It’s not your fault, Son. After all you went through, they still didn’t follow instructions.
“It didn’t work. There’s too much suffering. What can we do?”
Shut it down. Just like I started it 6024 years ago.
And God said, “Let there be no light.”
And there was no light.
Harry Demarest wrote this story.
She stumbled in, water trickling down her legs. A sharp pain squeezed her and she bellowed a wild cry.
Between the pains, she opened her eyes. A pair of black marbles stared back at her. The donkey matched her pitch and brayed, to which she replied, “The King is coming.”
Maja Scheler is a creative writer and Spanish-speaking enthusiast residing in the Pacific Northwest. Mother to three boys, her days are wild and rewarding.
“You can’t wear that!”
“It’s hot pink, and too short!”
“We’re going to church!”
“Jesus won’t mind.”
“But your legs. Everyone will see-”
“I’ll wear what I want, when I want.”
Elderly Mrs. Franks wore the dress to church, scarred legs and all.
Kelsey Josephson is an introvert who enjoys connecting with others through writing and mixed-media. She lives with her husband, two young children, and a very sensible cat. She can be found on Instagram.
The man watched in the darkness as the officers arrested his “friend” and led him away.
He had alerted the government. Was he a traitor?
Some said the captive was a crackpot, while others loved him.
Once again, he counted out his reward money and sighed.
Thirty pieces of silver.
Joe Thomas wrote this story.
Finding easy ways to explain words and concepts was what she did best, although when she explained Jesus, the cross, burial, and rising from the dead, one of her students looked anxious: “You mean like a zombie?”
With no simple explanation she pondered and slowly said, “…Yes. Something like that.”
Connell wrote this based on a true story from an ESL teacher.
“I’m sorry,” she said, “I just don’t like fish. It’s the little bones, you see.”
“Oh. Well, I’m afraid it’s all there is, apart from bread,” he replied.
“I hate bread!” she fumed.
“Then go complain,” he replied. “I think that guy with the beard and sandals arranged the catering.”
Alex Sinclair was born in the winter of 1973 in Nottingham, England, and, on the cusp of his 40th birthday, is still trapped there. He longs for a looser, more liberal society where his own shaky morality and absurd beliefs could find succor and praise. Until that day, he bides his time, waiting to pounce like a graying and jaded ocelot. To amuse him and occupy all available time for the next 40 years of his life, he has just become father to twins, who, though but 3 months old, are acutely aware that daddy may not be quite right in the head. This small matter is overlooked as he can expertly and lovingly feed, burp, and nappy change each baby in just 15 minutes, whilst also attend to cooking duties downstairs with good humour. He lives with his long-suffering partner Shona, and cats David and Mogwai.