Heading south through the ruins, I startle three deer. Their barks echo through the concrete canyons as they run.
I see ever more plants breaking through the tarmac; a green infection. I pause to watch the sunrise. The morning light has a golden quality.
Manhattan has never looked so lovely.
Bill lives in Aberdeen Scotland. He is considered a pioneer in the art of slacking off by many, but he can’t be bothered seeking accreditation.
The first time you cheated on me, you cried over the phone.
“We have to talk,” you said.
We walked in bruised silence through the park, then sat and stared over the hill.
“I don’t understand,” I said at last.
“Let me explain,” you told me. “We’re not a couple.”
David still doesn’t get it completely.
They took her by ambulance. The neighbor called and told me. Cleaning out her house was the closest I came to “Goodbye.”
A pack of Marlboros, half-smoked. A jug of milk. Dishes she didn’t wash. Her fridge had a note: Give Terri her book back.
I don’t know a Terri.
Jennifer Courtney has been published online at Postcard Poems and Prose, Page & Spine, Black Heart Magazine, and elsewhere. She has found her way into several print anthologies.
Finding no medical explanation for his patient’s intermittent aches and pains, Dr. Ffarrigut said, “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’re the victim of a hex.”
Later, the patient asked his wife, “Where’s our little ragdoll souvenir from the Caribbean?”
“I gave it to Mother. She needed a pincushion.”
John H. Dromey has had short fiction published in Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine, Crimson Streets, Stupefying Stories Showcase, and elsewhere.
He walked to the exit escorted by his plaintiffs; those to whom he had entreated. He beheld the brilliant sun. He walked toward the stairs, then climbed beyond; a shroud now covered his head. The floor fell away, he plunged, and his neck snapped. His soul beheld the black sun.
Paul H. Yarbrough is a novelist, short story author and free lance writer of political and social topics. He lives in Houston, Texas. His third novel is coming out later this year. See more at paulhyarbrough.com.
The kitten sinks its teeth into my leg for the millionth time.
“Stop it.”
It ignores me.
“I was gonna give you a cool name, but from now on you’ll be called Princess Fluffylumps the Third!”
The male kitten blinks.
“Don’t push me. Or the glittery pink collar is next.”
E.O. is making a first attempt at a humorous fiction novelette called Id/entity, which, if it doesn’t suck, might actually see the light someday on Amazon Kindle. If not, EO will probably make some nice origami, or a LOT of paper footballs.
She listened to her phone message.
The familiar voice, “Please listen. I am so sorry. It won’t happen again. Just one more chance. You mean everything to me. It was thoughtless and stupid. I humiliated you.”
She reached for the phone to call him. Hesitated.
Instead, she deleted the message.
Rosanne Trost, RN MPH, is a retired registered nurse. She lives in Houston, Texas. She spent most of her career in oncology nursing research. Since retirement, she has realized her passion for creative writing.
The story of the week for April 24 to 28 is…
Just a slight increase by M.K. Vinne
“She’s got the sight,” Mama hisses, makes a forking gesture with arthritic fingers.
“Don’t talk rubbish, woman.” Papa’s whiskers tickle my ear. I feel safe curled in his lap, until I see him make the forking sign himself, down the side of the armchair where he thinks I won’t see.
Rebecca Fraser is an Australian writer whose short stories, flash fiction, and poems have appeared in various anthologies, magazines, and journals since 2007. She holds a Masters of Arts in Creative Writing, and her fiction showcases her fondness for all things darkly speculative. To provide her muse with life’s essentials, Rebecca supplements by copy and content writing, however her true passion lies in storytelling. See more at rebeccafraser.wordpress.com.
I stayed up all night. The stars kept their promise. I thought all I could think, and yet I could think of nothing except how I was deeply changed, as the light of the slowly rising sun subtly transformed the blindness of the dark horizon into something more than morning.
Todd is an amateur Writer and Poet, and an aspiring Artist; he often times finds himself awake in the wee hours, hoping for some sort of inspiration.