An inch worm
rides on the ear
of a calico cat.
A hammer
beats staccato
on the roof next door.
A can for Ore-ida potato chips
worn as a helmet on a child’s head
passes by on the sidewalk.
An old Retriever
wags hello
asking permission to be young again.
Marjorie lives in Maine.
Beneath the majestic Tora Bora Mountains he pulled the trigger, then trailed his quarry into a nearby cave. He leaned over and peered into the man’s dying eyes, and was startled when the Arab’s bloody hand rose slowly and gently touched his cheek.
He decided this was his last kill.
Henry F. Tonn is a soon-to-be-retired psychologist who once wrote an excellent novel about a woman with multiple personality disorder who became a serial killer. It had all the qualities that the reading public would presumably like. He webs at henrytonn.com.
Met Generation Rent in the multi-story carpark yesterday.
They’d parked themselves where the electric cars go, in a circle defending their charging electronics. Their final protection a clothes-line of paid parking-tickets. Unbreachable for just three hours.
I drove by, fuelled by diesel and guilt, and made their sad bunting flutter.
Virginia Marybury loves history (especially hidden, revisionist, steampunk or other alternatives), but is no alt-truther.
We were married within a month.
The first morning I woke with nausea, I felt rotten. The second: jubilation. Mere weeks had passed since we first made love, but I swore I could already feel a bump.
We laughed, kissed, hugged; fell asleep with bodies intertwined. Life was a dream.
Guy forgot to submit this story last month. This is his twentieth 50-word story.
Editor: See part 1 and part 2 of Guy’s ongoing story.
Sometimes I’ll toss out a we
in conversation.
It requires little effort
to slip back from I.
I is so hard.
We feels good
part of the club
We
are doing this
or that
We
just came from here
or there
For a moment
everything is as it should be.
Robin Lubatkin does circle time with the very young and what she calls “songhealing” with the very old.
The story of the week for July 31 to August 4 is…
Out by Joey To
First thing out was my suit. Next went my helmet, violently followed by my books.
She’d always had a good arm and a bad temper.
Obviously I’m next, which would be bearable if we were on Earth rather than a spaceship.
Well, at least I won’t hear her screaming anymo—
Joey doesn’t mind travelling through space even if there is a risk that she’ll blow him out of the airlock. You can visit him at joeytoey.com.
“How’d you get that shiner, Angus?”
“I visited a haunted hieland castle at the witching hour to ken what haints wear under their sheets.”
“A ghostie hit you?”
“No-o-o. In the near darkness, I lifted the wrong hem… I discovered the laird of the manor wears nothing under his kilt.”
John H. Dromey was born in northeast Missouri. Although he has some Celtic roots (in Ireland and Scotland) he does not wear a kilt.
I stepped out. Wind pummeled me. My grip tightened.
“GO!” I heard. Fear froze me in place.
“GO!” I dismissed the fear and back flipped into the abyss.
In my inverted freefall, I watched the plane fading into clear blue sky. My only thought, “How do I get back on?”
Catherine writes fiction inspired by the world from her point of view and true stories inspired by her own life adventures.
All is tranquil, sleekly efficient, sterile. I’d been visiting my old friend. Now I’m out on the perfectly manicured grounds, pausing on a bench to catch my breath before shuffling off to my car. Passing staffers chirp cheerful good-afternoons. They see gray hair and a cane and make an assumption.
Alex likes to spread his wings and soar.