She’s an entrepreneur, though not of life-altering stuff. No vaccines or edu-tech.
She makes beauty potions for the uber-rich. Sells the promise of lifelong allure, at 500% profit. They buy happily.
Then she gives their money away. Feeds, shelters, medicates the destitute. Anonymously.
She’s the legal kind of Robin Hood.
Megha Nayar writes to remain sane. It is her escape from drudgery, dealing with people, and the drudgery of dealing with people.
At the running trail’s straightaway, I knew I could make my legs pistons, sprint like I was 25, but suddenly Goose-Poop Alley loomed, 100 yards of goopy green and brown sidewalk smudges. I leaped, twisted, quick-minced, and lunged, the ballet dancer I’d never been but was now—magnificently!–at 74.
Paul Lamar lives with his husband, Mark, in Albany, NY, not far from three grown children and two swell grandkids.
I’m all cozy in bed when the closet door creaks open.
You’ve got to be kidding me.
Outside, the wind whips and howls. I recall the earlier news report: Escaped convict, armed and dangerous.
The door’s sliver of darkness stares at me.
Should’ve buried them before calling it a night.
Michelle Wilson graduated from Bennington College with a degree in literature and creative writing. Her words have appeared or are forthcoming in 101 Words, Literally Stories, Flash Fiction Magazine, Lost Magazine, Papierdoll, Mr. Beller’s Neighborhood, Healthcare in America, and The Miami Herald. She lives in Miami Beach, Florida.
When her heel snapped, she literally fell into his arms.
Embarrassed laughter, quick smiles, then hasty apologies – she was late. Now hobbled, she’d be even later. Impulse seized him; he called her a taxi, paid for it as she zipped away.
He picked up the broken heel, thinking of Cinderella.
Rebecca Ruvinsky is a student, poet, and emerging writer in Orlando, Florida. She has kept a streak of writing a poem every day since 2016, with her poetry being featured on Poetry on the Move. She loves baking cookies, watching rocket launches, and listening to music too loud. She can be found at @writeruvinsky.
Following a grandson’s visit, Dot got a phone call.
“Did you get frustrated and yell at Dad?” her daughter asked.
“Regarding his hearing aid, I may have raised my voice to ask whether he wanted me to change his batteries.”
“That explains it! Sammy thinks his grandpa is a robot.”
John H. Dromey’s short fiction’s been published in Mystery Weekly Magazine and over one-hundred-fifty other venues.
He came again this afternoon, floated right down into the garden. I waited by the back door with my net but he was too quick, escaping under a hum of rotator blades and flashing lights.
The boy’s quite the pilot.
Next time we’ll see how he fares against my rifle.
Campbell is a photographer and aspiring writer from Sydney’s Eastern Suburbs. campbellhinshelwood.com
Scanning the discarded Scratch-Off tickets on the ground, I wonder what their transitory owners had coveted. A hulking new SUV with the Limited Leather Package? A garish new McMansion with ten bedrooms and a 110-inch TV? A new life?
Then I carefully check that all the scratch-offs were, indeed, scratched-off.
Robert Markovich spent a lifetime in what is charitably referred to as service journalism, writing and editing stories about everything from cars to toilets, most recently at Consumer Reports. He is happily and gratefully retired.
Granny, babysitting two-year-old triplets, took a bathroom break. She heard the toy box being pushed down the hall, stopping by the bathroom door. Giggling; then the click of the dead bolt installed to keep the boys from playing in the commode, and three pairs of feet running away.
Angie has been writing short stories since 2010 and has had one piece published.
Wrinkles on her nose and graphic tee bestill his heart. Their first album’s good, he reassures, but nowadays they’re trash.
Seizing his chance, he suggests they experience real music this weekend, but she declines.
He says she’s playing hard to get. She says he’s playing hard to want.
Chary writes at a snail’s pace.
“If he hopes to hold on to his title, our newly-appointed chief of police really needs to get his priorities straight.”
“Why? What did he do?”
“His first day on the job, he found a housefly in his office. Rather than handle it himself, he called for a S.W.A.T. team.”
John H. Dromey’s short fiction’s been published in Mystery Weekly Magazine and over 150 other venues.