I stumble in, drunk, parking myself at a table in the corner. “Scotch,” I yell to the blonde. “Neat,” I add.
She refuses to take my order, insisting that I keep my voice down. I raise a stink, demanding service.
Long story short, I’m no longer welcome at the library.
Pontius Paiva pours himself into his craft, hoping to raise the bar with each piece. Visit pontiuspaiva.com to see the complete library of merry microfictions and sobering short stories.
I once knew an absent-minded assassin who sent poisoned letters through the post. After a note had been anonymously deposited to be postmarked, she’d apply her favorite perfume and take herself out on the town.
Her career came to an end shortly after she mailed a letter doused in perfume.
Sarah Krenicki does not wear perfume. This could end up being a lifesaver.
I wanted to pet that bunny, so I followed him to his hole. Determined, I muttered a spell and shrank to the size of a grasshopper. His nose twitched side to side when I found him.
We stared into each other’s eyes. Then I learned that rabbits will eat bugs.
Eddie D. Moore travels extensively for work, and he spends much of that time listening to audio books. The rest of the time is spent dreaming of stories to write and he spends the weekends writing them. His stories have been published by Jouth Webzine, Kzine, Alien Dimensions, Theme of Absence, Devolution Z, and Fantasia Divinity Magazine. Find more on his blog.
When Timothy’s mother bought the microwave, his father insisted they wear tin foil hats to protect their brains. Timothy, ever his father’s son, went one step further: he lined the whole thing with foil.
After the funeral they brought out baked potatoes, hot from the oven. As it should be.
Gaynor Jones is a writer of micro, flash and short stories from Manchester, UK.
Holly never cooked or prepared anything, so when I found some eggs pickling in a jar in her kitchen I was surprised.
“What’s with the eggs?” I asked.
“Just tryin’ something out,” she replied.
I didn’t have the heart to tell her you’re not supposed to leave the shells on.
“Take one more step and I draw.”
Six years old, he carried a toy gun and barked commands at everyone within earshot. Most days, I ignored him. I really couldn’t blame him. At his age, I’d done the same thing.
I really should have listened. That bullet nearly hit me.
Susan Gale Wickes is from Indiana. She spends her days writing poetry, short stories, songs, and the occasional cartoon caption.
Black as night and as silent as the rain he slipped over the rooftop edge.
Descending the building, he closed in on his target. Reaching the window, he peered inside and reached for his gun.
A woman appeared and the window swung open.
As silent as the rain, he fell.
Life knocks us all off a window ledge from time to time.
The shadow worshipers performed their unholy rituals, but when the lunar eclipse came, nothing happened.
Confused and crestfallen, they looked to the elderly shaman, who was already riffling through the pages of his grimoire.
After rereading the ancient texts, he suggested they try again, next time under a solar eclipse.
Pontius Paiva sacrifices sleep and sanity to appease the writing gods. Visit pontiuspaiva.com
to find out if the spirits of storytelling reward him with the gift of publication.
I was working my way through the wedding checklist, making sure I had thought of, paid for, and arranged everything.
Cars, reception venue, meal, gifts. I’d cracked it. A job well done… and with days to spare!
Now I just needed to find someone to marry.
Jon is an aspiring writer from the North West of England, currently boring himself to tears working in local government. He is looking forward to getting wed himself in the next month, but fears his own checklist is never ending… You can read more of his ramblings on the new web presence he has finally gotten round to creating at writingsonthewall645.wordpress.com
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.