The pistol tucked in my waistband is a constant reminder of my vulnerability, the reason that I can never feel safe.
Sometimes I forget it’s there. Sometimes everything feels normal. But then I remember all at once: the gun, the people I’ve hurt, and the retribution that’s sure to come.
Ethan Noll writes short stories and poems. He hopes to have as many published as possible.
Sometimes my dreams seem so real I think I can reach out and touch them. Sometimes they don’t. This last one worries me the most: I can’t tell the difference.
I’ve stayed awake now for almost two days, feeling more secure with each passing minute that nothing bad will hap…
Ed N. White has recent stories accepted by The Scarlet Leaf Review and Wordgatherings (Dec. issue).
“Je t’aime,” the young soldier declared to the farmgirl in German-inflected French as they strolled hand-in-hand through peaceable pastures. “I love your smile. Your eyes. Your lovely long hair…”
But she couldn’t forget her neighbors’ wrathful warning: “Someday we’ll drive out the pigs. Then we’ll come for you with shears.”
Alex Markovich is old enough to remember World War II.
The story of the week for October 28 to November 1 is…
Sundays by Una Nine Nine
Velu had an uncanny resemblance to his mahout dad. Even his voice was the same.
But he was a wastrel.
Until Dad died and the elephant refused food.
When Velu patted him and gently asked him to eat, the noble animal rose to oblige.
Velu’s status, too, rose with that.
V.R. Shankar is a retired engineer from India with a zest for creative writing.
Vicious attacks plagued the sleepy town.
Victim after victim, each unable to defend themselves.
I made the journey to walk the darkened streets alone.
Finally it was my turn to face the flashing blade,
but the paltry criminal did not count on my maniacal nature
and rapacious taste for blood.
Kristyn Mass lives in Iowa with her husband and three cats. She is a professional voice actor and aspiring writer.
Mom warned me not to look in the mirror between the hours of 2 and 4 A.M. “If you do,” she said, “don’t ever look your reflection in the eye.”
How childish.
I caught my eye and she winked, and yanked me by the collar. My head cracked the glass.
Olive Richardson is an unknown but human adjacent creature made of spite and caramel lattes.
The bumpy pumpkins all listed. We chose a large one with no redeeming qualities, just attitude.
Lid cut, insides scooped, a jagged face took shape. It grinned a lopsided grin.
On a street where every house had a perfect Jack-O-Lantern on its porch, ours was the one children loved best.
Candace Kubinec posts her stories at storydribbles.wordpress.com and her poetry at rhymeswithbug.com.
After twenty years of a thriving marriage, long-term financial planning, and reading many books and manuals for new parents, it was the perfect time to take the next step. After a special dinner, they looked excitedly at each other and said: “I think we are ready to have a puppy!”
Bruna Rugna is an English student from Brazil studying at South Florida Bible College. This story was one of the assignments requested by her teacher.
It was the color of fall, when the gilded sun rises warmly in the southeast corner of the sky. It was the time of beautiful death, when all the trees catch fire, awaiting the spiteful winter chill to put them out.
I didn’t always hate the fall. Not before her.
Andrew is an unpublished fiction writer in the Washington area. In his spare time he enjoys pens, pads, word processors and pudding.