Traps are everywhere. We cannot venture out. We are cornered in this house we called home before the enemy showed its face.
All exits are blocked. Food supplies are dwindling. This is war.
Last night he chased us behind the refrigerator with a broom. Called us vermin.
We are doomed.
Alison Cooper is a UK artist residing in Los Angeles. She loves the challenge of culling words to get to the core, and has had her short stories published in Everyday Fiction and 50-Word Stories.
When she caught us, Louise stared at me with a kitchen knife in her hand.
In an act of defiant retribution, she picked up her phone and pressed play. Celine Dion – My heart will go on. Of all the songs to die to…
She knew how much I hated it.
Stephen sometimes writes poems and strangely murderous flash fictions. Find him at stephenkirkdaniels.com.
The farmer saw his daughter halfway down a hole in the ground. “What are you doing, child?”
“The badgers are having a tea party, Dad. They’re expecting me.”
He tutted at this childish fantasy, dragged his daughter away.
Below, father badger consulted his watch. “Think we’d better start without her.”
Carol Browne first appeared on the planet in 1954. She regards Crewe, Cheshire, as her home town and graduated from Nottingham University in 1976 with an honours degree in English Language and Literature. She is a contracted author at Burning Willow Press.
A couple of football fanatics met in a sports bar.
“What have you been up to lately?”
“I’ve been advising a friend about some possible drawbacks of going for the two-point conversion.”
“Is he a quarterback with an important game coming up?”
“No. She’s a cheerleader thinking about getting implants.”
John H. Dromey has had short fiction published in Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine, Betty Fedora, Stupefying Stories Showcase, and elsewhere.
Chlorophyll implants had been a mistake. Jailbreaking them probably hadn’t helped either.
Leaves sprouted all over my body. Hair fell away like dead foliage as pink flowers started blossoming out of my skull.
When I first noticed, I was rooted to the spot.
How long before that was literally true?
William Shaw is a student, blogger, and amateur journalist. You can follow him on Tumblr at themadmanwithablog.tumblr.com or on Twitter at @Will_S_7.
Amy’s boyfriend never physically abuses her, but the emotional abuse is constant.
One night in the kitchen, Amy snaps after a relentless barrage of name-calling. She takes a long knife out of the holder and stabs him repeatedly.
Amy is in shock as she sees sparks coming from exposed wires.
Denny E. Marshall had had art, poetry, and fiction published, including recent fiction at 101 Words. See more at dennymarshall.com.
Alone again herself, she saw the loneliness of others. Stray mittens and gloves in parking spaces, on snowbanks and sidewalks.
She brought them home, washed and dried them, wore them as others wear mismatched socks.
Now when she claps her hands the soft thick sound makes her broken heart glad.
Mary Steer is a word nerd living west of Toronto, where she works and reworks stories from life and imagination. When she’s not writing or editing, she likes to dabble in physics (knitting) and chemistry (baking).
The upkeep was never-ending; it took a week to wash, a week to dry, a week to comb, a week to braid; just so she could dangle it out the window for an afternoon, like a fishing line among the thorns, a temptation to witless boys spying from the brambles.
Over the years Bob Thurber’s work has received a long list of awards and prizes. His most recent book is a collection of brief stories titled “Nothing But Trouble”. Visit BobThurber.net.
The story of the week for January 25 to 29 is…
The Dead’s Weight by Eldar Levin
Artistry and adventure well combined.
The girl said, “Ghosts of my memories haunt me.” Perhaps she hadn’t buried them well. They kept feeding on her beautiful mind.
The boy said, “Those are lovely memories.” Perhaps he didn’t remember them forever. They faded away.
The girl was confined to an asylum.
The boy lived happily on.
Paramita Ghosh is an ordinary lady who sometimes tries to write stories.