Little if any sizzling. Pulling away from the pan.
A toothpick inserted in the middle comes out clean.
She turned it upside down on a wire cooling rack then righted it on another.
That brief time left an impression.
The crisscross pattern reminded her of her mother.
Dead at forty-two.
Jennifer M. Smith was taught the family baking secrets at an early age. She never met her maternal grandmother.
For months the space next to me had been empty. Yet tonight, it was occupied by a stranger. My husband glared at him.
“How could you do this to me?” he whispered.
“Til death do us part,” I replied.
My husband glowered. His ghostly figure slowly disappeared into the darkness.
Patricia Santillan likes climbing up chairs because she is too short to reach the top cupboard. Because self-love is important to her, she loves hugging herself. Her most recent publications can be found in Leaves of Ink and Fairy Talez.
I didn’t go to his first wedding—the one that was supposed to be mine, too—but I went to all the ones after that.
The last one was different… bittersweet. It felt like a goodbye as much as a beginning, but in some ways, aren’t all weddings like that?
Erin is an artist and editor living in Los Angeles.
They’re walking hand in hand like always, blushing as red as the leaves they kick up while they walk.
He can almost remember the smell of her perfume.
“Come away from the window, now,” the nurse says, toting his oxygen tank. “You shouldn’t stare like that. What’s there to see?”
Jamie Brian is a pilot and flight instructor from Pennsylvania. She makes sense of the world through poetry. Her office may be in the clouds, but she feels firmly rooted with a pen in her hand.
Lights are strung helter-skelter around the building’s rooftop garden.
When lit, it could be an outdoor bar in Mexico. I imagine a Mariachi quartet, plump men with thick mustaches and black sombreros embroidered with silver threads.
It’s a nice thought when the typical music is police sirens and jet engines.
Matthew Weigelt finds the best characters in McDonald’s, so he writes and eavesdrops, eavesdrops and writes, with a dollar-size sweet tea. He then goes to the gym. Someday he’ll need to find characters elsewhere. He has a YA novel, The Mysterious Matt Barnes, due out in March. See more at ReadBetweenThePages.com.
Being a toll troll was taxing, in all senses of the word. Many refused to pay the copper penny he demanded for essential bridge maintenance. Eventually he decided to start threatening people with a club.
Now, three billy goats were approaching.
This time he was determined to get his due.
Mark Farley writes novels, flash fiction and the occasional poem.
Dante Bernthall knew he was dying, and went on a farewell tour to say goodbye to his beloved fans. He sang songs they loved; they cried together, gave thanks, and exchanged goodbyes on stage.
And then he just didn’t die. Actually, he got better.
His fans were kind of disappointed.
Alex Colvin is a Canadian humourist who works in Real Estate. Sorry. Find out more at alexandercolvin.wordpress.com.
Three million years entering R.E.M. A dreamy rendezvous with a handsome-beaked mollusk. Wasted.
She half-awoke fully enraged. Fleshy apes. Again. Transmitting waves embedded with trains, rockets, and cream pies. Again.
She hit the snooze, propelling an asteroid toward Earth.
She hoped, vainly, to rejoin the mollusk before waking for work.
boomer trujillo knows it’s not Mondays; it’s really any day without the automated, communist utopia from Star Trek. Check out more of his stuff at boomert.info.
The story of the week for February 12 to 16 is…
Eight Months Later by Jo Withers
Things you left behind when you moved out:
-coffee mugs (2), stained
-CDs (4), no cases
-shoes (1 pair), scuffed
-socks (5), all odd
-spider plant (1), lovingly watered
-cufflink (1), gift from me, remember?
-sweater (1), still smells like you
-heart (1), broken
Please call ASAP to arrange collection.
Hannah Whiteoak is a freelance writer and poet from Sheffield, UK. Read her stories or follow @hannahwhiteoak.