“Wellness check,” the policeman said. “Are you okay, ma’am?
“A cut from a tin can lid,” the woman said, holding up a bandaged finger. “Otherwise, I’m fine. Why do you ask?”
“You replied to your fiancé’s recent romantic emails with wildly enigmatic emojis. Maybe you should give him a call.”
John H. Dromey has had short fiction, humor, and poetry published in hundreds of venues.
Too noisy, I say, but he cannot hear
Above the din of drill and saw
Again I try: Too noisy, neighbour,
as backhoe rips the ground to shreds
But he only stares, hands on hips
as his home reshapes before his eyes
I’m left to wonder: can he read lips?
Joan Skura writes from Toronto, Canada, where she lives with her husband, Ron, and their finicky feline, Lola.
After school, I would follow the railroad home. I walked the iron bars step by step by deliberate step, pretending it was a tightrope in the sky and touching the gravel was the equivalent of falling to my death.
To be honest, talking to you gives me the same feeling.
Alison Mirabella is a librarian-by-day, writer-by-night and grad- student-for-whatever-time-is-left living on Long Island. She has nothing published yet, but she is really good at making tiny origami stars. That’s something, right? Check out her Tumblr: i-a-m.tumblr.com