“We’ve had enough of your cowboy attitude in the workplace,” the boss said. “You’re fired.”
I glanced at the clock. High noon.
“That’s mighty fine,” I drawled, spitting my tobacco onto the floor.
Holstering my six-shooter, I darn grabbed my Stetson and moseyed on out, heading for the nearest saloon.
Jon is from the Northwest of England and wastes most of his time working in local government, when he really wants to just read and write. He thinks his attitude to his hobby of rustling cattle back at the ranch is more lasso-faire than cowboy. He has recently been told one of his slightly longer worded shorts is to be included in an anthology. A doggone first.
The neighbourhood children around here seemed just like mine.
“What have you been doing, sweetie?” I asked.
“I painted an angel.”
“…And you, sonny?”
“I painted Santa.”
Looking around they explained they were in another room drying, so I entered and there they were… Tied up and covered in paint.
Connell often says too much or too little in his biographies and probably will again. Despite this, he has been inspired, by others, to become a great writer of such, but to date his biographies have been sadly lacking in the necessary achievements required by him to embellish once more.
Once again, like many times before, he was in the same situation. He’d promised himself not to be defeated by that same enemy anymore, but it seemed so impossible. Along the years, his enemy had become stronger, and he weaker. That was his daily struggle with getting out of bed.
José Jaime is a Spanish guy who wants to improve his writing and his imagination.
As he fumbled to open the squeaky back door, he cursed himself for not having used WD-40. And there she was, just staring at him, with her revolver at the ready.
“Thank God,” she said. “I thought you were a burglar.”
He smiled in relief as she pulled the trigger.
Fred Vogel is working on a collection of short stories as well as a third collection of poetry. He plays bad guitar but sings like a bird. He lives in the Pacific Northwest.
Oh God, it’s done! The adoption is finally complete!
There she sits, a cute seven year old, her face filled with hope and questions.
Oh God, what have I done? Can I really provide the loving, forever family home she deserves?
What do I know about raising Jack Russell Terriers?
John Keeley is the new guardian of seven year old Storm, and is wondering about the trust our pets put in us.
Darkness crept over him like a sheet of ice. Is this the end? he wondered. He shuddered as the light was extinguished, leaving him alone in the emptiness of nothing.
Suddenly, a beacon of light pierced the blackness.
His mother always made sure to turn on the nightlight.
Jonathan is a freelance writer in Southern California. He loves writing almost as much as he likes In N Out
, which is to say: a lot.
Cinderella gazed awestruck as her fairy godmother turned the pumpkin into a gold and silver carriage. Two little mice became magnificent stallions. She gathered her skirts.
And as the footman, formerly a toad, helped her up the steps, she said “I just want to stay home and finish my book.”
Penny Jo McAllister is a freelance writer who enjoys books more than balls.
Margaret understood what was expected of her. She had been raised properly and was skilled in etiquette, poise, and all things ladylike and mature.
However, there was a certain satisfaction in watching the knife plunge repeatedly into the body of yet another lifeless, unappealing, and unsympathetic excuse for a turkey.
Hillary hopes you enjoy your holidays despite whatever sinister fantasy may surface.
She was lovely.
I felt like I really got to know her on that journey.
She spoke passionately; I mainly listened.
I felt she warmed to me.
Her purposeful words gave me a real sense of direction.
But falling in love with the SatNav girl was just another dead end.
Jon is from the northwest of England and has had many bumps in the road. He works in local government with a background in Newspaper Journalism. He likes writing short stuff and is inspired by all forms of flash and micro fiction.
The oak stood tall in all seasons,
In summer, she rested in its shade.
In winter, the oak wished for her,
But never she came.
In spring, the oak was glad,
Until she turned up with another,
And as they sang happily under the oak,
It fell and squashed them.
Joey is obviously no poet. You can visit him at joeytoey.com