Floorboards creak as the man steals towards the sleeping girl.
Standing over her peaceful form, heart pounding against his ribs, he leans and sticks his hand under her pillow to replace the hand-stitched bag containing her incisor with a dollar. She stirs but does not wake.
“Goodnight, pumpkin,” he whispers.
Tasie E. George is a twenty-year old, as-of-yet unpublished writer, born, raised, and residing in Nigeria.
The dragon was expecting him. Huddled against a crag, silver scales blending perfectly with the mountainside, she watched his approach.
Her claws flexed.
A tongue of flame curled at the back of her throat…
When the knight dismounted, she swept in and grabbed his horse. “Enjoy the walk home, bozo!”
Mark Farley is writing about dragons again. Everything is better with dragons!
She’d saved her wedding whiskey for a special occasion.
Not for her honeymoon.
Not for her 25th anniversary.
Not even for her 50th anniversary.
Now he was on his deathbed.
She reached into the cupboard, pulled out the bottle, and cracked it open. “To happiness,” she said, raising her glass.
Linda writes for both children and adults. She blogs at lindaschueler.com
The story of the week for November 13 to 17 is…
Ghosts by Maura Yzmore
i lie
awake
my body on the crumpled, cream-colored sheets
my thoughts float
like an untied balloon
from a child’s outstretched palm
as they disappear into
nothingness
alongside millions of dreams
just as i
am unable
to grasp onto
your fading voice
that whispers in my ear
burning my skin
Lauren loves creative writing and can usually be found reading on the beach or writing in her room.
I pulled over, rolled down my window.
“What’s up?” I asked my mind.
“Waiting for a bus. Can’t wander far enough by foot.”
“Where are you headed?”
“Boston.”
“Good luck.” I drove away.
That evening, I returned. “Done waiting?” I asked.
“The Boston bus doesn’t stop here, does it?”
“Nope.”
Iain Young doesn’t let his mind wander without a round-trip ticket.
My pumpkin pie sat on the table, untouched.
I’d followed the directions explicitly.
I properly preheated the oven.
I took great pains with the crust.
I’d anticipated delight, feigned or otherwise, once consumed. It was not meant to be.
“Bring a dessert,” they’d said.
Turns out everybody brought pumpkin pie.
Susan Gale Wickes is from Indiana. She enjoys writing short stories, poetry, and the occasional song.
Sure, their relationship was strange: Mike sleeping each night for years in the abandoned confessional and Fr. Phil pretending not to notice, though he left a sandwich, beer, or even smokes, occasionally.
When Mike passed, Fr. Phil insisted the homeless man have a funeral mass—no matter what people said.
Tony Jasnowski teaches English at Bellevue University and writes an occasional story or poem between grading papers.
Late afternoon, early winter
Shadows lie heavy
Across this old wooden floor
In sleep, my cat’s ear twitches
Pulling in his paws a little
Oblivion
Feeling his fierce softness
Sunlight between the shadows
Seems to brighten
Then it’s just this old familiar ringing
That always comes
when I am still
Matthew lives in Maine in the fall, winter, and spring. He wishes more of his family lived nearby, and his cat, Mephistopheles, who is a great hunter and a compassionate comforter, and inspires simply by doing nothing.
What’s the word? A syllable sits on the tip of my tongue.
A machine beeps erratically. Voices. Shouting.
What’s–
“Stay,” he begs, tears streaming down an unshaven face. But his touch is alien: bereft of warmth.
The–
The machine pauses. Sudden silence. Overpowering.
…Oh.
“Numb,” I whisper, as darkness falls.
Cadence Rage is a songwriter, animal rights activist, and caffeine-addicted weaver of speculative fiction. Currently working on her science-fantasy series, she also writes poetry and flash fiction at cadencerage.wordpress.com.