The son feeds the cat, the father too, but they never speak with one another.
When they meet at the kitchen door, where the tom’s bowls sit, they’ll turn and walk away.
This is all I’ve got, each thinks in his way, the feeding of a stray and hungry cat.
Roy Gomez lives with his wife Cleo (and their pets) on a Texas hillside overlooking Medina Lake, directly below a starry Milky Way.
He supported the marches, rallies, and protests from the safety of his armchair, nodding his assent.
When a friend said “those people,” he realized silence was dangerous.
He waded into the next parade, amid the colorful throng, his two-word sign held high. Many agreed that they, too, were “Hopelessly Human.”
B. C. Nance is a writer who still can’t give up his day job. The title is part of a quotation by Elie Wiesel 1928-2016. Hopelessly Human is a song by Kansas.
Now a time-worn 22-year-old, after ten successful years hunting monsters under beds, Tommy was washed up and ostracized, no longer hero but villain.
His insatiable appetite for monster flesh and increasing expertise in the slaughter had brought his prey near extinction.
A protected species, the last monsters cowered in zoos.
Alison would like to give thanks to Ran Walker, who made her think about those poor monsters under the bed in a different light.
Editor: This story is a follow-up to Ran Walker’s “Hunting Nightmares.”
Like heron, like hare, his home is the edgelands.
He comes to forget things, while charting the flight
Of graceful birds across sunken skies.
Every variety of nothing sits here.
Freights rattle by, a marching band.
Scars ache with the malice of neglected lovers,
Who are seeking to be remembered.
Heather Barrett lives in the UK and has a passion for horror and life writing.
“Rg6+.”
I spotted his plan immediately: rook sacrifice, then discovered check, skewer, and finally mate. A brilliant, inescapable plan.
I sighed and softly tipped my king over. Obviously I had vastly underestimated my opponent.
Don, for his part, was taken aback, since he could only see a potential rook trade.
Nelson Scott is a student who is brand new to writing fifty-word stories, and thus has no idea what he’s diving into whatsoever.
I’ve always wanted to put a snowball down a pretty girl’s neck, then have her end up in my arms kissing me.
So, I tried that out on Penny St. James. She was flirting with my brother, but just enough to make me jealous, right?
Knee to my groin: WRONG.
Shoshauna Shy loves how micro-fiction and poetry require the writer to condense.
The story of the week for January 21 to 25 is…
Jam by Jo Withers
The World Hide-and-Seek Championships happened only once. The losers were soon found in garages, trees, outbuildings.
As the months passed, interest ebbed: nobody search for the last competitors. A starved body was occasionally discovered in loft or sewer, but it mattered increasingly less that a winner might never be discovered.
James Burt is based in Brighton, England. He runs the Not for the Faint-Hearted writing workshop and has a website at orbific.com.
“Ten cents a dance,” I said. He held me close.
We curled around the room like automatons performing selected sequences of human movement to Glenn Miller’s “Moonlight Serenade,” oblivious to the sounds and smells of war. He, the prince. I, Cinderella in my glass slippers.
Stealing peace out of chaos.
“Honey, shouldn’t you clear the driveway?”
“Not today. Doc recommended no more shoveling the white stuff for a while.”
“He was referring to forks and spoons and your carbohydrates intake! Potatoes, pasta, refined sugar…”
“Maybe so, but I’m taking no chances… There’s a shovel just your size in the attic.”
John H. Dromey’s short fiction has appeared in publications ranging from Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine to Z-composition (June 2012 issue, online).