Word was out that there would be animal abuse and drinking. Definitely drinking. Children would be welcome.
Cars started arriving with little ones spilling out. Smiles, hugs, and greetings abounded. Despite the predictions, everyone was happy. A stout stick was issued to the children.
Time to swing at the piñata.
N.T. Franklin writes after his real job hoping one day to have it be his real job. He writes cozy mystery short stories, nostalgia short stories, and Flash Fiction. When not reading or writing short stories, you might find him fishing or solving crossword puzzles.
“When I was little, I dreamed of being a mermaid,” Emily said, “with shiny scales and silky, long, blonde hair. Such a silly fantasy.”
She smiled, revealing fangs, then she lurched away with a flick of her tail, passing beneath the “Beware: Bunyips” sign and slithering back into the billabong.
G.B. Burgess resides in bunyip-infested swampland where she runs a drop bear sanctuary with her pet Thylacine.
—tornado, Jefferson City, MO, May 22, 2019
Trails of debris, rooftops blown into sand, a photograph of a two-week-old baby.
She said, I just wanted someone from my family to call, to see if we’re OK—
and the tornado’s breath came from her, stuttering sobs as loud as the storm.
Michael H. Brownstein wrote this story.
The day fertilizer was delivered, he showered it down hollering, “Girl, watch our corn grow!” His eyes always checked the skyline for clouds.
Fallow fields all around; only thing growing fast is cancer. Rain healed the crops. Now I wheel Dad into the storms, praying it will heal him too.
Madeleine Kleppinger is a writer with a day job as a scientist in Cedar Rapids, Iowa. She hosts a blog that helps readers discover their greatest story, with weekly posts that range from book reviews to original short stories to lifestyle pieces about adventurous living. Her free time is spent bounding through the wilderness with her American Bulldog, Sonnet.
I drove truck for rock’n’roll. My 303rd day on the road in 1975, I hit and killed a German Shepherd. He died with head up, mouth open, telling me: “Stay on the road, you die. Get off the road, you live!”
Next day, took his advice and quit. Thank Dog.
Glenn Schiffman drove a big rig for the entertainment industry for 20+ years. He currently lives in Montana where he writes, tells stories, and hangs out with his grandsons.
I found a mildewed stack of love poems in the attic, looking centuries old. The snatches of looping script I could read brought the stars and moon tumbling down on my head.
We’ve lost more in the poetic art of writing love than we can ever reproduce with our thumbs.
A graduate of the University of Minnesota’s Creative Writing program, Soma is reinvigorating her poetry and flash fiction muscles after over two decades of writing stories for businesses and brands. She intends to tell her story as a first generation Indian woman growing up between Western and Eastern cultures.
Watching Big Sister play baseball, Roberta scraped her knee. The lady she asked for a bandage gave her one, and said, “You walked past three other ladies to get to me. Why didn’t you ask them for a bandage?”
“They have little purses,” said Roberta. “Big purses always have bandages.”
Thomas A. North has a batting average of zero, and therefore hopes he is better at writing than baseball.
The story of the week for July 22 to 26 is…
Today is Like Every Day by Laura Besley
I park my car nose outwards, gather my clothes already in the evening, and shave myself symmetrically from both sides at the same time.
You may never know when the alarm goes off. Always have a cereal bar with you. Wee as soon as you feel it.
Beep beep beep. Run!
Gergely is a volunteer paramedic thankful to be able to see sometimes the spellbinding and wonderful moments of birth both to this world and to heaven.
I chat to callers about holiday homes, kitchen renovations, solar panels.
Later, I call twenty-four-hour hotlines, but can’t find options I need:
1 for housebound,
2 for lonely,
3 for desperate.
Tomorrow, I’ll break the fridge. Mechanic will be here in an hour, answer in grunts. Highlight of my week.
Jo Withers writes micros, shorts and poetry from her home in South Australia. Recent work can be found in Molotov Cocktail, Spelk and 24 Unread Messages.