Only when the arguments stopped did I realise I’d lost you.
Three years of stolen kisses and playful smiles faded away like fragments of a dream. I sit in your grandfather’s chair, listening to the front porch strain under the weight of summer rain, and wait for you to leave.
Guy knows the sound of summer rain like the voice of an old friend. This is his thirteenth 50-word story.
“My remarks will be brief today,” an absentminded professor told his class. “I’m suffering from short-turn memory loss.”
“Don’t you mean short-term?” a student asked.
The prof shook his head. “I had the top down on my convertible. When I turned a corner really fast, my lecture notes blew away.”
John H. Dromey has had short fiction published in Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine, Betty Fedora, Crimson Streets, and elsewhere.
Roy shifts the heavy workbench, studies the contours in the blanket of dust beneath. Pencils, nutshells. And glasses: thick, over-sized, cracked. Alan.
A breath, a quick polish, and his reflection blinks back at him. It’s changed since he last saw it in those lenses, moments before they hit the floor.
Richard Day Gore followed his passion for several arts from Virginia to Manhattan, where he worked as Senior Editor of a publishing house specializing in medical anthologies. The experience left him with Chronic Adjective Deprivation Syndrome, the treatment for which is writing fiction. He’s permanently recuperating in Southern California, where he also paints and writes music.
Nothing small happens in her life. It has always been so, since as long as she can remember.
She checks her makeup, wondering: too much, too little? Lipstick, she decides, and chooses a scarlet shade, Estée Nectarine. Hair? Perfect. Outfit? A tailored black dress, neat, purposeful.
Here’s the bus.
Dermott Hayes is a writer. He has published three books; a biography of Sinead O’Connor, So Different, a crime novel, Tito’s Dead and Postcard from a Pigeon, a collection of short stories. He’s working on a new short story collection, another crime novel and a science fiction story.
Estranged darkness
A match struck
The scent of sulphur
Flicker, flicker
The candle speaks
Only shadows live within this room
Haunted
Hypnotized
Inside the dancing flame
His life
He blows it out
The curtains thrashed open
Blinded
His dark eyes open
The spell broken
He breathes deep
And dreams again
Patrick is a novice writer, and would like to say a special thanks to Tim and to those that might read his tenth post.
Hey, Famine? Death here. Got your diary? What about the 17th?
No, it’s weight watchers on Tuesdays. Next Friday?
Darn! Forgot Plague is off sick until next month.
What about War?
Her diary’s always full. She’s usually out somewhere, dressed to kill.
Lord, looks like we’ll have to postpone. Again.
Viv Burgess got this idea from the usual 80-email marathons trying to arrange a date to meet with three other women friends.
They had to cut me to take you.
I heard your cry fade down the hallway.
It haunts me nightly.
I bought you cards every birthday, not knowing if I should buy for a son or daughter.
You are fifty years old today.
I still crave my beautiful bastard baby.
Joan is an educator in Australia who loves the beauty of language.
The story of the week for July 25 to 29 is…
At the Zoo by Scott Ragland
So much story behind so few details. Great use of every word.
She stared, blank; he gazed lovingly back. Perhaps it was true her skin hung a little loosely upon her bones. Perhaps it was true her hair was just a little sparse.
Yet his mother’s disapproval meant little. He loved her just the same.
After all, aren’t zombies just people, too?
Jenora Vaswani holds an avid fascination for the undead, and avoids horror movies like the plague, a rather unfortunate combination, really. Considering the gradual shifts in perception regarding the LGBTQ+ community, she thought it might be interesting to ponder the extremes of finding acceptance… within zombie/human relationships. Read more of her work at openingdoorsofperception.com.
“How are you?” it starts.
“I miss you,” he says.
“When are you coming over?” he asks.
I say I’m fine. I tell him I’m busy. I say I’m too tired to come over right now.
I waste platitudes on him when I should just say two words: “It’s over.”
Lucinda is a housewife, blogger, and aspiring writer. She is currently experimenting with different writing styles, hoping to enhance her somewhat rusty writing skills.