I write me down—me in a perfume, a take-my-card—paraphrases and filters, puzzled pieces petrified on Twitter bios and resumes, an endless search for your cup of tea without knowing if you even like tea. Me tomorrow, me today, me recycled and gargled and compressed. Speed dating. Skin shedding. Trial. Error.
Adamson Wood is…
Maddie snoring on couch
Me scribbling at desk
Wind outdoors pummeling
Japanese maple to jive to the beat
No snowflake flying, moans maple
No Mr. Wyeth to wash
wintry white o’er brindled rags
No Gustav K to splotch
springtime scarlet o’er crimson reds
Wind roaring
Eh, Mamuszka! Cha-cha cha!
Amen
Sandi Dollinger is a teacher/artist living in downtown Albany, NY. She is a writer of fiction and plays. In January her play “Encore, Encore, Missus Gefilte Fish! will be read as a staged reading in Colonie, NY.
“Your contract is up,” the demon declares. “Eternal damnation awaits!”
The witch doesn’t move. “About that,” she says. “I… may have signed the contract using someone else’s blood.”
“Whose blood?”
Her eyes, alight with mischief, dart toward his bandaged foot. The demon suddenly has a very bad feeling about this.
C.M.F. Wright (@cmf_wright) is an avid reader and sentence wrangler. Her short stories have appeared in Daily Science Fiction, Fifty Word Stories, Microfiction Monday, and Syntax & Salt Magazine.
After draining and storing the nutrients from their leaves,
the trees pulled great gusts of wind through the forest,
combing the color from their branches,
each tree having been taught by its mother how to stiffen against fierce cold,
while twisted tentacles of delicate root fibers overlap,
reveling in gossip.
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 week for December 13 to 17 is…
Fish Rain by Deborah Tapper
They say the boundary between the living and the dead is fluid. No wonder I can feel them at times.
I hear their sobs, laughter,
see the shadows that creep at night.
At times I can almost touch them… People of the living world!
Maybe they can feel me, too.
Swetha B Ram lives in Kerala, India. A doctor by profession and writer by passion, she has published her poems in various online portals and magazines. Her first anthology in print, “The Harvest Moon,” is about to be published this month.
Rose wanted to be adored, so she left the soil to become a wedding decoration.
The guests admired her red petals and sweet scent.
“They love me!” she said.
But then the guests went home. Without admiration, she began to wilt.
Rose was discarded and replaced with another hopeful flower.
Bianca Sanchez works in publishing. This is her first 50-word story.
Death by sunlight, he hears them scream. Death by sunlight.
Too weak to move, punished for defying them.
Death by sunlight.
The sun rises and they leave. His eyes close.
The sun burns him.
Redemption.
But he doesn’t die.
His eyes open.
Rebirth.
He stands.
A new kind of vampire.
Vaggelis Sarantopoulos is a Greek writer. In 2012 he received the Larry Niven award and he has published several short stories since then. He currently lives in Wales.
The war is over. She can’t contemplate the political implications. Winter cold lurks on the horizon. She barters food for the woman’s wool coat and painstakingly dismembers it, removing the sewn stitches.
A month later, her ten year old daughter, wearing her “new” jacket and pants, makes snow angels.
Carol M. Carman is a retired telecommunications engineer. She enjoys discovering her writing talents in a weekly memoir class in Albany, NY.
They fall like forsaken stars. Tiny sparkling fish, showering down. It happens every year, and I’m always spellbound. Sequin scales shimmer on our skin and hair, glistening and mysterious. And suddenly we’re transformed, shoaling merfolk compelled to answer the sea’s relentless call.
But all you say is, “Fish soup tonight.”
Deborah writes at an old desk surrounded by five hundred pet bugs.