My friends weren’t impressed when I told them I was a writer.
Now that I have written this story, I tell them that I am the author of The New York Times Best Seller, Death by Embarrassment, and over twenty short works of fiction and nonfiction.
Now they are impressed.
Harry Demarest is the author of The New York Times Best Seller, Death by Embarrassment, and over twenty short works of fiction and nonfiction. He has a couple of dozen unpublished short works which he plans to submit someday.
The story of the week for March 26 to 30 is…
Everything you need to know about my wife’s Gaelic-Green/Irish-blue eyes. by Bob Thurber
We were stoned. Bowie was singing about Major Tom.
It wasn’t our first kiss, but it was our first nose-to-nose lingering stare.
Up close her eyes looked like something you might see through a telescope.
At the center, a sapphire sun floated in the diffused light of undeniable, lasting warmth.
Author’s Note: For C, of course.
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.
Picasso owned a cat who controlled the weather in Paris. When he painted the cat yellow, it was sunny. Purple, and lightning broke out.
People gathered outside Picasso’s door at sunrise and waited for him to put out the cat. “Darn, more rain,” they said during the cat’s blue period.
Jay Gershwin lives in New York. You can get a free copy of his novel, Poor Man’s Autumn, through Amazon.
He couldn’t believe his luck when their math teacher assigned her a seat beside him.
Months into the semester, he still hasn’t braved one word.
One day, his phone dies. He taps her shoulder, gestures to use her phone as a calculator.
She misunderstands. She writes her number.
He melts.
J.R. Night is a recent graduate from the University of Maryland. He likes to write, draw, and exercise, all of which leave him breathless and annoyed.
The sun beat down on the young man as he waited behind a barred gate.
He was nervous; his mother told him not to go, yet he stood here.
A uniformed guard approached the gate,
released an older gentleman.
He hugged his father for the first time in twenty years.
Sean Bui spends a lot of time on the volleyball court with his teammates. He is a lover of pasta yet is always open to try new foods. Sean, along with his friend, enjoys crafting clothing as well as fabric design for their clothing company Undefined.
The Mad Colorist turned the sun green.
Earth reeled.
Gently, God said, “Change it back.”
“Never. I’m talented, see?”
“Fine. Your choice. You need a bigger canvas. My choice.”
The Mad Colorist fled from an exploding nebula, while God changed the sun back Himself.
“Talented? Ha. Flash in the pan.”
Brenda Anderson wrote this story.
The predawn light filtered into the 24-hour diner as the paramedic finished up her supper. The entry bell chimed, alerting her to the sleepy construction worker’s arrival. She was determined to say “hi” this time.
Her radio crackled to life just as he sat down for breakfast.
Every darn time.
Kelsey Josephson is an introvert who enjoys connecting with others through writing and mixed media. She lives with her husband, two young children, and a very sensible cat. She can be found blogging about planning, journaling, creativity, and how those three things tie into self-care at simplykelseyjo.com.
None could hope to understand her, to survey the mystical topography of her desire’s terrain. Lamenting her ponderous depths, he hoped never again to cross the enigmatic path she trod. He couldn’t bear it.
She nodded coolly as he repeated the dozen modifications to her unique salad order.
He’d quit.
Jake Greenblot wrote this story.
She could hear a piano and recognised the tune and lyrics
“You must remember this,” repeated in her ear.
She tried, but could not speak.
Next time, she thought, “I must say those words ”
The doctor smiled. “Play that song again.
“Your mother’s responding. She’s out of the coma.”
John B. Sinclair is a much-travelled Scot who has now returned to Scotland, where he enjoys freelance writing on a variety of subjects.