Heat wave doubleheader. Us useless ones lounge in the dugout popping the rich boy pitcher’s Big League Chew as he throws his arm out at 40 miles per hour. The crack of ball against bat tears us from the benches. Our outfielder, chasing butterflies, loses the ball to the bushes.
Max Schachner loves reading and writing all kinds of prose and poetry. He also has childhood experience playing baseball poorly.
I sit, tapping my foot and avoiding eye contact with the man opposite.
Finally the receptionist looks up: “Welcome to the Afterlife. Please take your name badge and enter the assessment room.”
I leap up and grab a random name badge, hoping ‘Jacob Coleman’ was a better man than I.
Laura Cookson lives in Liverpool, England with her fiancé and cat. Her short fiction has also appeared in Short Fiction Break, and she blogs about books and writing at www.daydreamingdragons.com.
You ask me to visit, that you want to see your grandkids.
Well, Howard is in one of his moods. It’s easier to appease him and make it up to you later. I’ll sneak away some other afternoon.
But heart attacks aren’t bound by schedules. And nothing erases the regret.
Mexican-born writer Germain M.C. grew up in the Southern United States and currently lives in Europe, where he works as an English tutor. His flash work draws from a decade as a research chemist and a lifetime as an immigrant, with published pieces in 365tomorrows, fiveminutelit, and Stonecrop Review.
I wonder if my overly-enlarged tonsils ever felt alone in my mouth. I bet they were happy in March when I met Drew, and another mouth answered mine—and they got to whisper to fellow tonsils. Now they float in formaldehyde away from my tongue and Drew’s. Alone together.
Ajda Çelebi (she/her) likes to fold words into napkin art and often falls asleep in the company of good sentences. She has a degree in Critical Theory/Social Justice and Interdisciplinary Writing from Occidental College. She lives in Nashville, TN with her cat Banana but originally hails from Brooklyn, NY. You can find more of her writing at oncelaysofferings.substack.com and oncelay.com.
Let’s make—
up – ah, good, but it was your fault
a face – nah, na, na, nah, nah
due – that’s enough, eh
a difference – good for us
believe – ah, that’s cute
up – no, it was my fault
it better – we’re both at fault
And so
out – umm, that’s new, yes, ooh!
Dee Artea found a creative voice at the age of 77, three years ago, from which emerged a variety of short stories and poems – many of which have been published in online journals and magazines such as Mono, Altered Reality, CommuterLit, Tilted House, and Bewildering Stories.
Was my most successful rebellious teenage act. I’d covered it in flowers, curlicues, and glitter to protest having to play it in my family’s band. Of course, it attracted many admirers at my yard sale. But the girl who lifted it and grinned, she was the one who got it.
Liz writes from Long Island, NY. Find her at LizMayers.com.
Love was in the air as he gazed admiringly across the room. That gorgeous face. Those delicate hands. This beauty was going home with him.
When he walked in the door, his wife gasped in surprise.
A secondhand replica of her beloved grandmother’s clock.
Her reaction went viral on TikTok.
Lisa Chambers is a Texas girl who sees the beauty in all things.
It was no longer entirely green, though the blush signalling ripeness had not yet begun to creep over the smooth, tight skin. Her mouth watered, torn between wanting to tug it free and knowing patience would be rewarded with softness and sweet juice. With fingers curled tight she turned, resisting.
K McEvern Lestrade is never too busy to dream up new ways to explore the way people meet, get to know each other, and fall in love. Balancing teaching and raising small humans tests the concept of ‘too busy’ on the regular, but she loves the challenge. Her first short story, Risk is published in Love and Other Kerfuffles. She noodles around on Twitter at @mcevernlestrade and updates on her work can be found at kmcevernlestrade.com.
The story of the week for February 6 to 10 is…
The Invisible Girl by Nikki Davison
You said our being together forever was your greatest dream.
I’m somnambulant I said. This won’t work out. We won’t last.
You said you didn’t judge, you’d change for me, become somnambulant too.
I explained that I was dreaming you, and all dreams end upon awakening.
Shh, you said. Sleep.
D. Avery plays with words at shiftnshake.wordpress.com. Her work sometimes appears in periodicals and publications.