While shopping, I saw a Marilyn-Manson-like Goth kid. I thought he was trouble.
After leaving the store, I lost my wallet. I searched to no avail.
Ironically, I heard that kid yell, “You dropped this!”
He returned my wallet. I offered him money.
He replied, “No thanks. Pay it forward.”
Bob McNeil is a writer, spoken-word artist, and illustrator of some modest renown. Influenced by the Imagists and the Beat Movement, he attempts to address the needs of our human mosaic.
The Story of the Week for February 16 to 20 is…
Year’s End by Devon R Widmer
Devon submitted this story for posting on Lunar New Year’s, and to me it really captured the spirit and feel of the holiday, with a dark, mystical tinge.
She approaches me slowly.
Since our marriage ended, we meet once a year. I confess that I’m still in love with her, although I know she has already married to another man.
She’s next to me, and I can see her crying while she places a rose on my grave.
Sergio is a 32-year-old English student.
Two teenagers were kissing on an escalator. An old lady stared with disapproval, but the lovebirds were paying no attention to anything around them.
When it was time to start walking again, she decided to warn them. “Be careful, two separate beds for you in hospital if you hurt yourself!”
Katya Duft is a translator, interpreter, and language teacher. She enjoys writing short stories, poetry, and her blog Tales from the Bus.
I took my Beauty past eighty-two. During her thunderous last dance to the red zone’s outer edge, we melded into a demented mechanical dream. Down the sinewy stretch called Spooner’s Gulf, the Buick’s engine grew overwrought; her gears raged, but oh, how she and I flew!
Next stop: Toyota Town.
T. L. Sherwood lives in Western New York. Among other places, her work has appeared in Rosebud, Every Day Fiction, Ruthless Peoples Magazine, and Page and Spine. Her blog, Creekside Reflections, can be found at tlsherwood.wordpress.com.
On moonless nights, Nian descends from his mountain lair to feed.
Last month, the beast took my lover.
Tonight, while the others tremble behind barricaded doors, I stand at the village gate, clutching a firecracker destined for Nian’s sensitive nose. The wind ripples my crimson dress as the monster approaches.
Just for the record, Devon R. Widmer would probably be one of the people trembling behind barricaded doors.
As the comet streaked overhead, the most extraordinary thing happened.
The turnips rose.
They pulled themselves from their beds and made their way to the streets.
Carrots followed and then potatoes, courgettes…
At some point we knew the vegetable revolt would come, but we imagined the sprouts leading the charge.
David is a vegetarian; he fears the coming storm.
Janet heard her friend’s response and gasped.
“Hate is such a strong word, Linda! And he’s still missing! His poor wife must be frantic after finding all that blood!”
Linda giggled. “You misheard me,” she said, her eyes dancing. “I didn’t say I hate him. I said I ate him.”
George Hopkin puts words and spaces together and hopes they entertain or inform. If they both entertain and inform, he thinks that’d be just fantastic, thank you very much.
I refuse to read the books I’ve bought, I only organize them.
They’re clenched tightly on my bookshelf: alphabetized and dusted daily. The spines are bound as one, like a row of incisors rotting with black titles.
When you’re bereaved, you can’t help preserving the past.
These books were Matthew’s.
Dustin holds a screenwriting degree from California State University Long Beach and currently works as a performer at Disneyland, Anaheim. This is his first submitted piece of flash fiction.
“They still hurt, Hon,” he said by way of answering the phone.
Two weeks and still he limped. But they’d agreed: after years of trying, at 43, they surrendered to time. So he’d endured the pain, swelling, and subsequent celibacy.
“I’m pregnant,” she replied. “You’re going to be a father.”
Jon Shank teaches high school English in Pennsylvania. He blogs at intothewake.wordpress.com.