“Guess who I’m going to be for Halloween this year, Grandma,” prompts my eight-year-old, freckle-faced granddaughter. She likes to twirl her long, blond braids as she waits for me to answer.
“Hmm. A centipede or house fly?” I guess.
She giggles. “Noooooooo, Grandma! You’re so silly. Number 42, Jackie Robinson!”
Recently retired, Marian Brooks has been writing some short fiction. Her work has appeared in Word Riot, The Short Humour Site, The Linnet’s Wings, Zest Magazine, and elsewhere.
Dr. Winslow pressed her hollowed check up against the glass of the enclosure, listening to the whir of a million tiny robotic wings.
The sound of the hive soothed her. As she watched the swirling metallic cyclone within its cylindrical tank, somehow she felt as if she wasn’t so alone.
Bleh is a silly person who likes to think she can write.
The silence enveloped me, allowing me to relax deeply. My breathing slowed and my head cleared.
I contemplated my entire life, my goals, and even my possible future. I sat there for what felt like an entire millennium, in reality twenty-five minutes, and I smiled.
Then I flushed the toilet.
Dennis is a beautiful, inspirational, and sexy young man. He loves to write creative and humorous short stories.
Two boardwalk vendors stand overlooking an astonished throng gathered around the latest oarfish to wash ashore, a fourteen footer.
“What are we going to do?” asks the younger Vince. “This is happening more and more.”
Maki, a veteran in the business, replies, “When life brings you dead fish, make Sushi.”
Anthony Geist was inspired as an undergraduate in the lifelong pursuit of writing by two English professors. Geist’s publications include Slingin’ Slang: The Perusing Parlance Series, Sublimely Flawed: The Art of Being Flagrantly Human, and FROM THE HIP daily: News You Can (T)Rust, under the penname “Tony Baconetti.”
“You and Reese were too close,” Gary said. “That’s why you broke up. See that stone wall running down the middle of our property? Lisa and I mend it every spring.”
“Why in the world would you do that?”
“So we can stand on opposite sides when we need to.”
Wayne Scheer has been nominated for four Pushcart Prizes and a Best of the Net. He’s published stories, poems and essays in print and online, including Revealing Moments, a collection of flash stories.
The aliens came down from above. The locals screamed and ran for their lives.
“They’re monsters!” someone screamed as the military arrived and blew them to pieces.
Later…
Joyous celebrations erupted while, elsewhere, a small child picked up a burnt cloth from an alien uniform.
It read “United Earth Mission.”
Connell Wayne Regner enjoys ripping yarns and the variety of writing styles found in fiction. His other dabblings can be found at paragraphplanet and wtdmagazine.wordpress.com.
My mother won’t stop calling, and now she’s getting annoyed. It was easier for the others; they were all older and stronger than me. I don’t want to go, but I know I must.
So why do I hold back? It’s a long way down from this nestbox, you know.
Chris Redfern likes writing and wronging. Find him at www.aatwatchtower.com.
He’s long been vapor, drifting listless, confused.
Until tonight.
Something compels him to this apartment. A woman greets him, wipes pungent mugwort oil from her hands, and clicks on the local news.
…fight to remove 10 year coma patient from life support continues…
“I can wake you up,” she says.
L. M. Leffew dabbles in all manner of creative things. Sometimes she blogs about them.
Fabio stands by the punch bowl, the loud bass pounding in his ears. Lillian is on the other side of the room laughing loudly at Sebastian’s jokes. His heart twists with sadness. She will never notice him.
A silent tear slips down his cheek into the punch. Now it’s salty.
Jessica Larsen has been teaching Language Arts to middle school students for eight years. She met her husband while waiting in line at the post office. In her spare time, she loves to write stories, run, and go to movies by herself.
Days disappear into weeks. The weeks turn into months. Months become years.
Forgotten are the early mornings when I crawled into your bed. What was once yesterday, I breathed my secrets in your ear.
Dust has become of your bones. Flowers spring from your late beating heart. Here I wait.
Lynn Marie Lostumo spends her days doing dishes, laundry, and vacuuming. She’d rather be writing, knitting, and finishing her degree.