President Papi Kinsley rocked his wife, whispering, “You’re safe now.”
When she was asleep, Papi went downstairs. Zombie bodies were everywhere. He called Lord Zombino.
“I guess you didn’t know I’m a member of EZKIL, otherwise known as the Elite Zombie Killing International League,” Papi said. “Better luck next time.”
Nancy A. Cavanaugh is a freelance writer living in Keene, NH. You can read her flash and micro fiction at myflashywords.blogspot.com.
With waxy wings buzzing, and multifaceted eyes glowing maliciously, the fruit flies attacked.
In mere seconds, the unsuspecting picnickers were covered with a two-inch-deep blanket of angry, but harmless insects.
“We have them!” buzzed Franklin Fruit Fly. “What do we do now?”
And the swarm realized it had no follow-through.
This story is based on a title suggested by Nancy Cavanaugh via Facebook.
He didn’t know it worked: one night he’d simply pointed at the sky, and a star had appeared, bright and new.
It was a great party trick, of course, and it stimulated his inner artist, but he didn’t fully harness the potential of his god-like ability until he went commercial.
Ramone had a very diverse selection of friends. He enjoyed spending time with Havarti, Provolone, Mozzarella, and Brie.
He didn’t get along that well with Cheddar or Feta, but Gouda was fun.
Ramone’s mom told him, “Cheeses can’t be real friends,” but he knew better.
Oh yes, he knew better.
I asked Mom once why I had an uncle but no aunt. I figured they were a bundle deal.
Mom said, “Your uncle has three defining characteristics: veiny biceps, chest hair, and a fanny pack full of beef jerky.”
I still don’t know which of those is the bad thing.
Jonathan had a special relationship with his shirt buttons.
You see, Jonathan was corpulent, rotund. He relied on his buttons to keep his portliness in check.
But Jonathan never said “Please” or “Thank you” to his buttons, and they got fed up.
So during an important meeting, they ran away.
This story is based on a title suggested by @kinogami.
There was a complete stranger in the house, and no one else seemed to care. Jill and Bobby even seemed to like the trespassing feline.
So Mitsy began sneezing and sniffling and mewling.
She knew how things worked: they’d never keep the new cat if it was creating allergy problems.
His flapping jaws still locked in high gear, frowning men yearned for sonic blasts from a jet squadron to maybe momentarily mute him. They wondered loud, clear, and audibly if even a city nicknamed “The Big Decibel” for its constant and deafening clamor could outdo that son of an amplifier.
Tom McDade lives in Monroe, CT, with his wife, no kids, no pets. He works as a computer programmer in the home plumbing supplies industry.
Like many other runty rodents, Gus had an entirely undeserved nickname.
“Goofy Gopher,” his mom had affectionately called him. But the weasels found out.
Gus’s father said, “Reappropriate it. Go into stand-up. Make a name for yourself. Show them up.”
But it turned out Gus’s jokes just weren’t very funny.
My brother called me a prison probability. I told the pansy, “Shut up,” shoved four candy bars down his pants.
The fat lady lurched from behind the counter, grabbed his collar, half the stash, shrieking, “Snot-nosed delinquent!”
After mom whooped him, I snuck into his room: “Hand them over, punk!”
Meg Tuite’s writing has appeared in numerous journals. She is the fiction editor of The Santa Fe Literary Review and Connotation Press. Her novel “Domestic Apparition” (2011) is available through San Francisco Bay Press. She has a monthly column “Exquisite Quartet” for Used Furniture Review. You can read her blog at http://megtuite.wordpress.com.