He loved nothing more than to embarrass her.
Her face, blushing bright and scarlet, belonged in a museum: mortified among the masterpieces.
That’s why he told the security guard in the Contemporary Art gallery, when he was caught kissing his lover inside the dark art installation: “I’m painting my masterpiece.”
Ashley Naftule is a writer/performer living in Phoenix, AZ. He bears an uncanny resemblance to country singer Vince Gill.
Buddy suspected the slumbering Sadie wouldn’t appreciate playful whispers. But he often traveled the trail of wanton disobedience.
Quivering in anticipation, he cautiously nuzzled her velvety ear. It twitched violently, slapping her assailant across the face.
Let sleeping dogs lie, they silently agreed, flicking their tails and closing their eyes.
By day, Lawrence Frank sits in a psychotherapist’s chair, inhaling life’s darkest moments. In the silence of night, he locks the door, switches seats, and exhales to the page.
Twenty feet away.
He goes faster and faster.
They’re catching up.
Ten feet away.
He can hear them behind him.
Five feet. Four, three…
It’s over! He’s won!
The blue ribbon wraps around his torso as he wheels toward his wife. Who says you need legs to win a race?
Rob works with individuals who suffer from physical disabilities. They inspired him to write this piece.
Sunday I spotted an elephant destroying my cabbage garden so I shot the monster dead. Moments later, six clowns in midget cars bumped onto my lawn. They were armed with rainbow parasols.
“I’ve had this dream,” my wife said.
I cocked my rifle. “How’s it end?”
“Not good,” she said.
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 April 20 to 24 is…
Duplicitous Haunts by Sarah Scott
Redemption is a favourite theme of mine, and it’s at the core of this great story.
“Just one more, baby,” he pleaded. “I love how you look with your hair down.”
She was uneasy when her husband took revealing photographs of her vulnerability.
Still, deeply in love, she let him pose her body and snap away.
When their marriage disintegrated, he possessed the picture-perfect revenge tool.
Jocelyn Moore is a female western writer, living in a small, rural community, Pinedale, Wyoming (population 2,000). Though she mostly writes grants for non-profit organizations, she also writes short stories and poetry on nature, interactions between people, animals, and unrequited love. Jocelyn is the webmaster for the Writing Women of Zurich website.
Marvy the Mohair Squirrel asked me if yesterday was Squirrels Day. I explained it was Girls Day, which sounds a lot like Squirrels Day.
Marvy looked at me all sad-like, so I said we could create a Squirrels Day for Monkey Town’s squirrel friends.
Marvy said that would be fine.
Karen Waygood is a ruthless up-cycler, standup paddleboarder and former broadcast journalist. She grew up in Hawaii and now lives near Atlanta, Georgia.
I woke up at seven
My face already shaven
For breakfast coffee or tea
Ready to be me
Walking down the street
Nobody to meet
Doubtful like Hamlet
Hands in my pockets
How to be alone
Curiously I want to know
Now I’m getting home
To finish this sad show.
Virginio is an Italian student of English language. He likes writing stories in English and sometimes playing with rhymes.
His hands shook, spilling vodka. Thumping came from the small hotel wardrobe.
He’d hoped to spend quality time in Berlin, but had caught her on the phone with her BFF. He examined her scrawled itinerary map again: “Shopping” and “Spree” were still predominant.
He suddenly reddened. “Oh… The River Spree.”
Irish writer Perry McDaid lives in Derry close to the Donegal hills. His diverse writing disciplines and genres appear in international multimedia, recently with entropy2; Amsterdam Quarterly; Flash Fiction Chronicles; Plotters Ink; Alfie Dog; and 50wordstories. He has one imaginary cat, Stinky, mostly nailed to a board above a ruined allegorical flower bed.
Did I forget to tell you about the ghosts in my head? Tonight they found their way into our shared bed.
Let’s hide between the sheets, evading hushed confessions. They whisper of hooligan romps, barefoot shenanigans, and broken-hearted flaunts.
They remind me of me, before you saved my tangled soul.
Sarah Scott writes, works and lives in Canada and hence her hands are usually cold. She warms them by cuddling her husband, holding her children and petting her dog.