Massachusetts. Visit his website at BobThurber.net.
They ate us out of house and home. Martha and the children would arrive in the middle of the night, Frank left behind in a drunken stupor. We would hear the Volkswagen coasting up the driveway, the engine running on empty. And after a couple of weeks, we were too.
Karen Schauber writes flash fiction and curates Vancouver Flash Fiction: an online resource hub for flash fiction writers and enthusiasts. Read her at KarenSchauberCreative.weebly.com.
The story of the week for March 11 to 15 is…
The Monument by Ron Scully
Blue jeans, orange T, a sweater knitted in diamonds, and oh for earrings, not gold hoops, but pretty silver studs like Elsa’s, or crystal, like Lynn’s; and a mood ring. That would be her look today.
Lisa cast her eyes over the garments spread out on the bed. Nothing matched.
Farriz Mashudi is a former lawyer, journalist, and blogger, turned writer of fiction and CNF. Born in Malaysia, she’s lived all over the place and currently resides in the Middle East.
Running my fingers through her auburn locks, I whisper tender words into the stillness. Ever since an accident months ago, she has been immobile and trapped in silence.
I help with her makeup, applying warm colors to restore her former vitality. However, nothing I find will work with her decomposition.
J.A. Allison is a writer and music producer living on the fringe of American society.
A thing so small we measure you in grams, half grams, quarter grams. Sealed in your childish greenhouse, blind and deaf. As tubes snake in and out of places they don’t belong. Keeping track of the rise and fall of the ocean you contain. Turn every hour. Stay warm. Breathe.
Jennifer Ritch writes brief things and is a sort of retired nurse. Her work has been published in The Beat: The Literary Journal of the UCLA School of Medicine. She likes dogs and candy.
No-fault. Uncontested. Surprisingly simple: 24 years of unity unwound in 24 hours with a single courthouse visit. A quarter of a century erased in a flurry of signatures and notarized stamps.
The official papers felt brittle in her hands. For him, a new beginning. For her, the end of everything.
Johannah is a corporate warrior by day and multi-genre writer by night.
The Memorial Day Parade passes, brass blaring, drums pounding, ending at the town cenotaph with a flyover finale, in missing man formation. Among the names engraved in polished granite is my wife’s first love, downed in Vietnam.
She thinks of him, takes hold of my arm;
doesn’t know I know.
Ron Scully wrote this story.
While young, all we have is untested energy and an urge to push this big rock up the hill. When the curve begins to flatten, it rolls in unexpected ways. As the curve continues its decline, we look over our shoulder and suddenly that rock is chasing us from behind.
Stephen Tilden is retired in Brooklyn and keeping one step ahead.