Poseidon drew the short straw.
Hera sighed. “Yes, they’re irredeemable. But I’ll miss those goofballs. Their bridges, computers, MAS*H… Genius.”
The trident swung. The floodwaters flowed. The underworld gained eight billion souls.
Hephaestus prepared the drafting table. “Okay. Humans 2.0.”
Aphrodite nudged Ares aside. “This time, I’ll lead the design.”
Jen Mierisch draws inspiration from science fiction, ghost stories, and the wacky idiosyncrasies of human nature. She lives, works, and writes just outside Chicago, Illinois.
I can’t believe I’m in the hospital from an asthma attack. I’ve never had one this bad before.
Before I can call Mom, she calls me.
She says, “Your twin sister is in the hospital. She’s okay, but she almost drowned.”
Ugh. I should have known this was her fault.
RJ Gordon is a wildlife biologist and environmental educator located in Upstate New York.
It’s actually a story of convergence Shirley shared—of ideas, opportunities, will. A tale where hope is unravelled by hope. It involved:
- Her 150 pound husband.
- A water ski rope.
- Two 60 pound huskies.
- A new pair of rollerblades.
- A freshly paved road.
- A fence.
- And a wandering cat.
Hayden Kamide is an unpublished fictional writer from Central New York. He is trying to keep his byline to twenty (shoot!)
Attempting to be funny, Sherman asked our eccentric math professor what “infinity” was.
The professor smiled and took a piece of chalk and drew a line around the room fifty times, before dragging it past the classroom door, down the long corridor, to his car.
We never saw him again.
Ran Walker is the author of the forthcoming 50-word story collection THE STRANGE MUSEUM. He credits this site with inspiring him to write so many stories.
I plant strawberries in a pot on the windowsill.
“Easy to grow!” the packet promises. My mouth waters as I imagine juicy, home-grown fruit.
Soon, they sprout.
Days later, they’re limp and dead. I forgot to water them. Again.
Maybe this time, I tell myself as I purchase tomato seeds.
Elena is 14 years old. When she’s not writing, she can usually be found doing homework or procrastinating.
Legs straight, toes pointed, epicenter straddle split. Stand tall, back tree solid, arms regal, fingers pretty, chin queen high.
Grandkids whoop and holler and beg, more more! Curtsy regrets; hip pops on the low bend. Smile. Massage silent. Babies wheel the yard, breathless with dynamic pliable hips, mute with youth.
Sheree Shatsky writes short fiction believing much can be conveyed with a few wild words. Her work has been published in a variety of journals including The Dead Mule School of Southern Literature, Bending Genres, New Flash Fiction Review, KYSO Flash and The Conium Review with work forthcoming at Fictive Dream and Saw Palm: Florida Literature and Art. She is twice-nominated for Best Microfiction 2020 by Fictive Dream and MoonPark Review. Read more of her work at shereeshatsky.com. She tweets at @talktomememe.
The camel moved on through the desert, unsure of itself, afraid. The weight was astounding. That one creature should subject another to that sort of treatment struck the camel as confusing, upsetting even.
The man bent over and picked something off the roadside.
There was a gasp from the camel.
K. Anne Burton is a Brit with a life-long love of reading and stories. She can usually be found re-reading the works of Tennessee Williams.
A star performer was missing from the dog and pony show.
“Where’s your trick pony?” the ringmaster asked the head of the equestrian troupe. “The filly that answers questions involving numbers by the tapping of a front hoof.”
“Trixie’s out with tendonitis. Some wiseacre asked her how old Methuselah was.”
John H. Dromey’s short fiction has been published in Mystery Weekly Magazine and over one-hundred-fifty other venues.
Mustering her dignity, she says to the amused maître d’ – “I don’t usually produce crackers from my person”.
They regard the salty rectangle on the tastefully tiled floor, recently evacuated from her folded coat.
He runs appreciative eyes over her. “I’m just waiting to see if there will be cheese.”
Jordana Connor is a long-time scribbler and fledgling submitter of short stories and flash fiction. She enjoys excruciatingly bad puns, delicious swear words, and the Oxford comma. She lives in Brisbane.
Shoes have started to follow me around the Internet. What do they know about me already? I don’t want to touch them because I know what will happen if I do. It will only encourage them. There will be more of them. Legions of them, marching marching into my eyes.
Richard Neville is trying to write something every day. Today it was this. Only this.