Jake decided he’d feed his cotton candy to the tornado outside our storm cellar. The tornado nipped at it, devoured it, and then moved on to other lives to destroy. The next day, the radio said something about cars and people and trees and shingles still stuck high above, cocooned.
J. Bradley is a two-time winner of Wigleaf’s Top 50 (Very) Short Fictions. He’s the author of Neil & Other Stories (WhiskeyTit Books, 2018). He lives at jbradleywrites.com.
I remember your eyes shimmering like constellations the night we fell in love.
They say when we look at stars, space is so immense that we’re seeing light broadcasted from bygone histories. And even after death, our lives go on, conserved by light, traveling perpetually across the soundless, glittering darkness.
Kiki Gonglewski is a senior at Albuquerque Academy. She was a finalist in the 2017 state-wide “NM Girls Make Movies” screenplay contest, has won national recognition in the Scholastic Art and Writing Awards, and has been published in the 2018 edition of Navigating The Maze, an international teen poetry anthology. Her six great loves in life are art, movies, Kurt Vonnegut books, astronomy, writing, and Korean barbecue.
The lonely widower broke into abandoned houses. Careful overnight work pulled lines of wallpaper down whole. Safely home, he hung them up and rested his forehead against them—breathing memories of crayon scribbles, the height charts of those who’d grown, and frames of lost portraits burned by the fading sun.
Mark Farley writes novels, flash fiction and the occasional poem.
Mama decided the family tree needed pruning. Sturdy branches could stay; twigs had to go.
I was flimsy. Always had been. God knows I tried to branch out.
She looked at me… a long, hard stare.
I turned away, but I could still hear the rustling of those graceful limbs.
Susan Gale Wickes is from Indiana and has never been removed from her family tree.
I kept my eye on you for a long time.
And what did I see?
Disobedience.
Blame-shifting.
Murder.
Lying.
Drunkenness.
And that was just the beginning.
Your poor use of free will
makes me reconsider your existence
as a race.
I will make my decision very shortly.
Deeply concerned,
GOD
John Lane is studying poetry at The Writer’s Center, and is an Army and National Guard Veteran who has been working in the aerospace industry for eighteen years.
He loved her, and although she professed her own, evidence proved the contrary. Her caresses could not mask philandering nights and whomever she spent them with.
Fantasies of freedom consumed his thoughts… until she scratched behind his ears, murmuring “Good boy.”
Still, sooner or later, she was bound to leave.
F.M. Johnson is a writer from Richmond, VA. Her book, Tales of the Supernatural, is available at Amazon, Barnes and Noble Book Stores, and her website, fmjohnson.com.
I sit in the passenger seat, my hands clasped together tightly, afraid that she will bring it up.
Unhappiness. Divorce. My father.
My heart races, my stomach unsettled, as she takes a steadying breath to open her mouth, while I scream in my head: Mother, please don’t.
Erica is working on her first urban fantasy novel. While she loves writing, she isn’t so sure about this whole “editing” thing. When she isn’t working on her book, she can be found planning her next trip, drinking wine (red, of course), or cuddling up with her ridiculously adorable puppy, Teddy. See more at squarerootroundworld.com
The story of the week for August 13 to 17 is…
Pizza Night by Maura Yzmore
He saw himself laid out on the table, his heart in one place, his backbone and manhood in various containers.
It was hard to get a word in edgewise as his two ex-girlfriends kept dissecting him into little pieces.
Now he finally understood what “We can still be friends” meant!
Connell continues to be upbeat about writing his biography even if others keep refusing to do it for him. However, he knows someone will eventually take up the mantle which will then free him somewhat to concentrate on getting someone to write his 50-word stories as well.
Barely discernible in the gloom, he lay with twisted limbs, his eyes wide, staring. His mouth hung open. Silent. Still. Lifeless.
In contrast was the frantic rush of bluebottles.
Playing the part of a corpse was not a top acting role. He just happened to be rather good at it.
Jean lives in Bath in the UK. She likes to write the occasional fifty word story. As she gets older, they get more occasional.