The corked bottle sat on the highest shelf in the pantry for thirty years, gathering decades of dust.
I took it down on what would have been her fifty-fifth birthday, worked the cork out gently, and unfolded the yellowing paper.
On it, she’d written, “I knew you’d look eventually. -Helen”
This story was based on the prompt “corked bottle” at TypeTrigger.
Their emotions raged like wildfires. Their passions rumbled like earthquakes. Their fears echoed like windblown whispers through the valleys.
They whirled in their orbits, teasing each other, admiring one another’s moons, coming close and then dancing away, all the while singing to themselves, “She loves me; she loves me not.”
When I visited my blind brother, he was sharpening his shooting skills. He was so embarrassed; he couldn’t hit a thing.
I pulled my pen out and placed it in his sweaty palm. I said, “Take this pen, brother, so that you may draw targets around the holes you make.”
George S. Karagiannis was born in Thessaloniki, Greece and is currently a PhD student at the University of Toronto in Canada. He enjoys writing science-fiction (in an non-professional level, so far) in the subgenres of hard science fiction, bizzarro and apocalyptic/post-apocalyptic settings.
“Please, Clarissa,” pleaded Sergio, “don’t leave me! I’ll make you better spaghetti, better pizza, better wine!”
“Always food with you,” said Clarissa wearily. “Always wine… Don’t you understand me? What I really want are children… and pets!”
Sergio bought her a mouse. She kept it, and got rid of him.
He wants to choose a woman – not the other way around. But not being chosen infuriates him. One woman wants him, platonically. “She’s stringing me on,” says Paul.
He likes her but can’t stand her.
She can’t decide to leave the church. “She’s a nun,” adds Paul, “a great gal.”
Yveta Shanfeldová, born in Prague in 1957, is the author of two published poetry books: Night Jugular Shaft (Host, Brno, Czech Republic, 2006) and In Place of Sundays (MaPa, Brno, Czech Republic, 2008).
She heard the saw cease its whirring.
Her love stomped in, dewdrops of sweat lining his creased forehead, clutching a crude cedar carving of a heart.
He had suffered so much, and still laboured under the weight of the memories, but today, it seemed, his stomps fell a little lighter.
Happy Valentine’s Day!
This story is based on a title suggested by @PoshPlatypus.
“Eighty-six consecutive rejections. I give up.” He downed his scotch.
“Pessimist,” I scoffed.
“Just let me crawl down into my Deep Hole of Lonelitude.” His glass being already empty, he downed my scotch next.
Nearby, a withered, watery-eyed man in a wheelchair said, “Psh. Romance? Wouldn’t solve your problem, anyways.”
This story is based on a title suggested by Jeremy Quinn. It is a companion to his previous title suggestion, Unlikely Ascension.
I love you.
Steve told me that you are into latin lovers, so I kneel before you and say, “Te amo. Cor meum te petit. Sine te non volo vivere. Et tu me amabisne?”
You answer, “What?”
Guess you do not want your lovers to be that Latin after all.
Lucas is a science student from Germany who likes to write stuff in his free time. You can find more of his work (in German) at his website: lucas.treffenstaedt.de.
We were at some overpriced, hipsterish coffee “boutique.” Jared got a mug of frothy stuff and stuck his face right in there, giving himself a mustache.
“Lookin’ good!” I joked, so he kept the “mustache” going all evening. Ironically, he said.
Wait. That doesn’t mean he likes me, does it?
This story was based on the TypeTrigger prompt “froth.”
She lay on the bed and thought about the end of their friendship. Her heart ached.
It wasn’t a clean shot through head or heart, either; it was a slow knife through the stomach, quietly releasing bile and stomach acid. A drunken car ride home. A shamed car ride back.
Blanche Case camouflages herself with a “real job” while plotting to take over the world with artistic endeavors.