Bleeding to death along the sandy road while gun smoke cleared from my head wasn’t a problem. Robbery, booze, and bullets were my life. Figured time would catch up one day.
Main grievance: knowing my own arrogance became my downfall.
Should’ve never laughed at a gun-wielding cowgirl during a standoff.
BAM graduated with a degree in English with honors, helps other writers whenever possible, teaches in Japan, and has awarded publications here and there. Check out bamwrites.com for more.
School continues, but your lessons are done. Your empty desk and chair are a reminder you’re no longer here.
Why did you play with that abandoned gun in the alley? Senseless tragedy put your ten-year timeline to an end.
A lesson learned too hard, one our class will never forget.
Shawnta S. Barnes is a literacy coach in Indianapolis Public Schools, an adjunct instructor at Indiana University Purdue University Indianapolis School of Education, and a 2016-2017 Teach Plus Teaching Policy Fellow.
In the darkness of night, Stan heard a noise in his bedroom closet. He had seen a mouse run across the room a few days before and hoped it was just the mouse he heard. He got out of bed and slowly opened the closet door.
The mouse was dead.
Steve Carr has had short stories published in many publications. His paranormal/horror novel is in serialization on channillo.com. He writes full time.
“Well, who has a snake tattooed across his shoulders anyway?” Jason had never regretted the decision before, but as the ink moved across his shoulders and began to tighten itself around his neck, regret seeped into his mind. A butterfly would never have done this.
“Don’t worry. It won’t hurt.”
Darren Lester teaches all kinds of subjects in the south west of England. He’s planning to start a blog today, but should probably do the hoovering first.
On our secret stream, not dippers or kingfishers today but miraculously, a white egret, delicately probing reeds so close we stand transfixed.
LOOK, THERE’S A DUCK. A woman drags her child past us.
The flash and blur of feathers leaves me bereft.
No, not a duck, I say. A regret.
Viv Burgess says this actually happened and is still in mourning for the lost moment.
The story of the week for August 22 to 26 is…
Alternative Fuel by V. Jane Schneeloch
Jane has done a great job of getting across Romeo’s disappointment and Agnes’ dismissiveness. Good work demonstrating the “show, don’t tell” principle.
I saw my reflection in a stone wall. Ivy had scaled and draped it long ago. But when the ivy became too heavy and fell away partially, the wall still stood tall. Abandoned, then suppressed, now regaining freedom.
We feel the rising sun’s warmth again. We were not dragged down.
Jason was inspired by the ivy hanging from the brick wall in his patio.
Hi, I’m Jim and I’m here because of the damn judge. See… I sleep naked and don’t dress until after breakfast and coffee. So I took the coffee pot and griddle out of their boxes, new as they were, and got started. The people at that Walmart were sure mad.
David S. Atkinson is the author of “Apocalypse All the Time” (forthcoming 2017), “Not Quite so Stories,” “The Garden of Good and Evil Pancakes” (2015 National Indie Excellence Awards finalist in humor), and “Bones Buried in the Dirt” (2014 Next Generation Indie Book Awards finalist, First Novel <80K). His writing appears in "Bartleby Snopes," "Grey Sparrow Journal," "Atticus Review," and others. Check out his writing website.
“Don’t you open that door!” she’d say to anyone visiting her house.
Stench of cat urine almost overpowered the smoke that clung in cancerous clouds to the curtains, carpet, newspapers.
They found little left of her but glasses hanging amiss, unopened cat food in hand.
She must’ve opened the door.
Alexandra always remembers to feed her cat, who sleeps outside for good reason.
The spindly wanderer leapt through Mattie’s window Sunday afternoon, undaunted by a sweltering, mosquito-fat humidity. Its coat, a raggedy indigo blue, was soft beneath her ancient fingertips.
Mattie was confident her caregivers, with their hateful, gliding vowels and condescending consonants, would hardly tolerate it—so she kept the darned thing.
Jennifer Fales is an award-winning author and freelance writer from Southern California.