Life is great. Health, mobility, liberty.
Then, an inadvertent moment. A slip and twisting tumble. The crash is sharp; the crack loud. Such a quick and simple thing.
But the scorching pain: deep, crippling, and endless.
Operations and rehab do little. Each move brings agony and depression.
Life is hell.
Bill Diamond writes in the Colorado Mountains. See more at bdiamondwriting.com
Ping! Letterbox… Thwack! Liquidambar…
Matt an’ me were slingshootin’ in the front yard.
There was a shatterin’ of glass and crunchin’ of metal.
The newspaper reckoned the driver hit the light pole and died at the scene.
We argued over who shot the stone, then never spoke of it again.
Growing up, slingshooting was a fun pastime for Melanie until one day she may or may not have caused someone to receive a serious injury…
When the elevator got stuck, her heart began to pound. Her feeble hand stretched out for the call button. She couldn’t reach.
“Anyone in there?”
She gasped for the air to respond.
“Guess not. We’ll have maintenance take a look at it on Monday.”
They taped up a paper sign.
Sarah Hausman finds inspiration in her apartment building’s shoddy maintenance. She posts updates on her writing at facebook.com/sarahhausmanwrites, but probably only her mom checks it.
The stage was set against a spectacular backdrop. The supporting character, a slick, mossy, camouflaged rock, stood ready.
I played the lead perfectly, delivering my agonized one-word line with no hesitation. It was over quickly.
Alas: sweet death and the mountain had made me the star of my own tragedy.
Linda writes quotes, songs, poetry and short stories and is enjoying the challenge of writing 50 word stories. Among her wishes is to never star in her own tragedy.
The Crossing Guard stands her vigil in the rain. Sign held high, she shepherds the helpless ones against the harried, cell phone-obsessed masses.
She is always watching, but you will never see her. She was struck and killed last year, blood seeping into the crosswalk. Still, she watches.
A. Elizabeth Herting is an aspiring freelance writer and busy mother of three living in colorful Colorado. She has had stories featured in Dark Fire Fiction, Bewildering Stories, New Realm, Friday Fiction, Peacock Journal, Speculative 66, and Under the Bed. She recently completed a novel called Wet Birds Don’t Fly at Night that she is hoping to find a home for one day. See more at her website or Facebook page.
I wonder what would have become of him. The bulletproof teenage years stole his future because of a fatal flaw in reasoning. His car had defied gravity in the curve, and sixty to zero became his final act. I lived and grew old.
I wonder what will become of me.
Gordon Lysen resides at Sugar Point on Lake Manitoba. Retired from police work after some 27 years, Gordon co-authored the novel “A Deadly Blend of Souls” with his wife, Lisa. Writing and painting are Gordon’s relaxation methods when retirement becomes too stressful.
It wasn’t really a bad thing. Well, okay. So maybe it was.
No one got hurt, though. Alright, so maybe a couple.
I’m sure it was nothing that was my fault. I followed the internet instructions to a tee.
The still was most likely defective.
It was a small explosion.
Gordon Lysen resides in Manitoba, Canada and spends his time between the city of Winnipeg and his true home at Sugar Point on Lake Manitoba. Retired from police work after some 27 years, Gordon co-authored the novel “A Deadly Blend of Souls” with his wife, Lisa. Writing and painting are Gordon’s relaxation methods when retirement becomes too stressful.
“My brother bought this chainsaw on one of those internet auction sites. He said he got a great deal, lots cheaper that the home improvement stores. He always wanted to own one but wouldn’t pay retail.”
“Too bad instructions weren’t included,” said the coroner as he zipped the body bag.
Michael J. Moran is a retired university professor living in Alabama. Having left behind the writing of scientific articles and text books, he now writes short stories and flash fiction reflecting the people and culture of the anthracite coal region of Northeastern Pennsylvania where he was raised.
“What happened to you, Hank? You’re soaking wet.”
“I got caught in a flash flood.”
“In the middle of a dry spell on a sunny day?”
“Yep. I was in Wilson’s furniture store when a cowboy came in shopping for a waterbed. He plum forgot to take off his spurs.”
John H. Dromey has had short fiction published in Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine, Betty Fedora, Stupefying Stories Showcase, and elsewhere.
I took the chopped vegetables from the cutting board. Heating olive oil, I fried them with a pinch of salt and oregano, then added just the right amount of peri-peri sauce.
At dinner, hubby commented, “Amazing meat dish.”
I got rather puzzled.
Suddenly kiddo exclaimed, “Mommy’s missing left hand fingers!”
Paramita Ghosh is an ordinary lady who loves to read and collect knowledge in her spare time. She also loves sketching and painting.