They take so many photos. Hold it up, down, wave it about! Nancy! Over here! Smile! A purple balloon, shiny as a sixpence, more beautiful than she has ever seen. She holds tight onto its string and the decades float away. She is six. She is happy. There is cake.
Marie writes poetry and flash fiction and plays with writing prompts on Twitter at @jamsaucer.
My friend, in his early 70’s, was out and about doing errands during the most recent brutal heat wave. Dying from the heat, he stopped at Dunkin’ to get an iced tea. He said to the teenaged server, “It’s going to be 98 today.”
“Oh!” she said brightly. “Happy birthday!”
Edward Mcinnis wrote this story.
The story of the week for July 19 to 23 is…
Grocery Shopping by Cheryl Somers Aubin
Anon essayed a purely descriptive tale. The result? A formulaic editor’s dream, but a story enthusiast’s nightmare.
By telling perusers nothing—despite showing plenty—the disjointed narrative had a ho-hum beginning, a muddle, and an enigmatic ending.
With no explication whatsoever, readers could only wonder what it was all about.
John H. Dromey thinks this story is about someone’s pet peeve (inspired perhaps by comments from a particularly inflexible show-don’t-tell editor). As always, and as it should be, readers can decide for themselves.
Pulling my hair out, trying to get every sentence right. Hemingway says there’s nothing to it; that all you have to do is sit and bleed. I hemorrhage, knowing time can’t salvage a fluff-piece.
The Marquee de Sade wrote his magnum opus on toilet paper. Mine’s writing on the wall.
Nikita Linivenko failed English his junior year of High School (due to lack of trying).
Tomorrow will bring the unfortunate headline of a raging forest fire devouring settlements. Drought-hit, fire-prone. We, witnessing doom, end.
Today, you and I are having tea after a nice shower at the Himalayan resort, letting the tap flow unceasingly while I scrub your back, worries draining into someone else’s backyard.
Mandira Pattnaik lives in India where the climate crisis has reached alarming levels. Find more about her in mandirapattnaik.wordpress.com.
After anger, hurt got exposed
again. We sit quiet on a deck,
six feet above ground. A sprinkler
waves water east to west
across new grass, yellow straw,
but some drums hard, like soldiers’
cadence across the deck. Our cat
peeks from behind a post,
pads by, avoids our touch.
Matthew writes poems and short stories, and is worried how divided America is. Like Pink Floyd, he can no longer tell heaven from hell, blue skies from pain, a green field from a cold steel rail or a smile from a veil. Wish you were here.
With his inner vision, Milford manifested wishes for everyone but himself.
He showered his family and friends with cars, homes, and riches in hopes of gaining the love they’d always withheld. Instead they asked for more, until Milford manifested his own desire and willed the universe to make him blind.
Marc Littman is a prolific writer whose micro fiction has been widely published. He also writes longer short stories, novels and plays.
Awakened by a flash of heat, I cough out unbreathable air. Light dances across my eyelids. They fling open and tears blur my vision. I blink and stare at flames crawling across the wall. Paint blisters and blackens. Curtains disintegrate into floating ash.
A smoke detector dangles, broken and silent.
Rita Riebel Mitchell writes and lives in the Pinelands of South Jersey with her favorite beta reader. See more at rrmitchell.com.
A bunch of them broke into my home shouting gibberish while I was sleeping. I awoke and tried to get them to leave, but they pointed these odd-looking weapons at me. I had no choice but to fire my lasers at them.
Until now, I thought humans were a myth.
Doug Hawley is a little old man who lives in Lake Grove Oregon USA. After retiring as an actuary, he began writing, collecting music, hiking, snowshoeing, and volunteering. More personal and writing info is in his blog and on his website.