How I remember the day we met: my beagle strayed into his yard; Christmas lights; strains of music!
We became friends. Then lovers. He promised more.
Years later, his eyes welled as he took wedding vows. I stood behind his bride; relieved at not being deceived by promises twice over.
Mandira Pattnaik writes in India. Her work has appeared in Eclectica Magazine, Lunate, Runcible Spoon, FewerThan500, 50wordstories and elsewhere. She tweets at @MandiraPattnaik.
Bring me all the pretty things that forgot to develop a personality.
Bring them to me and I will build myself an army.
They will hover over the masses,
and whisper like sirens in the night:
This is what you want to be.
You’ll never be good enough.
Matilda Harjunpää has a complicated relationship with social media.
He left her a widow, alone… bereft.
Left no will… only debt.
The Repo men left only his urn.
He’d left her in the dark about his ‘little pad’ in the city. It boasted eight bedrooms, a mistress, and three children.
She left his ashes in the bin outside it.
Mary Sheehan lives in what’s known as the sunny south-east of Ireland. Her stories are getting shorter and shorter, probally due to lack of sunshine.
Sitting alone on the plane, a pretty girl came and sat next to me. We immediately fell in love at first sight. At the end of the holiday we were really close and exchanged numbers.
Back home, I called her.
“My wife is in the shower,” said a masculine voice.
Negin Aghajari wrote this story.
I remember our hotel, how you always insisted on room service, how we waited until dusk before strolling hand in hand along the deserted beach, how you wore that silly hat.
I remember rushing to your side when you collapsed, sitting by your hospital bed, being introduced to your wife.
CR Smith is an eternal optimist who thinks life is for living and tries hard not to waste it.
Trapped in a cellar, with little ammunition.
They shouted to him:
he’d heard propaganda,
they weren’t barbarians,
he’d be treated okay,
He was doubtful, but he didn’t want to die. He threw the AK rifle up through the trapdoor.
They beat him senseless.
Some time later, he died.
Ruby Ray has been a Jill of many trades and mistress of some of them. Anyway, she hopes to have mastered (mistressed?) a few more before she takes it easy for good.
Yemi dropped to the floor, clutching the white paper in his hand.
The results of the DNA test stung his eyes. His status had changed from an illegitimate child to a common stranger. For 35 years, his mother had lied.
The hefty inheritance from his late “father” no longer existed.
Aubrey is an idealist with a fondness for writing and all things culture. She sporadically has vivid dreams about her unpublished books being on the New York Times best sellers list.
“Good news, Mr. Sloane. I’ve just discovered some fingerprints we originally missed. Once I get these back to the lab, we should be able to positively identify your daughter’s killer.”
The man locked the door, drew his pistol, and said, “Bad news, Detective. I lied about being the victim’s father.”
Alexander Key teaches high school when not leaping tall buildings in a single bound.
After Mom read fairy tales to her daughter at night, ones with true love and happy endings, she stood in the time-out corner for a moment, lingering with uncertainty.
“Mommy, why do you stand in the corner? We only have to stand there if we tell lies.”
“That’s right darling.”
Breanna is about to graduate from SEMO university in Missouri.
“Any questions, sir?” says the clerk.
“What are this medication’s side effects?” asks the customer.
“There are none.”
“None? Impressive. Three bottles, please.”
The customer pays and leaves.
Another clerk says, “You didn’t tell him it turns people into pathological liars?”
“I couldn’t,” says the clerk. “I’m taking it myself.”
This story was based on the prompts “side effects” and “pathological liar” at TypeTrigger.