Carol had never understood Bob. A prominent attorney, he always crossed his t’s and dotted his i’s, but he couldn’t put down a toilet seat.
She filed a complaint; they settled out of court.
She said she simply wouldn’t stand for it anymore, so he agreed not to.
They’re still married.
Susan Gale Wickes lives in Indiana. This is her first story about a toilet seat.
After the strange cow—on our land that night, yet unbranded—nipped Pete, we watched him close for a month, and, this proving wise, every full moon thereafter, until Ma, Mellie, and I returned from vacation to find Pa’s dementia had deepened, and over a mouthful of burger, Mellie asked, “Where’s Pete?”
Graham Robert Scott teaches writing at a university in north Texas. His stories have appeared in Barrelhouse Online, Nature, and Blink-Ink. See more at hemicyon.wordpress.com.
I stand at the rear of the chapel, amongst those paying their respects. All familiar faces, yet no-one speaks to me. Too grief-stricken, perhaps?
Who chose this godawful music?
Then she appears! We haven’t spoken since she took off with my man. She has some nerve coming to my funeral!
To avoid any awkwardness at her own funeral, Melanie has pre-planned the service arrangements and music and will most likely be regularly updating her invited-guests-only list.
When I woke, he stood by our bed, his suit muddy, eyes clouded, skin sickly pale.
“I’m home,” he croaked around his decomposing tongue.
“You shouldn’t be. You’re death walking again, honey.”
“Can I stay?”
“I wish…”
Taking his icy hand, I led him from the house, towards the cemetery.
GB is a writer from Tasmania. She prefers grey areas to the clarity of light and dark.
Maybe he’s the one.
Religion – check.
Education – check.
Humor – check.
Looks – check!
Here he comes.
Smile, fix your hair.
He’s sitting down.
Is he as nervous as I am?
Spaghetti for us both, please.
Slurp.
Gnash.
Chomp.
Harrumphumphmmmglurp.
He chews with his mouth open?
Abominable man!
Neanderthal.
Troglodyte.
Check – please.
Alexandra chomp always has mmmfglurp impeccable omnomnom table manners until there’s hothothotooohhhot food involved.
All Hallows Eve. The most popular haunted house in town was as dark as the inside of an uncarved pumpkin. Not one of its clockwork creatures was stirring.
Why?
The property was under new management. The penny-pinching promoter took one look at his scary electric bill and pulled the plug.
John H. Dromey has a story “Cross Genre Traffic Does Not Stop” reprinted online in Unfit Magazine.
Editor: I should have re-titled this story “Who Turned Out the Frights?”
Soul-pain and heartache of days that are gone:
festering things fed by dread and dismay
pounding dark avalanche rolls on and on.
I am its echo, recording per se,
an hour’s background static in the green aisle
rumbling I’ve NOTHING TO DECLARE. Make way
For this humble outmoded cassette tape.
Irish writer Perry McDaid lives in Derry under the brooding brows of Donegal hills which he occasionally hikes in search of druidic inspiration. He even finds it on occasion.
When Heinrich did not die at the apex of his actuarial bell curve, he felt intense relief; blessed. He loved his world as he never had; he felt the breeze as he sat on his deck overlooking the mountains; he squeezed the hand of his spouse
for one sublime second.
T.A. Young’s short story “Stooped” was published in The First Line magazine, summer issue 2017. His poetry appears in the October 2018 issue of Anti-Heroin Chic. You can find his literary reviews on his Instagram page, #thelitreview. He lives and works in New York City.
“They grew a new veggie,” Jane announced excitedly. “It’s supposed to taste like fried chicken. Wanna go and try some?”
“And if it’s no good, we’ll get diarrhea again,” Clara replied dryly.
“Come on, that hasn’t happened since the eggplant incident. And they just didn’t boil the eggs long enough.”
Johanna B. Stumpf is a German millennial, living and working in Norway. She is fairly new to fiction writing, but she did enough academic writing to earn a PhD in Computer Science from the University of Oslo.
Leroy orders online. Two weeks later the package arrives.
It is a head that looks exactly like Leroy.
When his work robot arrives home, he removes its head and replaces it with the new one.
Leroy will wait a month and then try to talk the robot into trading places.
Denny E. Marshall has had art, poetry, and fiction published, including fiction in Night To Dawn October 2018. See more at dennymarshall.com.