“A salad,” she ordered, waving the unopened menu.
“Certainly. Which salad would you like?”
She looked up, momentarily, then back to the phone. “I don’t care. A salad, with leaves and salad stuff in it.”
The waiter brought dandelion leaves he picked himself, from out back where the dogs go.
Stuart is absent without leave from the majority of life and finds that writing helps him remain that way. He occasionally blogs a story at diamondsanddross.blogspot.com.
The mailbox is empty today, again. Even though I know better, I keep expecting to find a letter from you waiting on me one of these days. To see your distinctive handwriting one last time would be like gazing on a minor work of art.
Email just isn’t the same.
Daniel Slaten writes short stories and poetry in small notebooks and on sticky notes.
In the castle dungeon, seven little men were strung up, waiting for a turn on the rack.
“All right,” said the Prince, flicking his whip, “anyone want to confess? No? Then let’s begin. You’re up first, Happy.”
After the birth of Princess Snow White’s half-dwarf daughter, things had gotten ugly.
Eliza Archer writes flash fiction and drinks too much coffee. She can be found at elizaarcher.com.
The story of the week from August 18 to 22 is First Impressions by Katya Duft.
There’s a great transition between emotions in this story, allowing the reader to feel like they’ve gone on a journey with the character. Well done, Katya!
Being the world’s humblest man was hard work at the best of times.
Will looked back on his journey: the full page advertisements, the talk show appearances, the posters he had erected along interstate highways proclaiming his humility.
He was humble all right, and he’d fight anyone who thought differently.
Connell enjoys a good oxymoron. Unfortunately, this is not one of those. See more of his literary misadventures at paragraphplanet, home.wtd-magazine.com and postcardshorts.com.
Didn’t enter the ring for the competition, but rather more for a discourse with the future. The brain more of a sponge soaking up the spill to feed its thirst than a tool used cleaning up the mess left behind.
A challenge barely begun and certain to last only moments.
D. Andrew Bradley is a currently unemployed truck driver wasting time on the internet. He has no writing experience or education beyond what would be considered normal. He just found this quick mental release of blah-blah rather satisfying. Not sure of what will happen next, but back to work means less writing.
The mother spread out over the bench, waiting for a bus to squeeze herself on to. Her blond child’s paleness rusted red in the sun. He wanted to climb and jump.
“No,” she said, offering chocolate. “Eat this.” Extra ballast would stop him floating. “Please,” she said. “Eat now. Eat.”
TL Krawec doesn’t have children, and keeps his chocolate to himself.
The closet was dark and musty. He wished he could spend his time in the parents’ walk-in closets, instead.
The kid started snoring. The sooner he scared him, the sooner he’d get paid. Then he could worry about paying rent.
Too bad his place was no larger than a closet.
Nathan Hystad will be published in an upcoming Anthology called Malevolence: Tales from Beyond the Veil, coming soon from Tickety Boo Press.
On his twentieth anniversary, Michael got a room at the Hilton where they cavorted for three hours.
At five, he said, “Time to go. I’ve got to pick up flowers for my wife.”
He wouldn’t need the flowers. When he left room 154, he ran into her exiting room 151.
Harry Demarest has retired after careers encompassing scientific research, teaching at a university, software development, web application development, and voter database compilation and distribution. He is now spending his time with his grandchildren and writing memoirs and short stories.
What had been planet Yardinvert was now a cluster of brown bits. Bulging eyes encircled Lord Lapso. He was relieved his black hood obscured his gawk.
“You’ll die for this!” exclaimed one hostage.
The dark lord sighed. Note to self: keep some distance between the finger and button when bluffing.
Joey wasn’t interested in writing while at school but has been writing on his own in recent years. He doesn’t really care that Alderaan was peaceful nor how many Bothans died to bring you this story. Cos he’s a jerk, that’s why.