Page after page I became increasingly convinced: I could have easily written this book myself! The sentences were short, the words simple. It would’ve turned me into an overnight literary sensation, much to the jealousy of my writer friends.
“Hmph,” I said, pressing pen to paper. Here’s what came out:
.
Debbi Antebi (@debbisland) lives in Istanbul, Turkey, and blogs at http://debbiantebi.com.
I face a conundrum. It’s that old saying about taking life’s travails and making lemonade. Why? Lemons are bitter. Add water and sugar – the result is still bitter. So there you are alone with your problems trying to make something.
My solution: go out for ice cream. You’ll feel better.
Eileen McIntyre is a writer from Northern California working on her first mainstream fiction novel. One of her essays will be published in an anthology by the end of the year.
The hare pulled back on the cigar, slipped the gun back into its side holster, and smiled down at the gunfighter, who was pressing a bloodied hand against the wound in his belly.
“You can’t ever pull faster than me.” It said and turned away from the dying man’s curses.
Gerard Mulligan has been published on various online sources.
I sit high up a tree. Below, branches crackle and woodland creatures
crash frantically through the forest.
Love like a forest fire.
I calmly clutch my tinderbox though the flames have reached
my tree’s roots.
Because once you’d said you’d leap through fire for me.
So, little grasshopper. I’m waiting.
Lisa Falzon has been writing 50-word stories for over ten years now. Her website is micro-fiction.blogspot.ie.
The boat rocked backwards and forwards, and I felt my stomach starting to churn. The day was hot and sultry as the gentle rocking continued. Then, as if a trigger was pulled, I vomited over the edge of the boat.
Dad didn’t mind. “Some berley for the fish,” he said.
Connell Wayne Regner had successfully avoided writing creatively since he wrote spontaneous lyrics to music many years ago. Although from a linguistic background, he has serendipitously succumbed to fiction after spontaneously creating bedtime stories for his children. His other dabblings can be found at paragraphplanet and wtdmagazine.wordpress.com.
“What’s wrong with you, Shawn? You’ve spilled a drink on not just one, but four bobsledders.”
“Everything would have been fine if they’d just stood still.”
“What do you mean?”
“Because this lodge is furnished with valuable antiques, the barkeep made me promise to set my glass on a coaster.”
John H. Dromey has had a short story published in Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine, a mini-mystery in Woman’s World, plus fiction online at Liquid Imagination, Mysterical-E, and elsewhere.
2184: Earth’s survivors occupy government-controlled cells provided with oxygen, power and sustenance, or OPS.
Number 215296045 activates his TV to discover he is live on screen.
“Tonight’s randomly chosen contestant on ‘Dying to Live’ is 215296045. Your task is to survive one hour without OPS. Understood?”
“What’s my prize?”
“Another hour without OPS.”
John B Sinclair is a much-travelled Scot who has now returned to Scotland, where he enjoys freelance writing on a variety of subjects.
He’d stood her up again.
He always broke his promises, and this time she was furious. No longer would she wait for him. He treated her as if she didn’t exist. She was finished!
Resolved in her decision, she pushed herself to her feet, and floated angrily through the wall.
Rebecca just started writing. More of her work can be found at eurasianflavour.wordpress.com or on her WritersCafe writing profile.
Every day I waited for a smile, a nod, an exchange worth more than a foam cup and some change. Recognition of our inevitable perfection.
Today you looked my way. For the briefest moment, our eyes met over the counter.
And it was… less.
I knew I never liked coffee.
Deepa is a full-time writer in India who occasionally gets to write for herself.
I ran away from home.
My folks came after me. They found me. They brought me back.
I ran away from home again.
My folks came right after me. I hid. They still found me. They brought me back again.
Stupid!
The next time, I burnt the house down first.
Joe Malone is living with a Wora woman and her three sisters in South Sudan. Read more of his writing at joem18b.wordpress.com.