The pawnbroker adjusted his eyeglass whilst circling Joe’s wedding ring through his supple fingers.
“Twenty dollars,” he snapped.
“But it’s solid gold. Cost two hundred new,” Joe pleaded.
“Twenty,” the pawnbroker repeated.
Joe snatched the ring and left, satisfied. For this first day, he was in control of his addiction.
John B Sinclair is a much-travelled Scot who has now returned to Scotland, where he enjoys freelance writing on a variety of subjects.
The truck moved at a high speed, the driver singing along to the music on his iPod.
His phone vibrated in the back seat, receiving a call from his wife. The road ahead was cracked.
It was too late before the driver realized danger. He never reached home for dinner.
Mr. Literato, unlike his name, is not Spanish. He reigns from somewhere unknown in Asia and maintains a blog: alwaysrandomposts.blogspot.com.
Why are there more crows? Global warming? More neighborhood carrion? The crow is not a solitary bird. Crows flock.
They communicate, these birds, now more than before. Loudly. The crow is a grumpy bird, a querulous bird. Increasingly loud.
Increasingly angry.
Reports have been coming in. The crows are attacking.
Joe Malone was expelled from the Central African Republic and now lives in South Sudan, where there is nothing to do but write. Check out his blog.
The butler beckoned me to follow. He reeked of evil intentions, but I reluctantly moved forward.
When the lights flickered out, I spun around wildly until a bone chilling scream froze me with fear.
Then, with my heart pounding, I whispered, “Albescu?”
He didn’t respond,
…but death eagerly welcomed me.
Mrs. Lessard resides in Vermont where she aspires to be a published author someday. Until then, she is content to entertain her four children with her numerous creative tales.
Note: This story is a sequel to The Juggernaut.
“Keep tapping, Piper. They’ll find us.”
Underwater archaeologists, on hearing the tapping, secured a line and brought them up.
At their research facility, staff started opening the craft’s hatch.
The captain smiled. “We’re finally home!”
“Thanks for never giving up, Cap.”
Inside, archaeologists found human remains and a whiskey bottle.
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.
“I’m sorry,” she said, “I just don’t like fish. It’s the little bones, you see.”
“Oh. Well, I’m afraid it’s all there is, apart from bread,” he replied.
“I hate bread!” she fumed.
“Then go complain,” he replied. “I think that guy with the beard and sandals arranged the catering.”
Alex Sinclair was born in the winter of 1973 in Nottingham, England, and, on the cusp of his 40th birthday, is still trapped there. He longs for a looser, more liberal society where his own shaky morality and absurd beliefs could find succor and praise. Until that day, he bides his time, waiting to pounce like a graying and jaded ocelot. To amuse him and occupy all available time for the next 40 years of his life, he has just become father to twins, who, though but 3 months old, are acutely aware that daddy may not be quite right in the head. This small matter is overlooked as he can expertly and lovingly feed, burp, and nappy change each baby in just 15 minutes, whilst also attend to cooking duties downstairs with good humour. He lives with his long-suffering partner Shona, and cats David and Mogwai.
“You can’t be serious!” I punched the vault. All this work for nothing.
I felt a buzz in my pocket, and my phone illuminated through my jeans.
“Hello?”
“Where are you?” the voice snapped.
“I forgot the combin-”
“17-8-35. It has only been the weekend, man. Hurry up, class is starting.”
Michelle Wang is a student who is part of the creative writing community at Cerritos High School. Her inspiration comes from imagination with experience. Having written most of her works fictionally, writing a bio is not her forte.
I turned back to get my notebook; I did not want another wasted day.
Yesterday, I’d seen an old woman licking catsup and mustard splotches off discarded McDonald’s wrappers on the Embarcadero, and I had not written any of it up; I did not have my notebook.
Well, never again.
Charles D. Tarlton is a retired politics professor now trying to write stories and poems.
“I wish I had their legs,” I hollered at the mother as her two girls raced ahead on the path.
“Well, they get to go to bed at 8 PM,” she chuckled back.
Such a jolly, inane exchange.
Then I thought, wait a second, what if I went to bed at 8?
rJo Herman dreams of writing the one perfect tale her grandchildren will tell their grandchildren. She lives in the Colorado high desert with her grey striped companion, Emil Catt I.
It wasn’t Georges fault and, as usual, it was most unfair. He hadn’t been the only one smoking. The school had been really dry after the hot weather, and full of unnecessary paper.
And he had only struck one match and he hadn’t even flicked it.
Not very much, anyway.
Richard Wheal is a writer and trainee carpenter who live in a forest in Dorset and spends a great deal of time gathering winter fuel.