“Oh, he loves me,” she said, “in that vague, distant, save-the-whales sort of way.”
She stared off into the emptiness of the world, then sighed.
“Yes, he loves me. He tells me so, endlessly.”
She pulled her thoughts closer and waited for his words to ring true, just once more.
Anita Reynolds is a writer in the wilds of Tennessee, though it’s not too wild, unless you count the four children.
At the family’s yearly Seder, Mom farted.
Dad farted to deflect her embarrassment. Grandpa let one rip, and grandma came out with her silent but deadly. My brother nodded at me and we doubled down.
A cousin, the youngest, asked if these could count in place of the four questions.
Paul had a micro story, “Brother Speak”, selected for the 2018 Norton Microfiction Anthology. His published story website is paulbeckmanstories.com.
The story of the week for October 16 to 20 is…
Surprise by John Fowler
Many islanders believed that chickens were for laying eggs and eating. But Lin knew better. Life was all about the fight. Families, cities, countries, and dynasties, all jostling for survival. The cockfight was life. And money.
Though Lin’s luck had disappeared and he, too, would have to do the same.
Charmaine Wilkerson’s novella How to Make a Window Snake won the 2017 Bath Novella-in-Flash award. Other stories and essays have appeared in various print and online publications. She tweets occasionally at @charmspen1.
At the high tide line, where the waves don’t reach,
Where the wind tangles my hair.
Salt crystals on my lips, sand between my toes,
and the golden sunset on my skin.
It’s strange they said I was lost at sea
When here I am
At rest
On the beach.
Jennifer M. Smith is a long-distance offshore sailor and a pretty good swimmer, too.
Some day.
When winds blow
Wild flowers face the sun
Love comes around
Catch it ‘fore it’s gone
Hold on tight. Infuse your soul
With sun’s golden rays.
She left, a dull empty heart
Stillness. Unbearable silence.
She slipped away. Without a sigh
Motionless hands, cold with death.
She’s gone.
Wendy Oughtred is a semi retired criminal defence lawyer who is now finding the time in indulge her first love: writing. She has led a diverse life which includes curling, performing in community theatre, and raising a family.
Drinking champagne in that unremarkable moment of melancholy felt unfitting. But it was all she had on hand and it was Sunday in Indiana where liquor sales are halted for 24 holy hours.
Her options were limited.
So she twisted off the cork and texted him: “Hey, still wanna talk?”
Margaret is an amateur writer, but her mother thinks she’s WONDERFUL. She resides in Indianapolis.
As usual, Joe was prepared: food and water, map and compass, rain gear and tent, flashlight, matches. He left a note with his name, date, time, and route.
He set out, hiking the yard’s unvarying relief. Around, around.
His wife, pouring herself more wine, hoped he’d get lost this time.
Iain Young thinks the best part of a hike is the end, when he sees his car in the parking lot.
Phineas Phelps found figurative fiction fascinating, frankly.
As an author, alliteration always added authenticity.
He carefully crafted creative copy, constantly cultivating killer quotable content.
Naturally, news networks need new knowledgeable know-it-alls, Phineas figured.
His hottest headline?
Prayer Park Pair Peeps Pope Pooping Per Private Property; Prez Promises Prompt Papal Persecution.
Jonathan writes written words by tepidly typing text. You can find more micro writing of his on Twitter.
Gentrification marched its silent footsteps to the oak door of Moore’s Tavern.
Old Man Henry smiled and licked his wrinkled lips. If he couldn’t have it, nobody could. He grabbed the gasoline and lighter.
The starry night seemed brighter to him that night.
The stone chimney was all that remained.
Anthony works with numbers by day, and words by night! Happily married in the heart of Kentucky.