“Tell me about your girlfriend.”
“Lucinda calls herself a witch but I have my doubts. When she tried some closeup magic, she wasn’t very good at it.”
“Did she cause you to break out in a rash?”
“No. These red marks are where she accidentally jabbed me with her wand.”
John H. Dromey stands tall but often writes short.
I’ll never forget the phone call.
“Your Uncle Joe is your real father.”
“Mom, what?!”
“Your father never knew.”
“Mom, why are you telling me this now?”
Mom’s hurried confession that day made for some awkward family holidays in the future.
Especially since the pilot managed to save the plane.
Sarah Hausman would write more, but her ideas are terrible. This one is sort of a dad joke, sent just in time for Father’s Day (Editor: but arriving on the site a little late. Sorry!).
It was nearly the best moment of my entire life.
I was sitting in the sun,
drinking a wonderful cocktail,
and suddenly the most handsome man
looked me directly in the eyes
and gently said,
“Excuse me,
you are sitting on my towel.
And you are drinking my wonderful cocktail.”
Leydi Cuesta wrote this story.
From the tree line, I watched the castle going down in flames. The acrid smell of smoke stung my nose. Screams from those still inside pierced the air.
I felt so horrible. How could I know that spicy food didn’t agree with him? Who knew that dragons could get heartburn?
Kimberly Osgood lives in Miami with her fiancé Ian. She has never ever fed dragons. She can be found on Twitter at @kimberlyosgood
At dawn, Ronnie groaned. He picked up the new watch, his bargain from the market.
He smashed it against the wall. “The deal of the decade!” he exclaimed.
I pretended to be asleep, feeling guilty now. It had probably been a bit much to rewind it by four hours…
A former newspaper journalist, Ciaran Tierney is a digital storyteller and blogger based in Galway, Irealnd. He has a keen interest in Irish culture, music, politics, and travel, and is seeking new challenges in the digital age. Find him at ciarantierney.com.
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.