Papers presented, I traveled across the Pacific. Heat and humidity attacked, but worse was the immediate detainment upon arrival. Inspected, processed, and observed; there is no freedom for my kind. They seek carriers and assume guilt.
On the 120th day it’s proved I’ve not transported the illness, and I’m retrieved.
Jennifer Miller is quite pleased she wasn’t exposed to rabies while living in Hawaii. See more at fuelandflavor.com
After eight long years and twenty-four hours of hard labour, he finally arrived at his destination. Cold, and with no clothes to call his own, he screamed at everyone in the room. His demands were food, warmth, and love.
“Come on, wrap baby up nice and warm,” said the nurse.
Chris is a Network Manager involved in many aspects of IT. He has a love of writing short stories, 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.
“If that boy ever bothers you again,” says my Uncle Tommy, “punch him.”
He shows me his prize-winning right hook, but I can’t take my eyes off his nose, spread across his face like a pancake.
“How many fights did you win?” I ask.
He laughs and ruffles my hair.
Daniel teaches English in Poland, among other things.
The hospice nurse used an eyedropper to slip more morphine beneath his tongue. The whole problem was God. God’s absence throughout. That summed it up. God at the beginning, pressing dimples into your chin. God at the end, sliding his hand over your eyelids, saying, Shush. That’s enough for now.
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
“One barn cat’s enough,” Ma answered. “More, they’ll steal the chicks.”
Pa fetched an old grain sack.
At the pond, he paused a moment, still as stone, before turning away. Seeing I’d followed, he squatted, blocking my view, big hands wiping my cheeks.
Then he stood. “Best milk those cows.”
Jennifer L Freed writes mostly poetry, and sometimes micro-fiction. This story previously appeared in The Binnacle’s ultra-short edition, Fall, 2016. If you’d like to know more, please visit jfreed.weebly.com
Shelly had known they were her husband’s white socks on sight; she’d cleaned them often enough. She recognized them immediately, dangling at eye-level just past the hotel room balcony, with Roy’s feet still inside them.
What she hadn’t recognized was the voice of the girl weeping above.
Cal lives in Hillsborough, NC where he writes experimental fiction, reads detective novels, and talks to his houseplants.
She saw him walk from cubicle to cubicle, and her heart filled with longing for him to drop by.
“Would you like a date?” his sweet voice softly whispered in her ear. She stopped breathing for a moment, until noticing a plastic bag of dried fruit next to her face.
Katya Duft is a translator, interpreter, and language teacher, and enjoys writing short stories, poetry and her blog Tales from the Bus
It was Christmas Eve Eve Eve Eve Eve Eve Eve Eve (December 17th). Emily crossed the softball diamond in the snow, to where Sister Amy had had a tooth loosened by somebody’s loose ball in autumn.
“I’m fine!” she’d told them, face in hand.
Secretly Emily practiced alone until spring.
John Gabriel Adkins is a Pushcart-nominated writer of microfiction, anti-stories and other oddities, and is a member of the Still Eating Oranges arts collective. This year his work has appeared (or is forthcoming) in Literary Orphans, SPANK the CARP, Five 2 One, Sick Lit Magazine, The Sleep Aquarium, and more.
The story of the week for March 6 to 10 is…
Mothering Sundae by Tamsin Seymour
The emotional depth of this story is so surprising, which increases the potency.
They call it astral projection. Plane-walking. Body-jumping. I’ve been doing it for years: I’m the master, the sensei.
To float above your body, your anchor to the world, is quite the trip. Most of the time…
That’s me down there, lying so still.
And I’ve lost my key.
Kevin G. Bufton has been writing flash fiction for nearly eight years and still hasn’t got it out of his system. He lives in Birkenhead with his wife and kids, who seem to tolerate him. He writes his darkest stories wearing his brightest shirts, and believes the world could do with more rum. He blogs on an irregular basis at kevinbufton.com