The house began to eat itself. It had no other choice, having grown sluggish and depressed from the family secrets rotting inside its crevices.
Help would’ve come if anyone asked, but no one recognized its deep decay. It had been staged for sale, appearing in peak condition from the outside.
Lisa Alletson is an emerging writer whose work has been published in The Globe and Mail, Ginosko Literary Journal, and The Write Launch. She was born in South Africa and lives in Toronto, Canada. Follow her on Twitter at @LisaAlletson.
He swallowed me whole each evening, coughing me up the next day in time for school. He consumed my childhood and my parents’ relationship. Comfort came from the belly rumble of the boiler, the hot breath of the stove. Eventually he spat me out – a hairball tumbling in the wind.
Mark Farley writes novels, flash fiction and the occasional poem.
Edward hasn’t gone into the basement in awhile, the stairs as old and rickety as he is. He trembles, stares at the door.
Something on the other side wants out of the basement, into the house. It knocks, politely. At first.
Edward turns to run as the door groans open.
Madeline Mora-Summonte reads, writes, and breathes fiction in all its forms. She is the author of the flash fiction collection The People We Used to Be. See more at her blog.
By a riverbank.
I built me a house.
Scarcely visibly to the eyes of the clouds,
I built me a little life,
Just across the way from humanity,
close to tranquility.
I mistake the canopy for heaven,
my skin for earth.
A place to cherish,
Omer Zamir is 23, a poet, and very happy to share his works.
Our house made scary sounds in the storm. Ma said don’t worry; the house is complaining about the rain.
Our house made scary noises at night. Ma said it was settling down to sleep.
Aunt and uncle came to visit. The house made scary sounds. Ma said it was eating.
Joe Malone is living alone in Africa in a mud house. His blog is here: http://joem18b.wordpress.com/.
“Honey, I’ve made a fairly significant purchase,” he told his wife.
“Is it a car?” she asked.
“Is it a house?” she asked.
“Is it a Learjet?” she asked.
“Is it a small South American island nation?” she asked.
“Yes,” he said. “It’s all on our very own Minecraft server!”
Priscilla the porcupine kept a tidy house. She dusted regularly and opened the windows so she could smell the lavender in the garden.
Hers was an idyllic home.
On Tuesdays she flew a flag and shot at the tax man. The one thing Priscilla loved more than tidiness was freedom.
Normally I try to take prompts from different people, but when @MisterFiendZero gave me this prompt, along with the previous one, I knew I had to go with both.
“Someone’s in my house trying to kill me!” cried Timothy Thicke into his cell phone. “I’m by my bathroom window.”
“Duck, please,” said Evan Edgelow into his bluetooth headset, two thousand yards away.
Edgelow fired his sniper rifle.
“Got him,” Edgelow said. “He was coming up behind you.”
He poured concrete. He laid bricks. He hammered nails into wood.
He stapled tar paper. He put up siding. He packed insulation into the walls.
He spread out shingles. He rented a truck. He carried boxes. He painted. He assembled furniture.
Then his wife walked out.
He sold the house.