Granny Nanny’s mean.
She dances to pounding music then oils her knees.
I hide the oil can.
She creaks and freezes, right in front of the fridge.
I’m starving. I can’t reach the handle. I’m too small to push her out of the way.
Fine. I get the oil can.
Brenda Anderson‘s fiction has appeared in Andromeda Spaceways, A Cappella Zoo, Punchnel’s, and Penumbra. She lives in Adelaide, South Australia.
“A salad,” she ordered, waving the unopened menu.
“Certainly. Which salad would you like?”
She looked up, momentarily, then back to the phone. “I don’t care. A salad, with leaves and salad stuff in it.”
The waiter brought dandelion leaves he picked himself, from out back where the dogs go.
Stuart is absent without leave from the majority of life and finds that writing helps him remain that way. He occasionally blogs a story at diamondsanddross.blogspot.com.
In the castle dungeon, seven little men were strung up, waiting for a turn on the rack.
“All right,” said the Prince, flicking his whip, “anyone want to confess? No? Then let’s begin. You’re up first, Happy.”
After the birth of Princess Snow White’s half-dwarf daughter, things had gotten ugly.
Eliza Archer writes flash fiction and drinks too much coffee. She can be found at elizaarcher.com.
Being the world’s humblest man was hard work at the best of times.
Will looked back on his journey: the full page advertisements, the talk show appearances, the posters he had erected along interstate highways proclaiming his humility.
He was humble all right, and he’d fight anyone who thought differently.
Connell enjoys a good oxymoron. Unfortunately, this is not one of those. See more of his literary misadventures at paragraphplanet, home.wtd-magazine.com and postcardshorts.com.
What had been planet Yardinvert was now a cluster of brown bits. Bulging eyes encircled Lord Lapso. He was relieved his black hood obscured his gawk.
“You’ll die for this!” exclaimed one hostage.
The dark lord sighed. Note to self: keep some distance between the finger and button when bluffing.
Joey wasn’t interested in writing while at school but has been writing on his own in recent years. He doesn’t really care that Alderaan was peaceful nor how many Bothans died to bring you this story. Cos he’s a jerk, that’s why.
I stood and listened as Dianne said clever things that belonged to someone else: my jokes, her boyfriend’s politics, Lily’s favorite “literary fiction”. She didn’t have a single original thought or first-hand knowledge of anything.
She did, however, have yogurt on her chin, and this made it all okay.
Katy lives on a sheep farm in Wilder with too many chickens, not ever enough border collies, and her spleen, full of vent.
“See Spot run!” yelled Dick.
“Why?” responded Jane.
“Huh?” replied Dick.
“Why?” repeated Jane.
“Uhmm,” said Dick.
“I have a million things to get done at home today,” Jane continued. “Why should I look at a stupid running dog?”
“Uhhm…” Dick mumbled.
“My mother warned me I’d regret this marriage.”
Michael Coolen is a performance artist, pianist, composer, actor, and writer who lives in Corvallis, Oregon.
“What is this colorless swill? Offensively bland tonic; completely odorless. I’ve had my eye on you. I know you despise me. What are you playing at, giving me this vile, mundane concoction? I demand answers! Is it arsenic? Are you trying to poison me, sir?”
“Go home, Sam. You’re drunk!”
Anita Roberts Soupir lives in rural North Dakota. She is a freelance writer and owner of the cooking blog theunabashedkitchenwench.blogspot.com. She is also a member of Scribophile.com and CritiqueCircle.com. Her latest project, Don’t Trifle With Me, is the first in a series of 6 books called The Dessert Club.
Sarah stared at the hamster. “Mom, where’s Poppy?”
“Right there, sweetheart.” Mom hoped Sarah couldn’t tell the
difference. Old Poppy had died and she’d replaced him with a
“But it’s much smaller.”
“Maybe he’s lost weight.”
Sarah mulled it over. “Overnight? I wish Poppy could tell you his secret.”
Sylvia Heike lives in Finland and loves her rabbits, even when they nibble on her books. She writes poetry and flash fiction and is
working on her novel. Check out her website at www.sylviaheike.com
The day the little flat screen in the kitchen blew up, Heidi and Jim Colton knew they were in trouble. They listened to the loud hiss of static and watched the frantic swirling of tiny snowflakes blanketing the screen.
For the first time in years, they would have to speak.
Recently retired, Marian Brooks
has begun to write some short fiction. Her work has appeared in Word Riot, Slice, The Short Humour Site, The Linnet’s Wings and others.