Her limbs ached. Her heart ached, too. Wasn’t time supposed to heal all wounds?
She’d caught him in lie after lie. “I never want to see you again!” she’d screamed.
She looked down at the blue planet below. She’d slept five years in the spacecraft’s hibernation pod.
Maybe she’d over-reacted.
AJ Joseph is a bookaholic, semi-insomniac, unsuccessful recovering javaholic, and most importantly a writer. She occasionally writes on her blog, Words from Sonobe.
Having appropriated a sturdy broom from a dockside warehouse, the constable now clung to the edge of the jetty, desperately jabbing downwards. Damned if he was going to let paperwork ruin his evening.
One final thrust and the swift current began tumbling the corpse downriver, the neighbouring precinct’s problem now…
O.L. Humphreys knows little or nothing of police work but considers himself above par in the practical application of brooms. He has previously been published in Terror Tree Pun Book of Horror Stories, Dark Lane Anthology Volume One, and, of course, 50-Word Stories. You can keep up to date with his work on Facebook.
Friday. Payday.
Jeremy told colleagues it’d barely reach his account; the uni lads were down.
Two days alone in the flat, except a trip to the Chinese.
Sunday. Ironing. Phone beeps.
“Evening mate. Amazing tweets – glad you’re enjoying London. Drinks Saturday?”
“Ugh, can’t. Mental weekend – skint ’til payday :-(“
Matthew Reville is an ex-journalist turned press officer. He ghostwrote the autobiography of the founder of PizzaExpress. Follow him at @MatthewReville and buy the book at peterboizot.com!
On Saturday, I pedal through the rain to the school gym, where dodgeball reigns.
Elizabeth, who sits atop the bleachers, rules elsewhere. Red balls splat faces and bodies.
I shake off the rain, join the banshee chaos, and hope a ball finds me before she decrees us all hopeless naives.
Penn Stewart lives and writes in Wichita Falls, Texas. His most recent short fiction appears or is forthcoming in Literary Orphans, Word Riot, Dogzplot, Front Porch Review, Union Station Magazine, and elsewhere.
“Buying that bookcase?” she asks.
Her body’s language is an easy read:
too much disappointment and heartache.
For her, my “yes” is just
another defeat.
Then, folding herself
into the crowd, she leaves me
with this new hole in my heart,
where before was a simple
and shallow shopper’s joy.
Matthew, despite his best efforts to ruin his life, has failed. He wonders if his good fortune, finding his disembodied heart in Maine, is good karma from previous incarnations, or is grace. He suspects it is grace.
Flashing silver, the fish wiggled on Dad’s line, rippling with life. So beautiful. “Hurry, Emma,” Dad said. “The net.”
Luckily, Emma had snipped tiny cuts in the new net’s fibers last night. She hid her smile as the fish slipped through.
“What the…” Dad’s shoulders sagged. “There goes another one!”
Joanne R. Fritz lives in West Chester, PA and writes poetry and fiction for children and adults. Her short fiction and poetry have appeared in various magazines. She blogs at My Brain on Books.
Riding astride his crimson unicorn, Alexander slayed robots and ninjas as he crossed the bridge. In the distance the daikaiju terrorizing the city breathed fire on a skyscraper, incinerating it almost immediately. UFOs filled the sky.
Alexander held his sword high and smiled. “Today is a good day,” he said.
Daniel Slaten writes short stories and poetry in small notebooks and on sticky notes.
The story of the week for July 4 to 8 is…
Aunt Peg by Jennifer L. Freed
From concept to execution, this is one of the most striking stories I’ve received this year. Brilliantly done.
She wanted that wind-rushed, wild-eyed euphoria that only a thrilling ride could bestow. Her excited shrieks reverberated through the woods. I watched my bike soar higher than ever over the mossy steep hill, my younger sister flying with it.
Even now, she claims her gnarled right knee was worth it.
Renuka Raghavan wrote this story.
If she had known,
she might have answered her telephone,
let the dog out one more time,
refilled his bowl.
She would’ve worn a newer nightgown.
As it was,
she was just so
tired, so bone-heavy
tired.
She turned on the television,
crawled beneath her comforter, took
Tomorrow
for granted.
Jennifer L. Freed writes mostly poetry, and occasionally some micro fiction. Other work can be seen at jfreed.weebly.com.