“Hey! Stick your head out, Yank. Need some target practice.”
“How ’bout this, Reb?”
“Dang! You got ham?”
“Reckon. Whatchew got?”
“Meetcha middle the creek.”
“Hold your fire! Ham for tobacco!”
“‘Preciate it, Reb. Been dyin’ for a smoke.”
“Yup. How’s Mama?”
“Sends you her love.”
Henry F. Tonn is a semi-retired psychologist who has written a sterling novel entitled “Ascent to Madness, Zelda Fitzgerald’s Gilded Cage” which is is having a great deal of difficulty finding a home in the publishing world.
“We need to talk.”
“I’m sorry!” he shouted, thinking he knew what she wanted. “I’m sorry I hurt you. I’m sorry I can’t be the son you want. I’m sorry I can’t get my life together. You want perfection… I’m only human.”
“Ah,” she said, smiling sadly. “But you’re not.”
is, in fact, only human. She makes up for this about writing stories about people and things who are not.
“Cappucino, love. Quick.”
He yanks the cup from my hand, throws change in my direction, and dives off, ticket in mouth. And the next suited man goes. And the next. I watch from under my cap.
The barriers slide open and each one glides off. The counter pens me in.
Matthew Keeley is a teacher and writer from Central Scotland. He is currently seeking representation for his first science fiction novel, ‘Turning the Hourglass’.
The baby dolls go with her everywhere. She cuddles the pale-faced one and croons, “Wittle sweet,” then kisses the dark-faced one and sings, “Wittle deaw.”
Everyone asks me why her babies have different skins.
I shrug. “She loves babies of all kinds.”
Why, they wonder.
I ask myself, Why not?
Rachelle Dawson is a wife, mama, and writer who loved books and baby dolls as a child. Now that she has her own children, she is rediscovering the delight of children’s literature and short stories. You can find more of her work at WritingRachelle.com
Mess-ups. Scratch-outs. We all have our moments. Life is full of mistakes. We all make them. It’s what makes us human. Our imperfections make us perfect in our own way.
But when we work together, we can overcome our imperfections and be an (almost) perfect team.
Even with our flaws.
Abby Morehouse is a 7th grader who recently started writing 50-word stories. She hopes to continue writing.
The robots found the poet sleeping in an abandoned car. “You are charged with public drunkenness, tax evasion, and vagrancy. Surrender immediately.”
“I will, so long as you answer this question. Why does a cat sleep in the window?”
He smiled and closed his eyes as they contacted Central Server.
Jeff Holland is a handyman struggling to write. Fifty-word stories keep him sane. He needs to post more on his blog.
The alien invaders were dead.
This was our world after all. Men were once again free to work out their own destiny, for better or worse, without interference.
Man might fail, but if he does he will fail on his own terms.
If he succeeds… The universe will surely weep.
Justin Moody lives in Texas with his wife and three sons, and is a reader and writer of short fiction. Follow him on Twitter.
The Infinite Spirit tipped Its head back and sighed, puffed out galaxies. Countless images and scents of Imperfection surged through Chaos. The Infinite Spirit lowered Its horns. And then It died.
Traces of Imperfection seared themselves on newborn stars. Those that remained found sanctuary on Earth. The Imperfections became men.
Danny Vagnoni is a highly esteemed writer at Moravian College. His fiction has been performed and published.
Yes. This tour is quite legal.
Observe the unnecessary space.
The quietness is rather extraordinary, isn’t it?
I respectfully disagree. It’s quite orthodox to contemplate the aliens’ mind set.
This is a complex carbohydrate. This is alcohol. Please activate your toxicity filters.
This is not illegal.
Please eat and drink.
Deborah thinks: least said, soonest mended. Find her on her blog: Deborah Walker’s Bibliography.
One, two, crackle, crack, three, five, ten eggs snap open. Mother Sauropod watches her family emerge from a crevice in cooled molten rock.
They wiggle between ferns, over wooden debris, broken concrete. Past skeletal remains: “Homo sapiens,” the mother states.
Nearby lies a torn book cover, words “global warming” intact.
Krystyna Fedosejevs lives in Edmonton, Alberta. She writes and publishes poetry as well as flash fiction.