“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.
“I’m just a lonely cowpoke,” Billy admitted. “I ain’t no gun-totin’ hero, really.”
“Aw, shucks,” Milly muttered. “I was countin’ on you to save my ranch from Bad Bart!”
“I’m awful sorry, Milly.”
“Don’t be, darlin’. Truth is, I’ve been lyin’, too.”
“Pardon?”
“Y’see, pardner, I actually am Bad Bart!”
The spiteful wind was fierce and sharp. Ted tried to escape, but it chased him, cackling, and sheared the hair right off his head.
He snuck home, frantic with embarrassment. Naturally Melanie was the first person to stop by.
“You’re bald!” she exclaimed. “I love it.”
“Darn,” cursed the wind.
This story was based on the prompt “first person” at TypeTrigger.
Bradley loved Veronica, and he hated it. He hated his attraction to her arrogance. Mostly, though, he hated that she hated him.
Veronica hated lots of boys: she valued her spitefulness; but she especially hated Bradley.
They circled each other in ever-decreasing orbits, their gravitational forces growing, like doomed planets.
This story is based on a title suggested by Jonas Funk.