“They still hurt, Hon,” he said by way of answering the phone.
Two weeks and still he limped. But they’d agreed: after years of trying, at 43, they surrendered to time. So he’d endured the pain, swelling, and subsequent celibacy.
“I’m pregnant,” she replied. “You’re going to be a father.”
Jon Shank teaches high school English in Pennsylvania. He blogs at intothewake.wordpress.com.
I lie down on my bed, exhausted from a long day. Burrowing under the covers, I feel warmth wrap around me.
I look up into the darkness and see bits of light. Peacefully counting the stars, I watch their movements, every little detail.
Then I think, Wait, where’s the roof?
Gabe Hodge is a writer from Pleasant Hill, Missouri. He is 14 years old.
James opened the cabin door and let it slam behind him.
“What’s the matter, dear?”
“People need to leave their kids at home when they go on a cruise. Swimming in the pool was impossible!”
“You better learn more patience with children; we’ll have two little ones in six months…”
Aubrey is an idealist with a fondness for writing, and all things culture. She sporadically has vivid dreams about her unpublished books being on the New York Times best sellers list.
We’re all alone tonight. Just two of us in padded seats and lights down low. There’s no moon tonight and only wispy overcast.
It’s perfect for what we have planned.
My bombardier navigator glances over. “Initial point in thirty seconds. No threats identified.”
They have no idea what is coming.
Jim Purdy is a retired engineering manager who lives in Oregon and spends his day with his faithful dog who never gives him disparagement. She wags her tail as he reads her whatever he has just written.
Body and hands moisturized, scented in every crevice, she waited patiently for the proclamation of his love, the long awaited proposal of marriage.
As he took delivery of the Prosecco from room service, his mobile vibrated next to her on the table and a text from “Sarah” read: “You’re late”.
Linda Casper hails from Yorkshire and, after a long career as a high school teacher, she has recently begun to write and publish many short stories, poems, and travel articles. Linda has a keen interest in gardening and is a judge for Yorkshire in Bloom.
Karen and I walked through the club admiring the performer’s dress.
“I love the design; it compliments her broader frame,” Karen said.
“The sequins are spectacular!” I added.
“We love your dress!” I called towards the catwalk.
The dancer pivoted and my visage changed.
“Jim!” I gasped at my husband.
Miss Pam is a dance teacher, choreographer, and makeup artist. In her free time she enjoys writing, reading, painting, acting, and participating in artistic projects!
“I’m just a lonely cowpoke,” Billy admitted. “I ain’t no gun-totin’ hero, really.”
“Aw, shucks,” Milly muttered. “I was countin’ on you to save my ranch from Bad Bart!”
“I’m awful sorry, Milly.”
“Don’t be, darlin’. Truth is, I’ve been lyin’, too.”
“Pardon?”
“Y’see, pardner, I actually am Bad Bart!”
“When they open up that door, you’re gonna whop ’em on the knees with your shovel, okay, son?”
Little Harley nodded his freckled nose and gripped his shovel as tight as he could.
Jim leveled his shotgun. Wasn’t every year you got to do the surprising on your own birthday.
This story was based on the prompt “when they come” at TypeTrigger.