Well over forty, my biological clock has almost stopped.
My ideal man is handsome, plays sports, drives a Porsche, and holidays in Mauritius.
My next “date” sits opposite me now.
“I’m Cecil,” he lisps. “I like bird watching and stamp collecting and I live with Mummy.”
Close enough, I think!
Denise Jones is 65. She lives in England and has dabbled in creative writing for over 10 years, mainly short stories, reader’s letters, and poems published spasmodically in a variety of publications.
She excitedly told her friends about the cat stalking her unfinished sculpture on the kitchen floor.
As it materialized one could feel the amazing spirit of the piece infusing inanimate plaster with life.
It wasn’t until years later she laughed about the dead mouse she eventually found at the centre.
Grace Kary is a playwright and filmmaker. One of her scripts won the K.M. Hunter award. Her work has been screened and mounted in Canada, the US, Mexico, and Australia. Currently her short film “Last One At The Party” is premiering in Oregon.
Celebrating Great Ermina’s 98 years of life,
The Mariachis sang the song of the Dead
Father Hector harmonized during the mass
Her children chimed praises for their inherited wealth,
Eulogizing her sly charms that built a fortune
No guilt, just secrets and a final confession…
Her haunting fear of Purgatory.
Carole Nese enjoys reading people and writing fiction, creative non fiction, editorial prose, and sometimes poetry. She belongs to a group of great writers, is challenged by them weekly, and credits them in part for her motivation and inspiration.
If all the misbehaved, screaming children in restaurants were eaten for dinner.
If tailgaters grew tails, and road-hogs were butchered for bacon.
If lying politicians were publicly flogged by their constituents.
If gossipers were muzzled.
If what goes around really came around, and karma decided the fate of future existences.
‘Nuff said.
He was tall, solid, heavily tattooed, an image of aggression. Even when he slept, naked, sprawled on the bed, there was a tenseness to him, a readiness to attack at the slightest provocation.
Now he was immobilized by the light touch on his belly. The spider, unaware, was also still.
Jan Owens lives in South Australia, retired from education and nursing and now happily playing with words.
This is your virtual pilot. Thank you for flying Everywhere Airline. You are flying on the first fully automated airplane and are in the hands of the most advanced computers in the world. Relax and enjoy the flight. We can guarantee that nothing will go wrong go wrong go wrong—
Fillip Verdun wrote this story.
We walked in silence, hand in hand. It seemed to appear out of nowhere: the fork in the road.
My instincts spoke strongly: take the path to the left. He was being guided to the right.
Our gazes locked, we embraced like never before. Off he walked to the right.
Maggy is an aspiring writer from Oakville, Ontario. She’s fairly certain she’s on the right path.
The word rolls from my tongue: lacuna.
It has the romantic sound of a cello playing, a silky feeling like soft, luscious melon in my mouth, hiding the true meaning.
It is an empty place beside me: the gap in my world, where I am stranded since you are gone.
Candace Kubinec wrote this story.
The story of the week for September 12 to 16 is…
Moving On by Mark Farley
Character and emotion distilled into a central metaphor. This is textbook microfiction.
Her last moments haunted me.
Yes, she was a mean old
witch, but to think
how death washed over her
so abruptly.
How she must have felt,
seeing herself
diminishing, knowing
she had no
hope.
The echo
of her final words.
Toto sniffing the black pool
of her empty robes.
Jennifer L. Freed writes mostly poetry, and occasionally some short fiction. Her poetry chapbook was published in 2014. Other work can be seen at Jfreed.weebly.com.