The dog noticed first. Spun upright in our bed.
“What is it, Calvin?” Alert ears. Rigid tail. Low growl.
I dropped my hand under the bedframe. Grabbed the twenty-two.
When the shadow appeared in the bedroom doorway, I fired once. A practiced shot.
He won’t be coming home late anymore.
John dabbles in flash fiction while editing his (hopefully) debut novel. Taste some of his stories at JohnDavisFrain.com
Peter hadn’t inherited his father’s disease, but a child of his could. He couldn’t allow it.
“This won’t hurt,” the doctor promised. It bloody did! He deserved that for not telling Clara, who desperately wanted a baby.
A year later, Clara announced, “I’m pregnant!”
Seemed she had a secret, too.
Mary lives and writes in southeast Ireland.
We had been going at it over a year before my wife found out.
She’s truly a remarkable person: compassionate, bright, dignified, highly restrained.
She said, I believe it’s time we let you-know-who go. I’ll answer your calls, do your bookkeeping, schedule meetings. It’s time I helped manage your affairs.
Over the years Bob Thurber’s work has received a long list of awards and prizes. His most recent book is a collection of brief stories titled “Nothing But Trouble.” His first novel, “Paperboy: A Dysfunctional Novel,” was recently rereleased. Visit BobThurber.net
She told me that she’d do anything for fifty bucks.
She was shocked by my suggestion, but a deal’s a deal, and I made her do it. We played chess, and I won all three games.
I’d better not tell my wife. She’s a grandmaster, and she just wouldn’t understand.
Harry Demarest has had 20 of his 50-word stories and a few longer pieces published. He has been playing tournament chess for years, and once played chess all night with a hitchhiker he picked up in Albuquerque.
The first time you cheated on me, you cried over the phone.
“We have to talk,” you said.
We walked in bruised silence through the park, then sat and stared over the hill.
“I don’t understand,” I said at last.
“Let me explain,” you told me. “We’re not a couple.”
David still doesn’t get it completely.
Guilt burns my gut, only slightly sated by the whisky I sip.
The affair had been revenge for all the times his eyes had strayed. Joke was, I couldn’t tell him.
So my gut continues to burn as I take another sip and watch as his eyes stray once more.
Melissa is a writer, teacher, and dog lover in the Middle of Nowhere, Michigan.
Sitting alone on the plane, a pretty girl came and sat next to me. We immediately fell in love at first sight. At the end of the holiday we were really close and exchanged numbers.
Back home, I called her.
“My wife is in the shower,” said a masculine voice.
Negin Aghajari wrote this story.
“I remember when we met. You told me I was beautiful. You only had eyes for me. Should’ve known it wouldn’t last forever. But her, of all people. My sister! How could you do that to me? Answer me!”
Malcolm stayed silent, the pool of blood around his head growing.
D M Day writes flash, science and fantasy fiction, and poetry. Her work can be read on her blog Musings and Daydreams
. She loves cooking and being by the sea. She lives in Liverpool, England.
Todd’s been in the neighborhood from its earliest days. He’s seen the trees grow beyond the arbitrary boundaries of backyard fences and spread their limbs and roots into adjoining yards.
Time has a way of blurring man-made borders like that, he thinks as he wakes up beside his neighbor’s wife.
Daniel Slaten writes short stories and poetry in small notebooks and on sticky notes.
It was how she went up to him at him at the party, waiting for me to be on the other side of the room. I just knew. He’ll deny it, and say I’m being jealous or paranoid, like all the other times. But I knew.
A woman always knows.
Matthew Corey is a writer living in Brooklyn, and has poems published in Two Cities Review, Travel-taintd: Turtle-Point Press Review, and fiction in the Lascaux Review.