There’s no time to explain this. You have to believe that the girl I killed wasn’t me. She’s the wrong me. Alternate reality me. Our realities can’t co-exist in the same timeline. Butterfly effect, inverted: murdering me doesn’t change what happened to her. Twenty years later, you’ll regret this. Don’t—
Stephanie Selander lives, writes, and teaches in Miami, Florida. Her work has previously appeared in WomenArts Quarterly Journal, Yellow Chair Review, and elsewhere.
When Dad lost the remote, he made a game. He’d call out numbers and, using the cable box, I’d change channels from black and white fuzz to sounds and spectrums of light.
The cable company never took it back, and I kept that disconnected box—long after Dad was gone.
Frederick Charles Melancon is a native of New Orleans. Currently, he lives in Mississippi with his wife and daughter. In his spare time, he watches cartoon movies with his family, and he enjoys every minute of it.
The gun shots ring out in the night.
There is nothing I can do but hide and wait for this hell to be over.
When the morning comes I’ll leave this place forever, become a refugee, someone trying to escape this carnage.
Maybe some day I’ll be free at last.
Scott Gambon is a student at Orion High School in Illinois. He is 17 years old, the youngest of 4 siblings.
The story of the week for October 24 to 28 is…
The Mole by TR Jordan
The twist is surprising, the use of “mole” implies alternate interpretations for the creatively minded, and the execution is smooth. Good work!
The recorded voice named the place and said, “Be there at eight.”
It was probably just a wrong number, but maybe I’d won the dating lottery. Her voice suggested she’d be worth the trip to find out.
While I was out chasing this beautiful wild goose, they robbed my house.
John Fowler served twenty years in the US Air Force before retiring and starting a second career in the IT field. He is also a Lay Pastor serving a small church near his home in Texas. His hobbies include reading, golfing, and writing.
When I got home, my ungrateful wife wasn’t complaining. I thought hell must have frozen over as I popped a top.
Agitated, she said, “I shot him dead in the backyard.” That mole had her number for over a month.
Glancing out the window, I noticed the gardener face down.
T. R. Jordan is a civil engineer living in Dallas, TX. He focuses on vulnerability.
Mary opened the refrigerator and sighed.
The television remote control lay in a puddle of milk, the container on its side. In the vegetable crisper sat his soiled boxers. From the living room, her husband yelled in frustration while waving a banana at the dark screen.
Maybe tomorrow, she thought.
C.K. Black resides in the quiet town of Sherman, Connecticut with his daughter. His work as appeared in numerous on line publications including story of the week in 50 Word Stories. You can follow him on Twitter @ckblack21. This story is dedicated to the memory of his wife Brigett, his biggest cheerleader.
“It’s raining.”
“Shush.”
“Focus.”
“Write what you know.”
Writing:
Posit: the here and now.
Twist: the here is grubby, the now is relative, but menacing concerns lurk in the shadows.
Outcome: blocked; none of it matters.
Not knowing how long my cardboard shelter will last isn’t letting me think straight.
Monica Perez Nevarez is a sustainability manager by day, but is trying to transition into writing full time.
“When he saw her helpless and forlorn, there was a stirring in his loins.”
“Cut, cut, CUT! His lions started to stir. His lions, Narrator! This is a circus tragedy, not a Nuevo Erotic Romp!”
“What about swear words?”
“I wouldn’t test me if I were you, Sunshine.”
“Oh, BUM!”
This is perhaps Connell’s first and last ever foray into the steamy world of Erotic literature. He sometimes succumbs to character development, but always to the absurd.
The orchestra had lulled the audience with a sweet adagio before the violins began to reach the crescendo, urgent in tone and tempo.
The music swelled towards the climax; the audience, enveloped in its energy, anticipated a tumultuous finale.
The sound of the exploding bomb mingled with the last notes.
Jan lives in the Riverland of South Australia where abundant wine helps with the creative process.