He left her a widow, alone… bereft.
Left no will… only debt.
The Repo men left only his urn.
He’d left her in the dark about his ‘little pad’ in the city. It boasted eight bedrooms, a mistress, and three children.
She left his ashes in the bin outside it.
Mary Sheehan lives in what’s known as the sunny south-east of Ireland. Her stories are getting shorter and shorter, probally due to lack of sunshine.
Imagine a leather strap looped from neck to ankle. Their beauty and magnificence hobbled us like that. When they spoke about marriage we surmised their words had more to do with things we didn’t know, things we were incapable of learning, than with anything they were prohibited from telling us.
Over the years Bob Thurber’s work has received a long list of awards and prizes. His most recent book is a collection of brief stories titled “Nothing But Trouble.” His first novel, “Paperboy: A Dysfunctional Novel,” was recently rereleased. Visit BobThurber.net.
The elephant in the living room
led us to the skeletons in the closets
so we overturned the rug
finding all the things you’d swept there
and in the backyard
beneath a bed of twisted thorns
from which a single rose had bloomed
we dug up every truth you’d buried
Over the years Bob Thurber’s work has received a long list of awards and prizes. His most recent book is a collection of brief stories titled “Nothing But Trouble.” His first novel, “Paperboy: A Dysfunctional Novel,” was recently rereleased. Visit BobThurber.net.
Sarah donned her sunglasses and meanest look.
As she rode the bus into town, she checked her bag. Knife, gun, capsicum spray—everything was ready.
Six hours later, she headed home. Her glasses were broken, her weapons lay at the bottom of the canal, but she wore a satisfied smile.
Mark Farley eats ice cream with a teaspoon. He once got run over by a horse.
I watched, awestruck, as my baby daughter’s chubby little fingers slid across the surface of my smartphone. Roads and landscapes shifted beneath her touch. She pinched, and the map zoomed out.
A photo of my husband drifted past, betraying his GPS position.
Wait… That’s not the location of his conference.
Karen doesn’t claim to be Wonder Woman, simply a wife, mother, writer and roller girl, in addition to a day job as an Electronic Design Engineer. You’re invited to draw your own conclusions. Her debut release, an eBook titled “Trapping Honey’, is available now. See more at karenpomerantz.uk.
I remember our hotel, how you always insisted on room service, how we waited until dusk before strolling hand in hand along the deserted beach, how you wore that silly hat.
I remember rushing to your side when you collapsed, sitting by your hospital bed, being introduced to your wife.
CR Smith is an eternal optimist who thinks life is for living and tries hard not to waste it.
I’m doing this for you. I have volunteered, and you’ve no idea, no clue about the wires or the cables that will be plugged into my [REDACTED]. And all for [REDACTED]. For [REDACTED] and honor and you. Most of all for you. I don’t really give a damn about [REDACTED].
Jessica Rutland graduated from the University of Texas. She recently had a story published in the Austin Chronicle, which she thought was pretty neat.
The castle walls gleamed. Bright banners flapped in the stiff breeze. Armies of palace guards stood at attention. They denied all who approached an audience with the King.
“The King’s busy. And anyhow, the affairs of the kingdom run smoothly.”
Inside, the throne room was empty, and covered in dust.
Matthew F. Amati writes about software for a living. Two of his stories are forthcoming in Flash Fiction Online.
The smell of Zinfandel lingers on his lips. The television buzzes like a flowerbed of bees; its images flicker in his dark bedroom. We dance, since childhood waiting for this one perfect song to play.
He asks about my tattoo. I remember my husband.
We kiss before I can confess.
Pegah Mehdizadeh is a writer in Los Angeles and is currently working on her novel, Beneath the Shade of the Pomegranate Tree.
The room’s dark. The blue light of the computer screen illuminates his face, its raw desire. He clicks on a name he hasn’t tried before: Double Trouble, a buxom blonde.
The chat room opens to a promising skin show. He is staring into the eyes of his wife, working late.
Indu Pillai writes poetry and fiction when she is not reading poetry and fiction. She delights in all kinds of stories, written and unwritten. During the day, she works in her design studio. Follow her on Twitter.