She had preferred it when her table was simply empty. An empty table could some day be filled.
What could you do with a table once it had become a grave?
Stilling her only child’s dying spasms, she emptied herself of tears, filling the empty places with resentment, determination, revolution.
This story is based on a title suggested by Ryan Culley-Waters.
On a walk I saw a dying cicada mating with a fully dead one. It was a silent act. None of the annoying buzz.
With a flickering of one wing, the dying bug ceased all movement. I wondered if it was necrophilia or one last chance to make a mark.
Nathaniel Tower writes fiction, teaches English, and manages the online lit magazine Bartleby Snopes. His short fiction has appeared in over 50 online and print magazines. A story of his, “The Oaten Hands,” was named one of 190 notable stories by storySouth’s Million Writers Award in 2009. His first novel, A Reason To Kill, was released in July 2011. Visit him at www.bartlebysnopes.com/ntower.htm.
Kieth leaned wearily on his mop. He looked up at the ugly contraption the whitecoats had so proudly built and intended to fire tomorrow. Kieth thought of the misery and death it would bring. Quietly, carefully, he removed a metal panel, tugged free some wires and snuck away a hero.
Alex Steacy is a member of Loading Ready Run and recently released a collaborative graphic novel called Shards.
Wouldn’t it be nice
if life
had handlebars?
A simple way to steer;
Something to hold
for balance;
A little bell,
to let people know
we were coming;
And a headlight
to help us see
the road in front of us.
Come to think of it,
how about some brakes?
This story was based on the prompt “handlebar” at TypeTrigger.
In Theo’s experience, when you showed someone a blindfold, they tended to interpret it in one of two ways: it represented either a game, or kidnapping.
The interesting part, to Theo, were those few wavering moments, as he tied it on, while they tried to decide which one it was.
This story was based on the prompt “a blindfold” at TypeTrigger.
As the hot sun descended, frightened by the rising of the cold blue moon, I stumbled on a root and fell headlong into nightmare.
Within myself, I chased and fled, pursuing sanity and evading madness.
I grasped sanity’s skirt. She pulled away, saying, “Your daughter is dead.”
Madness ensnared me.
This story was based on a title suggested by @KittyCatalyst.
I was staring blankly at a dirty old apartment building, wondering whether more people go down fire escapes or up them.
You said, “It happened so suddenly; I found out yesterday,” and I wasn’t sure whether to slip out the back door, or embrace the opportunity to sneak back in.
People were lined up, waiting for a table, standing too close to her chair. She was almost touching the butt of a heavy-set, bleached blond, overweight woman who was describing her “last” trip to Paris in excruciating detail.
She quickly downed her glass of red wine, stood up, and left.
Bobbi Lurie is the author of three poetry collections: The Book I Never Read, Letter from the Lawn and Grief Suite.
They stood by the charred crater that had been their home and listened to the wind.
It told them, You’ve been hard done by.
It said, They had no right.
It whispered, Independence is our destiny.
It commanded, Hoist the New Antland flag, stand tall, and let the humans come.
A leering face, a dark alley, and a tangy, salty-sweet flavour were all he could remember when he awoke in the hospital bed.
The contents of his wallet said he was Josip Šerić, a wealthy Croatian businessman visiting Chicago.
He didn’t care. All that mattered was finding back that flavour.