A top propagandist and Politburo member in the party, the younger sister now controls the Guidance and Organization Department, aka G.O.D., the body administering ideological indoctrination, party organization and political appointments.
Through edicts issued by G.O.D., a woman has unprecedented control of the future.
At last, there’s hope for mankind.
James Menges is a writer and photographer. He is a member of the Dramatists Guild of America.
While I’m stooped and wrinkled, my body savaged by plague and illnesses, reduced to just a brittle twig, know that once I dominated Roman society. Senators were drawn to me like hummingbirds to nectar, my grace and beauty halted conversations, and when I regain strength, my lash will fly again.
Joe Giordano was born in Brooklyn. He and his wife Jane now live in Texas. Joe’s stories have appeared in more than 100 magazines including The Saturday Evening Post, and Shenandoah. His novels, Birds of Passage, An Italian Immigrant Coming of Age Story (2015), and Appointment with ISIL, an Anthony Provati Thriller (2017) were published by Harvard Square Editions. Rogue Phoenix Press published Drone Strike (2019) and his short story collection, Stories and Places I Remember (2020). Joe was among 100 Italian American authors honored by Barnes & Noble to march in Manhattan’s 2017 Columbus Day Parade. Read the first chapter of Joe’s novels and sign up for his blog at joe-giordano.com.
Seen on the running trail: tall, beefy (beloved you, at the end, emaciated). Black hair under cap (you, at the end, bald). Muscular legs (you, at the end, wheelchair-bound). Blue eyes (you, at the end, blind). Trim beard (you, at the end, blotches). Gentle breathing (you, at the end, gasping).
Over 45 years, Paul Lamar’s poems and stories have appeared in The Southern Review, Prairie Schooner, Steam Ticket, Bryant Literary Review, etc.
It hasn’t stopped raining for four long days.
Carl’s eyes are red-rimmed, his face a bloated mess.
“I can’t do this much longer,” he cries.
“You’re doing great,” I assure him but right now—and I’m not ashamed to admit this—I hate him. We’ve been here before. Seven times.
Eszter Molnar is a former teacher who lives by the windswept British seaside with her partner and two children. She has been published in one of the UK’s biggest subscription magazines for children. By day she cleans up after preschoolers. By night she writes picture books and middle grade fiction.
When I was a boy, my grandpa threw baseballs to me. Later, I threw baseballs to my granddaughter. I can’t throw baseballs anymore, but she still puts one in my hand when she visits. I like the feel of it. It makes me wish I’d done it for my grandpa.
Ben lives in Dallas where he is viewed with tolerant amusement by his wife and two small boys. He likes writing micro-fiction because people he knows are more likely to read it.
She cut herself falling off her bike. Instead of blood, wires spilled out.
She wondered if her childhood was a lie, fake memories coded into her psyche. If her parents were androids too.
The last one was easy to test.
She taped a metal detector to the doorway and waited.
C.M.F. Wright (@cmf_wright) is an avid fantasy reader and sentence wrangler. Her short stories have appeared in Fifty Word Stories, Syntax & Salt Magazine and the VSS365 Anthology.
The story of the week for September 28 to October 2 is…
Mourning Mama by Yash Seyedbagheri
Mom wears a tight smile now.
But give me Mama and fairy tales about overthrowing rich kings.
Mama, an open curtain, waltzing under moonlight after fights with Dad.
Mama, drowning fatherly fusillades with dirty jokes.
Not Mom who draws curtains, slinks through bills and empty rooms.
Mama.
A cracked word.
Yash Seyedbagheri is a graduate of Colorado State University’s MFA program in fiction. His story, “Soon,” was nominated for a Pushcart. Yash’s work is forthcoming or has been published in WestWard Quarterly, Café Lit, and Ariel Chart, among others.
Sissy’s behind gray walls, the day of competition. Singing occasionally with radios in quiet rooms, I find some courage. As poison takes over her brain, doctors with false hope insert silver needles.
But I sing, dizzy, from worn out bones, my only sister, broken.
Behind velvet curtains, I let go.
Angela Carlton lives outside Atlanta with her husband and two daughters. Her fiction has been published in EWR, Every Day Fiction, Pedestal Magazine, Long Story Short, 6S, High Noon and Friday Flash Fiction among others.
We’ve got the Lockdown Blues. Every day feels the same. Nothing but coronavirus on the news. No work, no school, no social life. No leaving home except for rushed, masked trips to the supermarket. No church, but endless prayers that don’t wait for Sundays. Vague memories of a different life.
Juliet is an adult education tutor, crafter, and conservation volunteer based in Edinburgh, UK. She blogs at craftygreenpoet.blogspot.com and tweets at @craftygeenpoet.