They met on Tinder and their relationship blossomed on Snapchat and Instagram. But when she watched a concert he live streamed on YouTube, she saw him kissing her BFF.
She unfriended them and blocked their Twitter feed.
But Facebook is still recommending them as friends. What’s App with that?
Damhnait Monaghan is a Canadian now living in the UK. Her stories, real and imagined, can be found in Understorey Magazine, The Fiction Pool, Spelk Fiction and Flash Frontiers. She’s on Twitter @downith
My cousin, a dentist, became bored with mundane extractions, fillings, and teeth whitening. So he decided to specialise in crafting vampire fangs for niche clients.
I asked him, “Why the change?”
His response? He’d simply grown tired of working in a soulless job that sucked the life out of him.
Melanie has a greater fear of visiting dentists than she has of vampires.
An uncle told me TV laughter was dead people—It’s canned, he said. For years I couldn’t eat tuna, soup, or beans.
Until the bombs.
Now, canned food is all that’s left—hoarded in caves and holes. And let me tell you, no one’s laughing anymore. Not even the dead.
Daniel DiFranco lives in Philadelphia. He graduated from Arcadia University with an MFA in Creative Writing. His words can be found in Smokelong Quarterly, LitroNY, and others. Full list of pubs and miscellany can be found at danieldifranco.net
“Let’s skip school today,” Phil suggested.
“Don’t you have an important exam?” his friend asked.
“No biggie. It’s just something the guidance counselor thought up to help me pick a college major. I’ll call it in.”
“You can do that?”
“Sure. My phone’s smart enough for a simple app-titude test.”
John H. Dromey has had short fiction published in Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine, Crimson Streets, Stupefying Stories Showcase, and elsewhere.
I’m always skeptical when my boyfriend says he’s a lumberjack.
There’s something about the way he cuts his hair every winter, how his checked flannel shirt hangs loose around his trunk and his thorny beard scratches my cheeks when we kiss—but I wouldn’t put roots down with anybody else.
Guy branched out into story writing to compensate for his wooden personality. This is his seventeenth 50-word story.
“I love to see a man cooking. It’s something sexy to see the pot being mixed and the vegetables added. The aroma is out of this world. Mind you, only a man could spice up a dish like that.”
“You’re some kind of sicko. I’d much rather see beef cooking.”
Connell went off cooking programs a long time ago, but unfortunately not food. Read more of his fractured words at paragraphplanet, home.wtd-magazine.com, and postcardshorts.com.
I wonder how many hearts you have broken.
I want to show you mine. A sparrow with a broken neck. I flew into your life like a bird into a window.
You told me I should have expected it.
You exit without remorse. I have enough for both of us.
Jeff Switt is a retired advertising agency guy who loves writing flash fiction—some days to curb his angst, other days to fuel it. His words have been featured at Dogzplot, Boston Literary Review, Flash Fiction World, and Nailpolish Stories and have appeared at lots of places that take whatever you send in.
“Ruff woof,” said Fido, wagging his tail, but Max just said, “Bad dog,” and put him out in the back yard, because Max didn’t understand the witty wordplay (barkplay?) Fido was using, which involved a canine equivalent of something like “putting the ‘toy’ in ‘toilet’,” and was really very clever.
“Grapplin’ hooks, skeleton keys, guard uniforms… I got everythin’ you need, man.”
“You charge a lot, Skivvy.”
“It ain’t easy to get stuff like this into my cell.”
“But let me tell you, gettin’ nabbed for murder’s the most profitable thing I ever done. I’m makin’ a killing!”
“Ok, let’s work on your quick, short punches and your wordplay. You’re going to be the best boxing comedian there’s ever been!”
Gurpreet paused. “I don’t know,” he said. “I’m not sure I can ever be stronger and wittier than Youssef.”
“Nonsense,” cried his trainer. “He’s good, but you’re Punjabi.”
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