“Tell me about your girlfriend.”
“Lucinda calls herself a witch but I have my doubts. When she tried some closeup magic, she wasn’t very good at it.”
“Did she cause you to break out in a rash?”
“No. These red marks are where she accidentally jabbed me with her wand.”
John H. Dromey stands tall but often writes short.
The A/C crashes and I am alone, wishing for love. The heat creeps in. I sigh, knowing sleep will be difficult.
My head hits the pillow and I stick my foot out for relief. I hear from under the bed, “I’ll always love you.” And then claws tickle my foot.
Lucas Chapman studies English and History at Saint Louis University. He enjoys eating toasted ravioli and running unnecessary distances.
I sent you home with leftovers,
delicious homemade soup
spooned into a nice glass bowl
with a BPA-free lid.
I didn’t expect to never see you or it again.
I should have used a take-out container
from a less memorable meal.
You are quite forgettable.
It’s the bowl I miss.
Robin Lubatkin sings with the very young, the very old, and everyone in between.
She waits, in ambush…
Her DNA matches an amber-enveloped relative, one who drew blood from the Tyrannosaurus Rex.
She is of the Clan Culicidae, razor proboscis, a highlander’s blade.
Sweating, hiding undercover, I fall asleep, exposing an ankle. She launches, a creature from a Bram Stoker novel.
Bloodlust… Ectoparasite prevails.
Paul Hock is an author, illustrator, and storyteller. See more of his writing at paulhock.com.
Stare all you want, I think. It’s not happening.
I walk past without looking. I am young, beautiful, entering the ceramics shop. He is invisible.
Leaving, I am struck
by the sound of a vase smashing, by blood at my temple.
“I need a description,” says the officer.
Natasha de Carvalho, a British writer, is a newbie to flash fiction, a genre discovered at the Iowa Summer Writing Festival. This is her first published piece, but hopefully not her last.
Married to her prince at last, Cinderella was presented with a glass crown, in honour of her famous slipper. A week later, after the courtiers had laughed merrily at gifts of a glass throne, a glass dining table, and a matching set of glass cutlery, Cinders bought herself a sledgehammer.
Mark Farley writes novels, flash fiction and the occasional poem. See more at mumbletoes.blogspot.com.
You explained her as a wild, last craze
In a desperate, lost Lothario haze
And I dismissed her as a mid-life phase
But the heart clots when a partner strays
So you’ll find for our remaining days
I will spite you in a thousand ways
Like “forgetting” to buy mayonnaise.
Jo Withers would like to reassure everyone that she remains very happily married with a plentiful supply of condiments. You can follow Jo on Twitter.
“Remember,” she said to her client, “just because you can’t think of anything new to write this moment doesn’t mean the world is going to end.”
The poet agreed and wished his agent a good night as she walked to the garden gate.
She didn’t make it.
No one did.
Harris Coverley wrote this story.
Thanks for your cursory note referring to my multiple submissions as “it.”
I would reply more personally, but the volume of rejections received does not permit.
I have carefully considerd every word of your canned response.
Incidentally, two of the pieces have already been published elsewhere.
Phil Huffy wrote this story.
We clung to each other in the dryer. Spinning socks became whirling dervishes in a passionate dance.
Unceremoniously thrown onto the hard surface. I was the only one left. Widowed now, and no one else can be my mate.
I’ve resorted to cuddling up to a lint ball.
Making people laugh, especially while they’re swallowing big spoonfuls of soup, is one of Diane Malk’s goals. She is a writer from Colorado who shudders at the sight of snow every winter and is certain she lived in the tropics in a previous life. Diane has been published in Mad Swirl, Hackwriters, and Scarlet Leaf Review. She is working on her first book and always has a craft project in the works.