I don’t know what possessed me to do it.
I was tired, feverish, losing my voice. That night, I’d had the audacity to ask for help with the boys at bedtime.
His words stung; I was very angry.
But I was smiling as I swished his toothbrush in the toilet.
Michelle is an award-winning author and poet. She is a contributor in Chicken Soup for the Soul: The Spirit of Canada, and was a quarter finalist in the 2017 ScreenCraft Short Screenplay contest. Her writing has appeared in The Globe and Mail (one of Canada’s National newspapers) and a number of local magazines and newspapers including The Briar Crier, Total Sports, Voice of the Farmer, Arts Talk and Focus 50 Plus. Her short story “Lightning Strikers” (also featured on Commuter Lit) was made into a series in the Focus 50 + Newspaper because fans asked for more! In 2018, Michelle won the Ontario Writers Conference Story Starter Contest in two categories. You can find her online at commuterlit.com, fiftywordstories.com, femininecollective.com, michelledinnick.com, and @MichelleDinnick.
First thing out was my suit. Next went my helmet, violently followed by my books.
She’d always had a good arm and a bad temper.
Obviously I’m next, which would be bearable if we were on Earth rather than a spaceship.
Well, at least I won’t hear her screaming anymo—
Joey doesn’t mind travelling through space even if there is a risk that she’ll blow him out of the airlock. You can visit him at joeytoey.com.
Her limbs ached. Her heart ached, too. Wasn’t time supposed to heal all wounds?
She’d caught him in lie after lie. “I never want to see you again!” she’d screamed.
She looked down at the blue planet below. She’d slept five years in the spacecraft’s hibernation pod.
Maybe she’d over-reacted.
AJ Joseph is a bookaholic, semi-insomniac, unsuccessful recovering javaholic, and most importantly a writer. She occasionally writes on her blog, Words from Sonobe
The man runs toward the café. His red coat and yellow umbrella are bursts of color in the rainy gray.
Earlier, he slammed the door shut at our home because of a misunderstanding.
He smiles as he sits at my table, erasing the stinging words we threw at each other.
Gabriela Abraxas lives and writes in Los Angeles.
I see him. He’s large. Grey. Fat. His angry growls ripple slowly up his hairy neck, his ugly eyes glaring evilly at me.
But I’m not leaving here without a fight.
My sharp claws pierce the ground. I bare my teeth at him. Ginger fur rises above me.
Issy Heath is a 13-year-old pupil at Longhill High School in Brighton, UK.
Carleton arrived at the office Christmas party sporting a black eye.
“How’d you get that shiner?” his boss asked.
“Boxing Day,” Carleton said.
“But that isn’t until the twenty-sixth and has nothing to do with fighting.”
“Tell that to the shopper who thought I’d blocked him from a doorbuster deal.”
John H. Dromey had a 725-word story, Hunger Gamesmanship, posted on the Stupefying Stories Showcase website on November 4, 2014.
Quiet ceased as the storm began. The rainfall drowned out the sounds of his footfalls as he rushed forward to his foe, knife in hand.
He slashed and tore. Wires dangled and lines leaked their fluids.
His job was done. This mechanical monster would not fell another tree.
Brandon Magruder wrote this story.
He brought her two slices of blackened toast, apricot preserves slathered on like burn salve.
“I made breakfast. Sorry about last night.”
“It smells terrible.”
“And sorry I can’t cook,” he said, perched on the edge of the bed like an uncertain sparrow.
They went out for pancakes.
Amy Locke received her BA in English from the University of Iowa. Her fiction has been published by monkeybicycle.net, bewilderingstories.com, and crackthespine.com. She currently lives in Iowa with her husband, daughter, and two silly dogs.
Dave expected her to acknowledge his fearless and effective confrontation of the dangerous street gang in the front yard. Praise, awe, even an exceptionally enthusiastic hug came to mind.
What came, though, was silence. No recognition. No accolades. No big hug. He didn’t understand.
Hadn’t he done as he should?
Rock Conner writes stories In Atlanta.
Out of cold blackness a hooded guy, kid maybe, waved a switchblade. “Gimme yer money, boy.”
“Got no money.” I dropped the newspaper bag and by dumb luck grappled the knife away. He got cut pretty good and ran off, howling.
I kept the knife and never saw him again.
Gary Clifton, forty years a cop has short fiction pieces published or pending on over twenty online sites.