I put out bits of bacon for the sparrows. Frederick says I am spoiling them.
I ask him why that matters, and he just shrugs. “It will matter when they return to their homes,” he says. “The others will reject them for the smell of dead pigs on their breath.”
Christina Murphy’s flash fiction has appeared in a range of journals and anthologies, most recently in Fresh Ground: Coffee House Flash Fiction Anthology and Astarte Journal of Fantasy.
“Shut up, Jimmy! You never stop talking.”
“Jack, I’ll stop when you do,” came the snide reply.”
“It’s you who makes me say those disgusting words,” screamed Jack, slamming his prop basket shut. “Man, I need to see my doctor tomorrow.”
“No, you don’t,” whispered the voice in the basket.
John B Sinclair is a much-travelled Scot who has now returned to Scotland, where he enjoys freelance writing on a variety of subjects.
Friday. Like every day, the widower awoke to a still estate, silence broken occasionally by his stoic butler’s steps.
His children had left long ago with their trust funds.
His diminished spirits lifted when his chauffeur drove him to his last joy. Taking his place, he smiled. “Welcome to Walmart!”
Bryan Joyner is a middle-aged banker who read about 50-word stories in Daniel Pink’s book “A Whole New Mind”, and began using the concept to connect with his two college age children. Each of them write stories and send them to each other for feedback.
Jim’s wounds had clotted. His hair was matted with dried blood. His lips were dry and split, indicating he’d been lying there for a while. He could see his car up the hill, wrapped around the tree.
Even after all the pain, Jim still thought his tweet was worth it.
Keith is a rugged outdoors-man and avid sealclubber-clubber. He hails from a higher dimension where time and space hold no sway over Keith’s majestic infinity.
What if his taxi had arrived after instead of before me? If we hadn’t met on the steps? I wonder at possibilities and am no further ahead. Did he hate me that much for wrecking his business?
All the imponderables leave me exactly where I am: shot, in a coffin.
Joanna M. Weston has had poetry, reviews, and short stories published in anthologies and journals for twenty-five years. Her poetry, “A Summer Father”, was published by Frontenac House of Calgary. You can see more of her writing at www.1960willowtree.wordpress.com.
A little black ant crawled across the bare skin of my leg and I regretted, in a minor sort of way, wearing shorts that day. I considered brushing it off but it just seemed unimportant.
Why crawl all the way over there this soon after being in a car crash?
Alan is an engineering student who doesn’t think he can write but likes to do so anyway.
Sweet fallen angel, cast away for undone crimes. He cannot return to Heaven; now burns in hellish flames. Only with true love can he be freed from aching bonds.
To help, my last breath must fade, so I can take his place.
To rid his pain, I’ll give my soul.
Natasha McNeely currently lives in Germany and spends most of her time reading, writing, and playing video games. She has lived abroad since she was seven years old and has taken a liking to foreign languages as a result. Now, she speaks four languages and recently graduated as a Multilingual Secretary with hopes of becoming a translator. Her website is http://natashamcneely.wordpress.com.
Our waitress, Carlie, promised to “take care of” us. She sliced and served the pizza. With a flourish, she slid the pizza on to my plate. It continued to slide right on to my white slacks, sauce side down.
The manager arrived with club soda, an apology and the check.
Marian Brooks has recently retired and found some time to write short fiction. She lives in Pennsylvania with her husband.
I am so smart I have circled back to stupidity.
I want to say it was a big circle, but I’m not sure. My pace always fluctuated. Sometimes I raced around like I was smart. Other times I barely moved with a blank mind.
Now, I wonder what I circled.
James Ballard is writing from Los Angeles and was first and last published in BlazeVox12 Fall 2012.
Flushing my neighbor’s toilet, I eyed the pus colored soap on the sink. Ew, lemon citrus.
I opened the cupboard, scanning for something else. My eyes collided with jars. Jars with eyes, meat and tongues.
The door opened, letting the crisp barbeque smell waft in. “Are you done in there?”
Lidiya lives in London, spending her free time reading and writing. She runs a blog at http://www.lascarletcat.wordpress.com.