The entire house was spotless. Door-tops: dustless. His own razor: hairless. Kitchen trashcan: almost trashless. He kicked it over; an empty, washed milk carton fell out.
They thought they’d beaten him. But he knew their filth was somewhere. Dirty vermin, his family.
When they returned, they’d pay for this mess.
Arthur Brown has been a teacher for a long time and hopes to be a non-teacher for longer.
Monday morning sun shines through office windows. She puts down the phone with a Cheshire grin.
He stands over her; his toupee’s lopsided, cologne reeking. “Can’t keep making typos, Jones.”
“Sorry’s not enough.”
“I’ll try harder.” She suppresses her grimace, knowing she’s just told his wife about his mistress.
L.S. Sharrow lives in Chicago and has published short stories in The Renaissance Court 2012 Anthology and in Fifty Word Stories. She is currently working on a novella, and has recently submitted two other short stories for publication.
She stood at my door
one black glove, one red
and a lacy half-veil
Good evening, ma’am
I didn’t want what she was selling
but my kids did
Of course, they hadn’t heard
the asking price
the cost-to-benefit ratios
Just the allure
I’ve been there
This story is based on the prompt “one black glove, one red,” suggested by @big_poppa_G.
Editor’s Note: for clearest interpretation, read affect as a noun, which has been, lately, one of my favourite words.
When Camille cried her crocodile tears and sang her songs of woe, it wasn’t really because she was lonely or sad. It was actually because she was a very dramatic crocodile, and she knew that great actresses could convey real emotion, so she was practicing.
That’s what she told herself.
This story is based on a title suggested by @Jesstrel.
Flashing lights seared his eyes; sirens blared in his ears; acrid odours assailed his nostrils.
There was a pressure on his chest, a rhythmic, thumping, crushing pressure. Something popped. A flood of warmth rushed through his body. His chest expanded and contracted spasmodically. He was dizzy.