He really didn’t want to go in.
He’d heard stories about this place, and they weren’t good. The person in charge was mean and scary.
He knew that once he was in, there was no way back: he would be trapped – at least until his mum collected him at three.
Mike Jackson is a retired primary school head teacher who is enjoying having time and freedom to write. You can read more of his writing here.
The gatekeepers see all, never blinking, no matter what the time.
Those who seek the angels don’t see them for they hide in plain sight.
With one foot in each world your fate is decided with the yowl of annoyance or the purr of contentment.
Those wonderful misaligned felines.
Gareth Wilson would call himself a serial reader, slayer of titles, leaving a woody (and shortly electron) swathe in his wake. Currently he is improving his writing skills by cutting his teeth on short pieces to work up to his own full-length title. He reviews general fiction here and YA and children’s books here.
He lived inside his phone, drifting from app to app and nesting in the dim recesses of the End Call button.
He’d been there since the rotary days. The passing years had drastically reduced his living space.
He had no idea how he’d fit his mattress into a Bluetooth headset.
She watched arrogantly as the valet flung the bags into the trunk.
There was a tinkling crunch.
She turned to her husband. “See? They broke. I’m packing next time.”
He feigned sheepishness. Packing sucked, and they’d both hated Aunt Gertha’s gift. As far as he was concerned, this was victory.
She chose him.
I think what hurt most was that she didn’t choose me. I have nothing against the guy. In fact, I’m happy for him.
But why not me?
Did I use the wrong words? Did I smell funny?
Whatever her reason, I’ll recover. The world holds many puppies.
The day Tom was born, his father wore a high hat.
As a two-year-old, Tom loved taking a ride on his mother’s knee.
When he was four, he watched his brother catch rabbits in a snare.
At six, a pony gave him a nasty kick.
Naturally, Tom became a cowboy.
I know, I know, explaining jokes isn’t funny, but… form your own conclusions.
Every Saturday morning the tables were set up. Goods new and used, handmade and home baked, were put out to browse through.
Every Saturday morning they came, tails tucked between their legs, cowering at the ends of their leashes.
The dogs would never understand the draw of the flea market.
This bonus story was written by Larissa Thiessen. It’s her birthday today, the last birthday she’ll have with the last name “Thiessen,” and that’s largely my fault!
He pointed the camera at her and asked, “Grandma, how does it feel to be a great grandmother?”
She looked up from the baby they had named for her late husband, her eyes wet.
“Everything the Nazis took from me… I got it all back.” Her voice was triumphant: “Everything.”
You can read more of Lianna Williamson’s writing on her writing blog.
“Where have you been?” they demanded, leaning out of their windows in pajamas and nightgowns. “Did you get lost? Did you think it was funny?”
They hadn’t seen the moon in over a week!
Moon peeked over the horizon at her dearly beloved, the sun, and hid a contented blush.
Fred was a frustrated fool.
“I’ve been trying and trying for hours,” he sighed helplessly, “but I just can’t push this nail through this two-by-four. Do you think I’m doing it wrong?”
He looked over to his companion, MC Hammer, who prepared himself for the fulfillment of his life’s purpose.
This story is based on a title suggested by @danzama.