“Sir,” the judge said somberly, “the court hereby grants your wife’s petition for divorce. Do you understand, sir, that I have also awarded her one thousand dollars per month as support?”
“That’s right kindly of you, Judge. Perhaps I can kick in a few bucks myself, from time to time.”
Gary Clifton, forty years a cop, has been shot at, shot, stabbed, lied to and about, and frequently misunderstood. He has short fiction pieces published with over a hundred venues, has published a novel in national paperback, and blogs at bareknucklethoughts.org.
I wanted to buy a necklace for my wife as a Christmas gift.
Unfortunately, I really didn’t know what size fit her. Therefore, I decided to measure her neck size when she was asleep.
However, as I was putting a rope on her neck to measure size, she woke up.
Cloris Cui a student at Shenzhen Academy of International Education who wants to learn directing in university.
The Facebook status read: “We have a ruptured membrane!”
The other women laughed at me. Google helped let me in on the joke.
Why he couldn’t just write “Her water broke” seemed a better question than why, at twenty-seven and a female, I know so little about pregnancy.
Angela Morris earned her MFA in Creative Writing from the University of Central Oklahoma. Her works have previously been published in This Land Press, Chaffin Journal, Atticus Review and other literary journals.
His hands shook, spilling vodka. Thumping came from the small hotel wardrobe.
He’d hoped to spend quality time in Berlin, but had caught her on the phone with her BFF. He examined her scrawled itinerary map again: “Shopping” and “Spree” were still predominant.
He suddenly reddened. “Oh… The River Spree.”
Irish writer Perry McDaid lives in Derry close to the Donegal hills. His diverse writing disciplines and genres appear in international multimedia, recently with entropy2; Amsterdam Quarterly; Flash Fiction Chronicles; Plotters Ink; Alfie Dog; and 50wordstories. He has one imaginary cat, Stinky, mostly nailed to a board above a ruined allegorical flower bed.
“I’ve broken it off.”
“What do you mean, you’ve broken it off? She was the best thing that ever happened to you. I loved her too, if the truth be known. You’re such an idiot! I have a mind to…”
“I mean I’ve broken the tip off my pen.”
Connell Wayne Regner had successfully avoided writing creatively since he wrote spontaneous lyrics to music some years ago. Although from a linguistic background, he has serendipitously succumbed to fiction. His other dabblings can be found at paragraphplanet and wtdmagazine.wordpress.com.