I float beneath the ceiling.
On the red carpet, my body glows: satin, silk, jewelry worth ten times my parents’ house.
My body hugs cast members, producers. Gets felt up.
I miss home.
The afterparty. I ride a thick line of cocaine back into my body.
Feeling whole… doesn’t last.
Maura Yzmore is a Midwest-based writer of short fiction and a science professor. Find more of her writing at maurayzmore.com/stories/ or say ‘hi’ on Twitter @MauraYzmore.
The story of the week for April 8 to 12 is…
Physics and Astronomy by G Allen Wilbanks
My kitchen garbage can questions me as I open its lid.
“Is that recyclable?”
I search the packages of pasta, spinach, for the magic numbered triangle.
I no longer have the ability to determine what to throw in the garbage and what to recycle. When did I become trash-challenged?
Candace Kubinec posts her stories at storydribbles.wordpress.com and her poetry at rhymeswithbug.com.
Leaves dance with the fall breeze
The sun steals the early frost
The moon waits in the wings
I shiver in respect of nature
I shiver in respect of my age
Eighty years young
I am beyond the age of expectation
for women according to the insurance
companies age calculations
Charlotte McElroy is an 80-year-old retired teacher. She is finally following her dream: writing! Thank you for giving her this opportunity.
Passing lane.
She says, “The roads to hell and heaven are unmarked. At their intersection, a man who’s either a devil or an angel sells flowers. Angels always speak truth; devils always lie. One question ensures you get to heaven.”
“Classic riddle.”
Blind curve.
“Know it?”
“Yeah,” he lies.
Intersection.
Graham Robert Scott teaches writing at a university in north Texas. His stories have appeared in Barrelhouse Online, Nature, and The Drabble. See more at hemicyon.wordpress.com.
What if I’d held Sophie close
What if I’d whispered:
‘What if something happens to you?’
What if I’d insisted.
If only I’d taken heed of the weather forecast
If only I hadn’t walked into the storm
If only I’d stayed home
If only I’d listened to Mike
What then?
S.B. Borgersen writes, knits socks, and accepts that, at 75, there is still plenty to learn as she studies beginner piano on the shores of Nova Scotia Canada. Sue’s favoured genres are micro fiction and poetry but she does have thirteen draft novellas gathering dust. See more at sueborgersen.com.
It’s a night just like a hundred others. The candle gutters gently as the Storykeeper takes a deep breath.
“Tell me.”
A hush of soft voices steals through the room, each ghost asking for their turn. She focuses on a high, young voice, and lets his story sweep her away.
Maria likes how she can squeeze microfiction into her hectic life. She’s amused to note that writing 50-word stories is making her drabbles seem too long.
She held him, squeezed him, his musk comforting but making the decision impossible. She couldn’t believe it had come to this.
The doorbell rang.
No! she lamented. Taxi’s early.
She kissed Mr. Bear, placed him on the top shelf of her closet.
You’ll always be my guy. But it’s time.
A graduate of York University, Stephen Ground now lives in his head, scraping by peddling floors and sometimes unsolicited advice. Find his work in The Esthetic Apostle, Sky Island Journal, Flash Fiction Magazine, The Sunlight Press, and elsewhere.
“Do you see it?” asks my father, pointing up at the night sky. “The little one under the Big Dipper. That star appeared right after your mother died.”
I smell alcohol on his breath. This is not the time to discuss physics or astronomy.
“I see it,” I tell him.
G. Allen Wilbanks is a member of the Horror Writers Association (HWA) and has published over 60 short stories in Deep Magic, Daily Science Fiction, The Talisman, and other venues. He has published two short story collections and the novel When Darkness Comes. For more information, visit gallenwilbanks.com.
I knew this stupid wall would be trouble. We intercepted intelligence to “Scramble.” By the time I got there it was chaos. Absolute carnage. There were militia everywhere, cavalry included. The rank stench of death hung in the air. I retched.
My initial impression was that Humpty Dumpty was pushed.
David McTigue is from Liverpool, UK. Writes flash fiction and poetry and loves music, football, crosswords, cookery, reading, and his wife, three kids, and baby grandson.