The story of the week for April 11 to 15 is…
Beyond the Ordinary by Eileen Mardres
The story of the week for April 11 to 15 is…
Beyond the Ordinary by Eileen Mardres
They stand at the dog park, exchanging dating website data about their dogs but not eye contact.
“Mine is eight, Heinz57.”
“Two, some sheepdog, possibly lab.”
Their bodies shift imperceptibly towards each other; relieved glances are exchanged.
Neither says “rescue,” with its long braggers-rights backstory. Volumes spoken with this omission.
JKForward loves flash fiction’s similarity to poetry and enjoys both reading and writing it. She is currently also editing her mother’s lifetime of letters, each a brief glimpse into the past, and weaving them into a portrait memoir.
It took three scissor chomps to sever the top of her long, thick ponytail. In her hand, the remains felt like a limb she never thought she’d be without. But her stepmom would be horrified to see her pretty hair gone. She couldn’t wait to show Judith what she’d done.
Kate Faigen’s stories have appeared in Maudlin House, The Daily Drunk, and Reckon Review, among others. She would love another Twitter follower: @k8faigen.
The car rumbles as I tap my fingertips against the wheel.
My heart knocks and I wonder if it will create a mound on my chest while I wait.
I watch the front door open as she smiles and waves.
Suddenly, my heart steadies.
I wave back to my Serenity.
Eric Persaud wrote this while waiting in his car.
After the funeral she re-visited the centuries-old home she’d inherited. A buzz of frenetic energy came from upstairs. Years of deceased ancestors had assembled to welcome her grandfather. But when she reached the landing it stopped cold.
Boldly she moved toward her childhood room to stake her claim.
Linda Jenkinson writes flash fiction, fast poetry and 50 word stories but is decidedly slowing down.
By day her grave is littered with pentagrams and stumpy, gutted candles. On moonless nights, gothed-out teenagers chant her name at the stroke of twelve. They tell drunken stories of surviving her spells.
Before she died, the old woman’s only sins were berating trespassers and living with too many cats.
D.L. Shirey lives in Portland, Oregon, writing fiction, by and large, unless it’s small. His stories of 100 words or less have been published by 50-word Stories, The Drabble and blink-ink. Short of listing them all, visit dlshirey.com and @dlshirey on Twitter.
Forty years at the plant
Loyal, hard working
Just like his father
Shop foreman, pro-union
Supported his family
Took pride in his work
Two months before retirement
The plant closed, company moved
Laid off
Forty years at the plant
Unlike his father
No pension, no employment
Betrayed, angry, disillusioned,
Lost
Peter Blau works with students of all ages. He believes everyone has a story to tell and the goal in his teaching is to help his students discover their unique voice and style as they tell those stories with their writing. To him, writing is more than just a means to an end, but it is the end in itself.
I sang. I danced. I explained the upside. I listed reasons for hope.
You’re young, I said. You’re beautiful. Smart. Talented.
I held her hand and convinced her she could turn her life around. She brightened up, but only for a moment.
No. No divorce. I’m not signing, she said.
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.
The Story of the Month is chosen from the Story of the Week winners announced from the past month.
The finalists for March were:
After the Flood by August van Stralen
A Writer’s Monotonous Search for Meaning by Bob Thurber
Scents by Yash Seyedbagheri
Inventory by Leo Vanderpot
Mendocino Headlands by A.K. Cotham
The winner of the March 2022 Story of the Month, and the $10 prize, is…
After the Flood
The house was secretive: a bomb shelter under the garage; a room full of locked benches; a hidden, forbidden door leading from her bedroom. Daytime televised hints of war circulated. Still, each night magic unlocked that door, opening into an enchanted garden where she danced with the fairies until dawn.
Eileen writes about what almost was or could have been, remembering a door, but no fairies on the other side.