While shopping, I saw a Marilyn-Manson-like Goth kid. I thought he was trouble.
After leaving the store, I lost my wallet. I searched to no avail.
Ironically, I heard that kid yell, “You dropped this!”
He returned my wallet. I offered him money.
He replied, “No thanks. Pay it forward.”
Bob McNeil is a writer, spoken-word artist, and illustrator of some modest renown. Influenced by the Imagists and the Beat Movement, he attempts to address the needs of our human mosaic.
My new friend, at end
of summer camp,
told me she would miss me
oh so much
and could I please
come visit her, but not
if I was
her mother hated
I was ten. I held the knowledge
of such hatred
like a stone
beneath my tongue.
Jennifer L. Freed lives in Massachusetts, where she raises her children, writes poetry, tutors (writing and ESL), and likes to play with clay, which she disguises as ceramic sculpture. She has taught ESL in China, the Czech Republic, and the U.S. She has recently published a chapbook, These Hands Still Holding (Finishing Line Press, 2014). You can read more of her poems at her website, jfreed.weebly.com.
Shabby chic walks in my direction. Panhandler trash. I shouldn’t make eye contact. Do I have something smaller than a twenty? My eyes meet hers. Her mouth moves to speak. I cringe.
“G’mornin’,” she offers and passes.
I pull a bill from my pocket and turn, but she is gone.
Jeff Switt is a retired advertising agency guy who loves writing flash fiction, some days to curb his angst, other days to fuel it. His words have been featured online at Dogzplot, Boston Literary Magazine, Nailpolish Stories, 50-Word Stories, 100 Word Story, A Story In 100 Words, 101 Word Stories, and Shotgun Honey, and have appeared at lots of places that take whatever you send in.
His latest venture, A Story in Three Paragraphs, is at jeffswitt.wordpress.com/about/.
Despite his impeccable references, bitter experience had taught him female nannies were the preferred choice.
He crossed to number thirteen and knocked. The woman’s smile never faltered when he said he was there about the newspaper ad.
“Come in, Mister Rumpelstiltskin.”
He smiled sweetly as the door closed behind him.
B. Lee Draper lives in northern Australia where she teaches children for money and writes stories for love.
The youth stomped in disjointed unison through the crowded shopping complex. They had their target in their sights and wouldn’t relent until they had done what they had set out to do.
She was scared.
Running from the hooded gang, she stopped, and was cornered.
“Miss, you forgot your handbag.”
Lewis Cole is an English author who writes leisurely . He aims to improve his writing abilities with practice. His work can be found at http://coleshideyhole.blogspot.co.uk
Something was wrong. It was a feeling more than an observation, something intangible, instinctive. Hannah backed away.
The creature seemed offended. “How typically human. You see a purely biological life form and consider me slimy, primitive, and murderous. How ignorant.”
The heads-up display built into Hannah’s eyes blinked a warning.
This story is based on the adjectives intangible, slimy, and murderous, as provided by @RubyCosmos.