With the weighty tome agape in my clutches, I strode across the antechamber, cantillating synonyms with imperturbable tenacity.
“What are you doing?” she inquired quizzically.
“Memorizing the thesaurus to become a better writer,” I expounded.
“I don’t think that’s how it works,” she propounded equivocally.
“Concede to nonconcur,” I retorted.
Dara Naraghi has written comics and graphic novels of all types, from self-published zines to New York Times best sellers.
She said, So what do you do?
I said, I’m a pickpocket.
Seriously, she said.
I handed back her phone and wristwatch.
That’s amazing, she said.
I produced her wedding band.
She studied it a moment.
Actually, I’m recently divorced, she said.
So I returned her credit cards and cash.
Bob Thurber is the author of six books. Regarded as a master of Flash and Micro Fiction, his work has appeared in Esquire and other magazines, been anthologized 60 times, received a long list of awards, and been utilized in schools and colleges throughout the world. He resides in Massachusetts. Visit his website at BobThurber.net.
The door of the pet shop opened, and the scientist entered. Mabel shuddered. The man was a friend of the boss, but she couldn’t help wonder what happened to all the pets he bought.
As he approached, Mabel gave him her best fake smile.
“Another cat, is it, Mr Schrodinger?”
Bill lives in Aberdeen, Scotland, where he exists in a state of quantum uncertainty until such time as somebody actually reads his work.
One day after revealing the lump beneath your gown, you’ll know to say
“Heavy,
thickened,
redness.”
One week after, waiting for results, you’ll know your
life insurance benefit
and the colors of purgatory.
Well-versed in specialists and staging,
you’ll plead
for strength,
more time,
a timely call,
easier sleep.
Grace.
Joree writes what she knows, which isn’t much, but enough for her.
As the orchestra exhales its final fuschia note, the ink of night slides silently over hills. Twisting through the vines. Settling into the earth.
The stillness
weighs upon his back, too heavy to carry now. Face into the dirt, the world breaks into riotous silence. He is overwhelmed with loneliness.
A.S. Czuk writes in solitude, in the middle of the night, when sleep’s evasiveness prevails. Writing is personal. Intimate. Private. Exposure is a harsh light that stings the eyes, but A.S. Czuk realizes now that life is much too brief to carry on in the dark.
After the others were asleep, Martine stood at the open door and felt the hair on her skin turn downy and feathered. Nose and mouth beaked, wings sprouted from shoulder blades. She lifted and flew above the rooftops. She never tired of the thrill, swooping and soaring until dawn. Freedom.
Marilyn McFarlane is the author of Sacred Stories: Wisdom From World Religions and numerous travel books, and she writes poetry, mostly haiku, and fiction. She values minimalism and is impressed by how much can be conveyed in a mere fifty words.
I had enough money for the orange: $.60 on my card, plus a quarter. I tried to explain the split payment, but the cashier gave up and just told me to take it.
Years later, I want to go back and make it right, but there’s no one that cares.
Rachael lives in San Francisco and has just started writing.
The winner of the 2020 Story of the Year, along with the $50 prize and enshrinement in the Hall of Fame, is:
Your Pills by Jennifer L. Freed
We were blessed by Jennifer’s contributions to the site this year. She won three Story of the Month awards in four months (a feat made that much more remarkable by Yash Seyedbagheri’s accomplishment of the same thing later in the year). Your Pills was her strongest piece, centred around the beautifully poetic and hopeful turn of phrase “You take the sky / into your body / with your morning tea”.
Honourable mentions go to Cracked Lives by Yash Seyedbagheri, Extra Time by David Holloway, and Beautiful Things by Jennifer L. Freed.
The story of the week for January 25 to 29 is…
Roxana by Karalyn Wayne
She was always in love or never in love depending on how you looked at it. It was always annoying when she said, “I love you”.
Reactions were her way of gauging how others felt about her. Sometimes it drew unwelcome advances, but it always revealed how lonely she was.
Connell still writes a bit.