Woke up on a different side of the mirror this morning, looking at a child who believed in herself and her dreams. I watched, helpless, as she was introduced to this devils’ haven.
I saw her life fly by, watched her sparkle flicker. Falter. Fade.
I miss being that child.
Gretchen Ivers is not quite sure why all of her stories turn out so morbid.
Once upon a time I had a son, as familiar to me as my own hands.
For years, his sweet face betrayed nothing about his struggles.
One day he left unannounced and upon his return two years later, he was no longer my son.
Please smile. I gained a daughter.
Claire Polders is a Dutch author writing short prose in English. More of her work can be found at clairepolders.com
. She likes it when readers say “hello” to her on Twitter
When my mother fell pregnant, I wished for the baby to die.
My sister’s looming arrival changed us all. I pretended to busy myself with my toys as my parents discussed their problems. Another mouth to feed was too much.
When labour pains kicked in, I’d already packed my bag.
Mark Farley’s nose is to the NaNoWriMo
grindstone. His zombie novella “Grans & Ammo” is available on Amazon.
“You’re home. Dinner’s on the counter. The kids have been a nightmare.”
His eyes move past me, his keys slide across the cold granite. He finds a plate, and walks to his office. The screen’s glow illuminates the man I once knew, now silent.
I close the door.
Delancey Stewart is a fiction writer living in Southern Maryland. When no indulging her imagination, she works for the man as a tech writer and tends two small boys who, her husband assures her, are hers. Find her at http://delanceystewart.wordpress.com.
When he wanted to stay in bed, he imitated a cozy blanket.
When he wanted to keep playing outside, he made himself look like a tree.
When he didn’t want to eat his broccoli, he blended into his chair.
Dad was usually fooled, but Mom could see right through it.
This story was based on a title suggested by @Vigafray.
Dad was jolted awake and screamed. Then he screamed again, but differently.
Mom ran in. Dad lay face-down, groaning.
Little Samantha stood beside him, holding a sparking wire.
Dad raised his head, and Mom saw… a toddler’s face?
“Samantha, what did you do?!”
“I electrocuted him,” she grinned.
“Darling Cynthia, please give me just one more chance!”
“Why should I settle for an imperfect suitor?” sniffed Cynthia. “You answered a question wrong!”
“I’ll change my answer! I’ll change anything! Just tell me how!”
Cynthia considered. “Fine, one more chance. After all, I am the fairest of them all.”
This story is based on a title suggested by @Sir_Oddington.
Seven-year-old Kyle sold strawberries on Saturdays. He got exactly six customers every hour; he counted them.
Then one Saturday, between one o’clock PM and two o’clock PM, he had nine customers.
Three of them didn’t buy anything, though. “The more things change,” Kyle sighed, “the more they stay the same.”