I awoke mean and angry.
I struggle to keep this dark side of my personality in check.
Someone or something will pay dearly, as the club in my hand is a deadly weapon.
Every muscle fiber and nerve tense and tingle with excitement as I unleash a mighty swing.
“Fore!”
Frank S. Ring is a fitness enthusiast and the author of three books on walking. All are available on Amazon. He’s begun writing fiction to improve his writing and storytelling.See more at walkingforhealthandfitness.com
I am the last. Radiation poisoning or madness have taken the others. Last year we watched the death glow on the horizon and someone joked, “Well, it’s just us and the bugs now.” Today I found the brittle husks of a dozen cockroaches under my bunk and laughed myself sick.
Aeryn Rudel is a writer from Seattle, Washington. He is the author of the Acts of War novels published by Privateer Press, and his short fiction has appeared in The Arcanist, The Molotov Cocktail, and Pseudopod, among others. Learn more about Aeryn’s work at rejectomancy.com or on Twitter at @Aeryn_Rudel.
She’s isolated in the hospital, so I say “I love you” via video phone, talking until my battery flashes red and her chest doesn’t rise, then break because I can’t hold her, break because she’s a statistic without a funeral, as if she’s never existed, as if she’s never lived.
Sudha Balagopal’s short fiction appears in numerous publications including Wigleaf, Fictive Dream, Cabinet of Heed, Jellyfish Review and New World Writing. She is the author of a novel, A New Dawn. See more at sudhabalagopal.com.
The first spring storm weeps my larger family
back to life.
My silent siblings smile
and stretch branches in the wind;
I hug every trunk hello.
Grandmother Sky pats my head
with loving, watery fingers.
All my raindrop cousins
want to play tag;
I am It
a thousand times over.
Maria is coping with the current crisis by planting sprouting vegetables, taking silly pictures of her cats, and binge-watching The Chosen.
“You imagined it,” I tell myself. But the footsteps overhead are unmistakable.
I force myself to go and check, entering the hall. Faces twist toward me, howling and horror-struck. I scream and flee but still I hear them, one rising above the rest:
“Did… did we just see a ghost?”
Sam Canning is a writer based in Edinburgh. After years in the writing wilderness, she joined a class, completed two novels, and is in the process of writing a third. She recently signed to the literary agency A.M. Heath and can be found digging up all kinds of ridiculous tales for her online blog ohmygsoh.wordpress.com. Follow her on Twitter at @yesshescan.
My grandmother’s china—
the set I used to save
for holidays: fine
rims of gold, delicate
patterns of green—I use it
every day,
don’t worry about chips, don’t
delay its offerings.
These days I need
porcelain teacups, warm
against my palms. My brother
has died.
Use
the fine china.
Jennifer L Freed mostly writes poems, which have appeared in various journals and anthologies. See more on her website, jfreed.weebly.com.
The story of the week for April 6 to 10 is…
Survived by a Daughter by Casey Laine
Cardinals chirping, red-winged blackbirds trilling from the woods.
Percussionist woodpecker beats a syncopated rhythm from behind a leafless oak.
Cackling spring peepers, hidden in vernal ponds, improvise a backup chorus.
High above, hawk screeches a solo.
Self-isolating on my deck, I’m grateful for nature’s elusive musicians
creating a comforting concert.
Carol Anne Harvey finds comfort in music, writing, reading, and talking with family and friends during her solitary confinement in Massachusetts.
Darn the holes in the socks
Touch up grey hair roots
Get up close and personal with some favorite cooking shows
Organize the kitchen cupboards
Attack the dust bunnies that reside under the bed
Binge read every single story published on 50-Word Stories
Or sit around and do absolutely nothing
Marjan Sierhuis enjoys reading and writing flash fiction. Follow @MarjanSierhuis
Hastening home through light drizzle and the deep chill of a January evening, Len pauses before his front door, repelled as always by the dark emptiness of the place.
Tonight, he will cook liver, bacon, and onions.
In the silence the aroma will linger, swaddling gentle memories of earlier times.
John Young is an old chap living in St Andrews, Scotland.