She’s painting white against white. It’s an octopus—I know from illuminated glances, stolen when the desk lamp lights each colorless ridge and layer—but to the passing eye, it’s just an empty frame on the textured wall. She shuts the door against me to add another layer of madness.
Gretchen has an octopus painting on her wall, but she supposes you do, too.
She’d always been the good girl, the dutiful daughter, even-tempered wife and loving, supportive mother.
A woman with endless reservoirs of patience and good intentions, which made her popular with those far from home.
She’d folded her passion away in a place no one would ever look.
Until that day.
SG has a vivid imagination and lives in Brisbane, Australia.
Mean as cancer when no one is looking
Smile, smile, smile otherwise
He walks the dog to feel anything
His unkindness pounds in her head as people look
Neighborhood trash receptors are emptied for the week
The dog poops twice on the walk
He carries both home; people are looking
TPA is currently living her literary dream of creating flash fiction from home in Atlanta, Georgia, where she studied writing at Oglethorpe University.
Roy shifts the heavy workbench, studies the contours in the blanket of dust beneath. Pencils, nutshells. And glasses: thick, over-sized, cracked. Alan.
A breath, a quick polish, and his reflection blinks back at him. It’s changed since he last saw it in those lenses, moments before they hit the floor.
Richard Day Gore followed his passion for several arts from Virginia to Manhattan, where he worked as Senior Editor of a publishing house specializing in medical anthologies. The experience left him with Chronic Adjective Deprivation Syndrome, the treatment for which is writing fiction. He’s permanently recuperating in Southern California, where he also paints and writes music.