“I wish your father all the best with his new wife and baby,” said Harriet. “He’s a decent man and he deserves happiness.”
And there’s my plug for divorced mother of the year, she thought.
Turning, she pulled a long knife from the wooden block and began to sharpen it.
Susan Wackerbarth teaches creative writing at the University of Hawaii Hilo. At home, she shares space with goats, chickens and the occasional mongoose.
Her palate was broader than her father’s. On her thirteenth birthday she ate the entire cake. But she’d still not spoken. Too much sky up here?
I led her to the nearest cave and she clattered inside with a thunderous, visceral bellow. I feared it was the sound of hope.
Tamsin and Mark Farley decided to write sequels to each other’s most recent 50-word stories. This is a sequel to Fostering the Minotaur’s Daughter.
New strings, a polished case, and it was only then she discovered her uncle’s spirit lived on in the violin. The instrument wept tears of resin when she told it of her aunt’s death. That night the strings carved melody from raindrops, sliced moonlight into splinters, whispered chords of regret.
Mark Farley was only too happy to join in with Tamsin Seymour’s lovely idea of writing sequels to each other’s stories. This story is a follow-up to Lost Chords.
The story of the week for September 25 to 29 is…
Beneath Layers by R.R. Bastek
Cemetery boss said, “Check out the old homeless Vets’ activity. The hole dug yesterday’s been disturbed. Make sure the casket’ll fit.” A gravestone was erected: “Herbert Sendall 1932-2017.” Later inscribed: “Also Henry.”
He heard a Vet say, “We put old Henry down. Free of all the hullabaloo.” He saluted sharply.
Tom Sheehan wrote this story.
Alone in the office at night a slow madness overtakes me. It begins with a paperclip chain. It ends when the cleaner finds me, the Emperor of the Paper Cup People, berating the massed ranks of my subjects, my nudity covered only by yellow sticky notes. The horror! The horror!
Bill lives in Aberdeen, Scotland, where he works as a professional haggis hunter.
It’s the woods and the painted barnstar that hangs upon my neighbor’s house; the nightly vigils that loiter in the windows and the blue Dodge Dart eaten by rust that Mr. Thomas refuses to get rid of.
Placing newly built concrete gods in the rearview, I wonder… where’s home now?
E.O.’s pretty sure that Starbucks is evil. Stores keep spontaneously appearing where trees, herbs, and game used to be, even though their coffee isn’t very good. What type of obscure witchery is this…?
It’s tough being queer when no one knows, and the closet only gets hotter during the summer.
I play dress up all I want—it is a closet, after all—but it’s stifling, uncomfortable.
When I peel away the lace, it’s soaked with sweat, and I peel away with it.
R.R. Bastek is a first-generation Polish-American writer interested in exploring life through the lens of literary fiction.
While filling the pockets of her overcoat with heavy stones, she idly mulls over her long-held belief that removing a writer’s demons can also take away those angels that create wondrous prose. “Well, it doesn’t matter now,” she thinks, wading deeper into the River Ouse. “The angels have abandoned me.”
Henry F. Tonn has had his fiction and nonfiction published by some of the finest literary journals in America but his novel, “Ascent to Madness,” a historical novel about Zelda Fitzgerald, had been rejected by over two hundred literary agents. He blogs sporadically at henrytonn.com.
Never forget mascara; it’s very useful for opening up sleep-deprived eyes.
Not too heavy, mind. You don’t want someone looking too closely, or they might drown in your sorrow. And thick eyeliner acts as a distraction. Wear it smudgy so people can’t see when you’ve been crying.
Apply red lipstick.
CR Smith is a student of Fine Art. She splits her time between art and writing. Her work has appeared both on online and in print.
Find her on Twitter and at crsmith2016.wordpress.com.