I step in something cold, slimy on the kitchen tile.
Gelatin-encased golden suns. Crushed shells.
Gwen is slumped in the corner, rage melted.
I grease up a pan, ignite the burner, scoop up the ruined eggs with a spatula, and toss them into the spitting oil.
Then help her stand.
Tim Boiteau writes and lives near Detroit with his wife and son.
Hello.
I had to tell you, you parked beautifully. I know this note is weird, but today’s my Mom’s funeral and the caterer didn’t show and I hit a dog. I had to say something nice to someone or I would shrivel into a ball of sorrow and disappear.
Bri
Cynthia Franks is an award-winning playwright and fiction writer. She believes writing 50-word stories is the best practice for a writer and issues a 50-word story challenge each month on her website, franklywrite.com.
Some folks say that when a red moon crests the horizon, twenty-three percent of the world’s pregnant women are within an hour (in either direction) of giving birth.
Me? I say it’s more like eighteen percent. A lot of folks like to exaggerate. I found that out the hard way.