My dad’s thunder would pluck you out of a trance before you realized you’d entered one.
“What’s that crap you’re listening to!? Rock ‘n’ Roll? That’s not music; it’s shouting!”
Sixty years later, every nerve twitches when bombarded by the “music,” all words and volume.
I’m irrelevant. Just like Dad.
Eileen is a writer on good days, a crafter on others. She wishes the muse would sit on her shoulder more often.
“You have got to stop enabling him,” they told me. “He has to hit bottom.”
When he fell through, they said, “It wasn’t your fault.”
This must be what they mean by “The longest distance is between the head and the heart.”
A mother isn’t supposed to outlive her child.
Traci Mullins wrote this story.
Sunlight glistened off his forearms as he pierced the shovel through the dry ground. His face looked down, but his mind raced backward.
He opened the small box and peered in. The closed eyes of the only friend that truly understood him didn’t meet his gaze.
They never would again.
Ryan Ernecoff enjoys spending his downtime alone, typing on his computer.
Her toes were covered with sand, like little appetizers. The nails painted blue; ever the rebel, she.
A wave hushed in, foaming. “I’m leaving you,” she said calmly. “I’m tired of all your crap.”
Another wave slid up the beach, washed the sand off her feet, washed her guilt away.
Gregory Von Dare is a writer and dramatist specializing in crime and speculative fiction, often with a humorous or ironic twist. He attended Chicago City College and the University of Illinois. While living in Los Angeles, he worked for Universal Studios, Disney, and Sony Pictures as a talent manager and developer. He studied writing with Edgar winner John Morgan Wilson. Recently, his short stories were featured on the Soft Cartel and Horror Tree websites. Greg is an Affiliate Member of Mystery Writers of America. He lives outside Chicago where certain people will never find him.
The story of the week for June 18 to 22 is…
Dependency by Carrie Backer
Splinters of wood from my door lay scattered on the floor. The intruder, eyes wild, face thin, pointed towards the window. “Trying to kill me. Ninjas on the roof.”
I dialed 911.
Cuffs on wrists; police took him away.
A metallic flash. A small throwing star embedded in the doorframe.
Roni Slye travels the land in search of hot springs, cool forests, and creative sparks. Her work has been published at The Molotov Cocktail and Nailed Magazine.
I’ll never forget the phone call.
“Your Uncle Joe is your real father.”
“Mom, what?!”
“Your father never knew.”
“Mom, why are you telling me this now?”
Mom’s hurried confession that day made for some awkward family holidays in the future.
Especially since the pilot managed to save the plane.
Sarah Hausman would write more, but her ideas are terrible. This one is sort of a dad joke, sent just in time for Father’s Day (Editor: but arriving on the site a little late. Sorry!).
It was nearly the best moment of my entire life.
I was sitting in the sun,
drinking a wonderful cocktail,
and suddenly the most handsome man
looked me directly in the eyes
and gently said,
“Excuse me,
you are sitting on my towel.
And you are drinking my wonderful cocktail.”
Leydi Cuesta wrote this story.
Cheryl sits on her porch, waiting. She knows that when she sees the first lightning bug, glowing as it rises from the grass, summer will have truly arrived.
Her paranoid neighbor says they won’t come anymore—climate change.
Cheryl isn’t a believer. She shivers in the cold August night, waiting.
Candace Kubinec posts her stories at storydribbles.wordpress.com and her poetry at rhymeswithbug.com.
The ticks have fattened themselves on the host for many years. Only too aware, he has struggled with impaired health while his lifeblood is slowly drained away, but they are too firmly attached.
There is a gathering after the death to ingest the last dregs:
The reading of the Will.
Viv Burgess is finding life a bit dark at the moment. It’s about time she cheered herself up!