In Mount Isa, miners train their savage dogs to attack Aboriginals that wander too closely to their houses.
I jogged through neighborhoods panting polluted air, my afro curls caked in lead dust. Chained beasts pulled their leashes tight while snapping teeth through low built fences.
I screamed, “I’m an American!”
Khalilah Okeke was raised in the Pacific Northwest and now resides in Sydney, Australia, with her husband and two children. Her work has been published in The Plum Tree Tavern, Down in the Dirt magazine, The Red Eft Review, The Orissa Society of the Americas Journal, and 50-Word Stories. She has work forthcoming in The Scarlet Leaf Review. You can follow her blog at khalilahokeke.wordpress.com.
One of the brakes on my bike is broken. It doesn’t matter. It’s flat here.
Smiling white folks wave at me from golf carts. The weather is always warm. I married up.
I wonder if I’m as good as they are. Or as bad. Maybe I’m both. But hopefully neither.
Sarah Hausman likes to keep her bio shorter than her stories. Links and updates can be found at Facebook.com/sarahhausmanwrites.
Her blue eyes looked down into his brown ones. His brown hand grabbed her peach finger.
They were complete opposites, but that didn’t matter to either of them. Perfect matches weren’t based on color: eyes, skin, hair. This was a perfect match.
“Welcome home,” said the foster mom.
Melanie Gabbard is a mother of four: one biological, three adopted from foster care. She won a short story competition with Writer’s Digest and wrote a short screenplay that was adapted for film.
The baby dolls go with her everywhere. She cuddles the pale-faced one and croons, “Wittle sweet,” then kisses the dark-faced one and sings, “Wittle deaw.”
Everyone asks me why her babies have different skins.
I shrug. “She loves babies of all kinds.”
Why, they wonder.
I ask myself, Why not?
Rachelle Dawson is a wife, mama, and writer who loved books and baby dolls as a child. Now that she has her own children, she is rediscovering the delight of children’s literature and short stories. You can find more of her work at WritingRachelle.com.
Twenty feet away.
He goes faster and faster.
They’re catching up.
Ten feet away.
He can hear them behind him.
Five feet. Four, three…
It’s over! He’s won!
The blue ribbon wraps around his torso as he wheels toward his wife. Who says you need legs to win a race?
Rob works with individuals who suffer from physical disabilities. They inspired him to write this piece.
“Guess who I’m going to be for Halloween this year, Grandma,” prompts my eight-year-old, freckle-faced granddaughter. She likes to twirl her long, blond braids as she waits for me to answer.
“Hmm. A centipede or house fly?” I guess.
She giggles. “Noooooooo, Grandma! You’re so silly. Number 42, Jackie Robinson!”
Recently retired, Marian Brooks has been writing some short fiction. Her work has appeared in Word Riot, The Short Humour Site, The Linnet’s Wings, Zest Magazine, and elsewhere.
The Little Steam Engine That Could was a celebrity! But it soon hit puberty, and like so many child stars before it, that completely ruined its career.
Before long, the LSETC was completely broke. It thought it could earn redemption by winning the Great Steam Engine Race, but it couldn’t.
The title for this story was provided by RagePyro.
The runners toed the line and prepared for the firing of the gun. Muscles tense, they tried to clear their minds and relax. Many years of blood, sweat, and tears had led to this moment. They felt woefully unprepared.
They fell, their wish for freedom finally, permanently granted.