We heard the fire engine arrive just as my kids finished their BBQ food and grabbed their dessert.
“It’s the house across the street!” yelled my neighbour.
We all rushed from the garden to stare in shock. The firemen didn’t look impressed. Maybe marshmallows on sticks were a bad idea.
Mark Farley writes novels, flash fiction and the occasional poem.
Every day was the same.
Soon as Mom got home they started.
Back and forth they went.
Around and around they went.
The volume of their voices fluctuated, depending on which room they were in.
Dad wasn’t working, wasn’t looking.
He talked about the life-changing phone calls he was expecting.
Bob Thurber is the author of “Paperboy: A Dysfunctional Novel” and two collections of stories. A celebrated master of Flash and Micro Fiction, his work has appeared in 60 anthologies, received dozens of awards, and been used in schools and colleges throughout the world. He resides in Massachusetts where, despite severe vision loss, he continues to write every day. Visit his website at BobThurber.net.
they are going to vote ‘guilty’
and she refuses to believe
the new procedures are fair
nervous as she ascends the podium
unfolding her statement – she is not
convinced that bias has been eliminated
a dozen people deliberating in a room
is better than
a million poised behind smartphone screens
Note: Now read the story from the last line through to the first!
Alanah Andrews is an English teacher in Australia. She is the author of “Beyond,” A Short Story Collection of twisted tales, ghosts, aliens, murder, and “beyond.” You can follow her at facebook.com/alanahandrewsauthor.
The doppelganger couldn’t fool Bracken. She knew it wasn’t her master. Wasn’t even human. The scent was off, alien.
The rest of the family didn’t notice, but she knew.
However, the creature seemed happy to walk her as much as she wanted, so maybe she wouldn’t miss Bob after all!
Bill Cox is from Aberdeen, Scotland where he has been procrastinating for the past forty-nine and a bit years.
“Sir,” the judge said somberly, “the court hereby grants your wife’s petition for divorce. Do you understand, sir, that I have also awarded her one thousand dollars per month as support?”
“That’s right kindly of you, Judge. Perhaps I can kick in a few bucks myself, from time to time.”
Gary Clifton, forty years a cop, has been shot at, shot, stabbed, lied to and about, and frequently misunderstood. He has short fiction pieces published with over a hundred venues, has published a novel in national paperback, and blogs at bareknucklethoughts.org.
“I have wanted to be a writer for most of my life. I’m 62 years old. If I don’t start now, I may never do it.”
With that shocking realization, yet with no story she could think to tell, Sadie closed her laptop and gently slipped away from her desk.
Nancy Haines finally published her first two books after she passed 62 years old. She is looking for her next story. She currently has “Twitter-block” but someday hopes to learn to tweet. See more at pleasantgreenbooks.com.
Editor: And yet, Nancy, it looks like you got those fingers typing away after all!
A small airplane roared in, clipping treetops before smashing between two trees on the ninth hole, tearing off both wings. Terrified golfers dialed 9-1-1.
In minutes a fire engine lumbered across the fairway. “What happened?” a firefighter asked the pilot.
“Don’t ask me,” the pilot replied. “I just got here.”
Ronald Linson lives in New York City. He has a number of stories and poems at bewilderingstories.com, and is currently working on a young adult fantasy novel.
You’re feeling down
And a little lonely too
I have come around
To be close to you
Hold on, I am here
Hold on, cry those tears
Soon you will see
As we join hands
We’ll do this, you and me
You’ll smile and understand
Hold on, dry those tears
Mary has written poetry since age ten and continues to do so. She is also writing short stories and enjoys being a member of a writing group.
Release the dictionary eaten whole, the bird swallowing a fish, in case it chokes you. Escape the mind fog. Unburden your broken back.
Let the old words butterfly your face, your hands, colour you gold, purple, red and blue.
Let them undo your reinvention: unearth the person you’ve always been.
Alison Woodhouse writes short and long fiction, has work forthcoming in Ellipsis 3 and Leicester Writes Anthology, has been short- and long-listed in various competitions, and has won Adhoc and matter magazine competitions.
As the gates of Hell locked behind him he felt he had one more chance.
He’d lost his job, house, family, and now his soul. Unperturbed, he strode towards Satan and his entourage.
He only needed to think of one more thing to gamble with to make it all disappear.
Connell doesn’t need to gamble, as putting pen to paper is risky enough. He never knows where the words might take him.