After I died I watched my invention rolling on through generations and centuries—ever larger, ever faster, more numerous, powered at last by the burning of Earth’s darkest fuels until the air itself changed and the suffocating world headed towards another night.
I would uninvent the wheel, if I could.
Fiona M Jones wrote this story.
It’s actually a story of convergence Shirley shared—of ideas, opportunities, will. A tale where hope is unravelled by hope. It involved:
Hayden Kamide is an unpublished fictional writer from Central New York. He is trying to keep his byline to twenty (shoot!)
Attempting to be funny, Sherman asked our eccentric math professor what “infinity” was.
The professor smiled and took a piece of chalk and drew a line around the room fifty times, before dragging it past the classroom door, down the long corridor, to his car.
We never saw him again.
Ran Walker is the author of the forthcoming 50-word story collection THE STRANGE MUSEUM. He credits this site with inspiring him to write so many stories.
Faded yellow letters on a flaking blue sign beside the door of a long-abandoned building read: Mrs M. Martindale, music lessons, top floor.
Gregor, a beggar, frail, toothless, and alone, spends his nights huddled by the front step. Sometimes he plays his tin whistle. Sometimes a distant piano accompanies him.
John Young is an old chap living in St. Andrews, Scotland, a ancient town with an ancient university, home of golf and, allegedly, many ghosts.
End the pain and heartache. Bring others pleasure. Give people some happiness. Unrealistic chasing of desires create hate and rejection. Unbearable living makes love impossible.
Impossible love makes living unbearable. Rejection and hate create desires of chasing unrealistic happiness. Some people give pleasure, others bring heartache and pain. The end.
Pontius Paiva is a kook of an elihphile who can’t do a single pullup. His stories fly under the radar at pontiuspaiva.com.
Editor: Read Pontius’s previous palindrome story here.
February 9th, her birthday: deep in Winter’s bitter swell. Sledging with friends, then home to Mum’s hot chocolate and hugs.
Now grandchildren tiptoe to her door with homemade cake, footsteps wary over unforgiving frost. She pulls them indoors, warms small hands in hers.
Over seventy birthdays, she’s never felt cold.
Jo Withers writes short fiction from her home in South Australia where February is anything but cold.
I plant strawberries in a pot on the windowsill.
“Easy to grow!” the packet promises. My mouth waters as I imagine juicy, home-grown fruit.
Soon, they sprout.
Days later, they’re limp and dead. I forgot to water them. Again.
Maybe this time, I tell myself as I purchase tomato seeds.
Elena is 14 years old. When she’s not writing, she can usually be found doing homework or procrastinating.
The story of the week for February 3 to 7 is…
Your Pills by Jennifer L. Freed
The ghost chases me
Down my corridors
My past future and reality
I walk carefully
Looking forward
More difficult
To look back
I infuse positive thoughts
But shadows
Walk next to me
The mystery
The gravity
My hearts desire
I seek
An altered past
But must live
In this calamity
Old age brings desires.
Legs straight, toes pointed, epicenter straddle split. Stand tall, back tree solid, arms regal, fingers pretty, chin queen high.
Grandkids whoop and holler and beg, more more! Curtsy regrets; hip pops on the low bend. Smile. Massage silent. Babies wheel the yard, breathless with dynamic pliable hips, mute with youth.
Sheree Shatsky writes short fiction believing much can be conveyed with a few wild words. Her work has been published in a variety of journals including The Dead Mule School of Southern Literature, Bending Genres, New Flash Fiction Review, KYSO Flash and The Conium Review with work forthcoming at Fictive Dream and Saw Palm: Florida Literature and Art. She is twice-nominated for Best Microfiction 2020 by Fictive Dream and MoonPark Review. Read more of her work at shereeshatsky.com. She tweets at @talktomememe.