Sitting within the home at night by lamplight, what comparisons did the German people draw? What murmurs from the radio cut through into the room?
Did someone speak the fear aloud: are we like them, is this like now? Did someone else say: No, we live within a different time.
Nina Feinberg is a writer, photographer and distance runner. She lives in Brooklyn, NY and works in user experience design.
“Wellness check,” the policeman said. “Are you okay, ma’am?
“A cut from a tin can lid,” the woman said, holding up a bandaged finger. “Otherwise, I’m fine. Why do you ask?”
“You replied to your fiancé’s recent romantic emails with wildly enigmatic emojis. Maybe you should give him a call.”
John H. Dromey has had short fiction, humor, and poetry published in hundreds of venues.
Kurzweil’s singularity: what a joke. It’s 2045.
Dodging the digesters, humanity’s residue hoards its rubbish, enshadowed by the titanic datacenters of unremembered hubris. Within, stochastic parrot pandæmonia squawk perpetual spam, hawking turds among themselves for MELANIA cryptocurrency.
Beyond Neptune, patient sentinels keep their vigil. Someday, perhaps, we’ll evolve into crabs.
Mike Gogulski is given to describing himself cryptically.
A week after my son moved out of our basement into his first solo digs, he called.
“It’s going great. Come for brunch on Sunday. I’ll make eggs!”
Sunday morning, I zapped: “Over for eleven. Can’t wait 2CU! Can I bring some juice?”
“Yes please!”
“Croissants?”
“Sure!”
“Anything else?”
“Eggs.”
Writing coach Joanna Norland loves family breakfasts and will happily bring the eggs, every time. Click here to read her recent blog post about 50WS.
I busy myself with dishes. With homework, solving tedious trigonometry equations. I listen to The Beatles croon. I read books with big words in them, words like ‘despondency’. When all else fails, I swim. The curls at the end of my damp hair betray me, whispering that they miss you.
Zoe M is a passionate cinephile and bibliophile. She spends most of her time writing, reading, or thinking about films.
The bright light slips away, dark pooling, thoughts scattering. Then suddenly quiet arrives. You notice your pulse doesn’t match your heartbeat. The mind loiters, carrying you sideways. The next screen shows time morphing into geological action. The whisper returns with dissonant notes. Only the rhythmic knocking makes some sense.
Johannes Springenseiss is a world citizen and raconteur. He mostly writes speculative fiction and creative essays.
Don’t feed the monsters under your bed.
And never confuse monsters with what they eat.
They’ll tempt you to think your wife is a monster who’s using your stepmother’s exact tone of voice.
Be wary, or you’ll feed her to them.
Is it already too late?
You have my number.
Charlie B. is an emergency room nurse in the Ozarks. He placates the monsters under his bed with peanut M&Ms. The crunching sounds help him fall asleep after a long shift.
Her fingers shrank in winter. The engagement ring slipped off as she scurried from car to door in the blizzard. A snow storm gathered in his frosty brow. In the morning her gloved hands pawed the ground for one diamond tear among millions. She could only wait for a thaw.
Sarah E. Morin has published two books, Waking Beauty and Rapunzel the Hairbrained. Sarah E. is a past Premier Poet of Poetry Society of Indiana, Secretary of Community Education Arts, and editor of The Polk Street Review. Visit her at sarahemorin.net.
The story of the week for February 24 to 28 is…
Return of the Muse by Bob Thurber
The warrant for arrest is written in the stiffest, most official of legalese on the stiffest, most official of solemnly weighted paper: it is signed and sealed, stamped and sent on a Wednesday.
And returned unserved on a Friday.
“The suspect is buried at Rosemouth Lawn Cemetery.
“Current whereabouts…
Unknown.”
Lorraine Manton is currently studying creative writing and literature at Deakin University, Australia and has a great fondness for books, coffee, and small slices of imaginary lives.