Carol had never understood Bob. A prominent attorney, he always crossed his t’s and dotted his i’s, but he couldn’t put down a toilet seat.
She filed a complaint; they settled out of court.
She said she simply wouldn’t stand for it anymore, so he agreed not to.
They’re still married.
Susan Gale Wickes lives in Indiana. This is her first story about a toilet seat.
The press pool asks Senator Minotaur why he won’t campaign outside of Florida anymore.
His campaign manager remembers the reporter in Montana who wandered off of a cliff, the reporter in Iowa whose stolen car doubled as his coffin, the reporter in Texas with a smile no stomach should make.
Jesse Bradley wrote this story.
A house now unencumbered by timepieces, but still, their chimes remain, haunting its hollow margins. My father, the timekeeper, has departed for somewhere where the past, present and future are as one.
Choices are now mine, so with mornings free from alarm, I roll over and go back to sleep.
Steven Lemprière, having once been punched by a time clock, would not be horology’s greatest fan and feels too many of his waking hours are spent in the fruitless pursuit of trying to find the time. Having gone cuckoo, he has decided to clock off and focus on a blank sheet of A4 where time is at his beck and call.
After the strange cow—on our land that night, yet unbranded—nipped Pete, we watched him close for a month, and, this proving wise, every full moon thereafter, until Ma, Mellie, and I returned from vacation to find Pa’s dementia had deepened, and over a mouthful of burger, Mellie asked, “Where’s Pete?”
Graham Robert Scott teaches writing at a university in north Texas. His stories have appeared in Barrelhouse Online, Nature, and Blink-Ink. See more at hemicyon.wordpress.com.
We waited until the twittering mums at the school gates dispersed before leaping the fence.
Instead of Geography, the Ferris wheel. Candyfloss for a packed lunch. Faces painted like tigers in place of double Art.
Home, hours late. Still gleeful, until I realised I’d forgotten to wash my whiskers off.
Rachael is a teacher from Scotland.
I stand at the rear of the chapel, amongst those paying their respects. All familiar faces, yet no-one speaks to me. Too grief-stricken, perhaps?
Who chose this godawful music?
Then she appears! We haven’t spoken since she took off with my man. She has some nerve coming to my funeral!
To avoid any awkwardness at her own funeral, Melanie has pre-planned the service arrangements and music and will most likely be regularly updating her invited-guests-only list.
When I woke, he stood by our bed, his suit muddy, eyes clouded, skin sickly pale.
“I’m home,” he croaked around his decomposing tongue.
“You shouldn’t be. You’re death walking again, honey.”
“Can I stay?”
Taking his icy hand, I led him from the house, towards the cemetery.
GB is a writer from Tasmania. She prefers grey areas to the clarity of light and dark.
During the film festival, Jeanie stopped at a cosmetics booth. A computer monitor displayed her lonely, seventy-year-old widow’s face.
She touched a button. A younger image materialized. The computer had painted her face: eyeliner, lashes, lips.
Jeanie sent the photo to a seniors’ dating site. This would be the year.
Teresa Del Mastro lives on the Danforth in Toronto with Angelo, Michael, Rachel and Willow.
Maybe he’s the one.
Religion – check.
Education – check.
Humor – check.
Looks – check!
Here he comes.
Smile, fix your hair.
He’s sitting down.
Is he as nervous as I am?
Spaghetti for us both, please.
He chews with his mouth open?
Check – please.
Alexandra chomp always has mmmfglurp impeccable omnomnom table manners until there’s hothothotooohhhot food involved.
Priestess in my untidy temple, I wait alone upon my adorable Oracle.
She bestows her gifts freely, but not easily. Her words, strewn casually, discarded carelessly, I gather and scrutinize, turning them over in my mind, looking for truths, profound and ineffable.
“Do you know what an elephant says?”
John D. Payne grew up in the American Midwest, watching the lightning flash outside his window and imagining himself as everything from a leaf in the wind to the god of thunder. Today, he lives with his wife and family in the shadow of the Organ Mountains in New Mexico, where he imagines that with enough concentration he might be able to rustle up a little cloud cover for some shade. For updates, new fiction, and exclusive content, visit patreon.com/johndpayne.