You cut your heart into the shape of a rose and fill your chest with acorns. We eat the rose with some chianti on your birthday.
Afterward, you say this is the best birthday you’ve ever had and stuff your mouth with cake as squirrels braid your hair for winter.
Erik Fuhrer is the author of Not Human Enough for the Census, forthcoming from Vegetarian Alcoholic Press. His work has been published in Cleaver, BlazeVox, Softblow, and various other venues. See more at erik-fuhrer.com.
I saw her in French class and knew I had to have her heart.
I pictured it: big, lovely, and full of life, the perfect one for me.
I wined and dined her and when the time came, she offered it. I accepted.
I had her heart. It was delicious.
Chelsea Roberts is a writer from Trinidad and Tobago. When she isn’t laying on a sandy beach, she can be found writing essays and micro fiction at pastpaperanswers.com.
A void sits in between his rib cages; he lacks the beating bit of flesh that makes humans human. So, she fills the emptiness with memories of overgrown moss and poisonous flowers, along with false promises of eternity.
It is the closest thing to her heart that she can give.
Penny Senanarong is currently an A-Level student who grew up in the bustling city of Bangkok. Although Thai is her mother tongue, the world of English language and literature fascinates her, and she wishes to be a part of it through writing fiction.
Wilson is always left behind at the end.
Alone in the theater, he is waist deep in velvet chairs, all patrons discharged into the aortic pumping of a New York City evening.
The last systole of music ascends to the rafters and all conversation absorbs into the carpeted floor.
Molly Hill lives, writes, and runs a lot of trail miles in her home state of Minnesota, even in the winter.
Sweet, but a little dull. He liked YouTube and drawing crazy stuff; could have been an artist if it weren’t for me.
We thought the food of the gods was cute stuff like ambrosia. It’s not. I ate Jack. Not all of him, just that bloody, soppy heart.
Claire Martin is an almost-graduate student who must get a job, or learn to eat dust.
She had a burning but unrequited love. The way to a man’s heart is through his stomach, so she transformed herself into a microorganism and crawled up his intestines.
She discovered some deep fried fig newtons in there, which intensified her affections.
She lived in his heart until he died.
Based on a title suggested by Dan Hingston via Facebook.
They found him in his living room.
He was known to drink to excess, but this was different. Everyone knew two things about Bill: he never wasted alcohol, and he kept his newspapers immaculate.
He’d spilled beer all over the paper. That’s how they knew it was a heart attack.
This story was based on a prompt from @davefp via Twitter. I asked for two nouns and a verb, and he supplied paper, heart, and drink.