From the sky a heavy rain of quarters, dimes, nickels, and pennies fall to the earth. Some risk collecting the money from their driveway and gutters. Many are killed by the coins falling on their heads. The phenomena last for weeks then abruptly stops.
We were warned about climate change.
Denny E, Marshall had had art, poetry, and fiction published. One recent credit is fiction in Potato Soup Salad. See more at dennymarshall.com.
He looks at the wheel with great determination. He turns it slowly, controlling the tepid temperature of spring in high heaven.
Cleaner silently mops the wet floor.
Thump! He slips. The wheel spins wildly. His face is pale with panic. Spring turns into summer, autumn, and winter.
He is fired.
Fannie is a girl living in Sydney, NSW, Australia with a great interest in writing and literature.
Grey skies jigged upon the bus stop as dejected commuters huddled beneath. The endless stream of headlights paraded the relentless downpour.
A man checked his watch. A woman her phone. A dog ducked between.
The bus arrived.
Lucy smiled getting off and nonchalantly, through the applause of puddles, waltzed home.
Raymond lives in Ireland and has been previously published in 101 words and 101 fiction.
My neighbor Don moved up here from someplace warm, where there’s no snow. On the first snowfall of the season, he thought he was a real genius when he tried to hose the stuff off of his driveway.
I’m doing his shoveling until he gets the cast off his leg.
Sarah Krenicki is sick of Nor’easters.
Clouds bulge grey and spit fat drops into my river, slate-grey in reflection. I relish their wanton lack of care, their wild abandon, their unthinking fall and splash.
Then come the bereft, sad, homeless seeking shelter under my bridge.
I welcome them, my teeth razors, my mouth waiting underwater.
Aisling Green wrote this story.
Nor’easter outside
been going on and on about itself.
Ahab wants out.
Cracking the door,
he is blasted. Crouching,
ears flattened, he retreats.
Sitting Buddha-like now, licking his wounded pride,
he pauses to bring his puffy tail about, and lay it by his side.
Like a monk adjusting his robe.
Matthew lives in Maine.
“Are you sure? It’s a near white out.”
“Really, I’ll be okay.”
“They won’t find your body until spring.”
“I’ll be fine.”
“Call and let me know how you’re doing.” She waited until his figure was engulfed by the storm and then dropped the cell phone battery into the wastebasket.
Ray Wirth has survived more than 30 Maine winters. He teaches English in Searsport, Maine.
Percy peered out the window of his old, beat-up car, scanning the dismal grey plains. Rain again.
The endless prairie highways made Percy feel like he was constantly moving but never approaching his destination. To stay sane, he counted raindrops, trying not to think about who was in the trunk.
Lightning crashed.
Wind whistled through the trees. He was only halfway through Greensleeves before Lightning asked if whistling was not maybe just a bit too jaunty, given their predicament.
Wind complied as he helped his friend untangle himself from his airbag. “Just try not to crash so hard next time.”
Jeremy Petter is a student of English Literature and Theatre at the University of Victoria. Until recently, he wrote, performed, and sometimes edited funny things for LoadingReadyRun.com, but he’s on indefinite hiatus at the moment to grow his brain. He is a co-organizer of Desert Bus for Hope, and an avid fan of ducks.
It was a dark and stormy night.
The meteorologists were all very confused. They had anticipated darkness (because the first lesson of Meteorology 100 is that it’s always dark at night, which tended to confuse the Alaskans), but most of them had only predicted light showers.
Actually, none of them cared.