I sit high up a tree. Below, branches crackle and woodland creatures
crash frantically through the forest.
Love like a forest fire.
I calmly clutch my tinderbox though the flames have reached
my tree’s roots.
Because once you’d said you’d leap through fire for me.
So, little grasshopper. I’m waiting.
Lisa Falzon has been writing 50-word stories for over ten years now. Her website is micro-fiction.blogspot.ie.
The boat rocked backwards and forwards, and I felt my stomach starting to churn. The day was hot and sultry as the gentle rocking continued. Then, as if a trigger was pulled, I vomited over the edge of the boat.
Dad didn’t mind. “Some berley for the fish,” he said.
Connell Wayne Regner had successfully avoided writing creatively since he wrote spontaneous lyrics to music many years ago. Although from a linguistic background, he has serendipitously succumbed to fiction after spontaneously creating bedtime stories for his children. His other dabblings can be found at paragraphplanet and wtdmagazine.wordpress.com.
“What’s wrong with you, Shawn? You’ve spilled a drink on not just one, but four bobsledders.”
“Everything would have been fine if they’d just stood still.”
“What do you mean?”
“Because this lodge is furnished with valuable antiques, the barkeep made me promise to set my glass on a coaster.”
John H. Dromey has had a short story published in Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine, a mini-mystery in Woman’s World, plus fiction online at Liquid Imagination, Mysterical-E, and elsewhere.
2184: Earth’s survivors occupy government-controlled cells provided with oxygen, power and sustenance, or OPS.
Number 215296045 activates his TV to discover he is live on screen.
“Tonight’s randomly chosen contestant on ‘Dying to Live’ is 215296045. Your task is to survive one hour without OPS. Understood?”
“What’s my prize?”
“Another hour without OPS.”
John B Sinclair is a much-travelled Scot who has now returned to Scotland, where he enjoys freelance writing on a variety of subjects.
He’d stood her up again.
He always broke his promises, and this time she was furious. No longer would she wait for him. He treated her as if she didn’t exist. She was finished!
Resolved in her decision, she pushed herself to her feet, and floated angrily through the wall.
Rebecca just started writing. More of her work can be found at eurasianflavour.wordpress.com or on her WritersCafe writing profile.
Every day I waited for a smile, a nod, an exchange worth more than a foam cup and some change. Recognition of our inevitable perfection.
Today you looked my way. For the briefest moment, our eyes met over the counter.
And it was… less.
I knew I never liked coffee.
Deepa is a full-time writer in India who occasionally gets to write for herself.
I ran away from home.
My folks came after me. They found me. They brought me back.
I ran away from home again.
My folks came right after me. I hid. They still found me. They brought me back again.
Stupid!
The next time, I burnt the house down first.
Joe Malone is living with a Wora woman and her three sisters in South Sudan. Read more of his writing at joem18b.wordpress.com.
They held hands. The special moments passed, as they do. She smiled that smile he had fallen for years before. Her eyes sparked. Her grip tightened.
“I love you.”
He heard the words before her mouth even spoke them.
“Always,” he heard himself say.
He died.
Memories remained in her.
JH Statts is paralyzed from the chest down. He writes music reviews, draws a lot, likes tacos, and maintains a blog at aspirento.com. Visit him in Savannah, Georgia.
“What was it like down there?”
“It was heavy.”
“Heavy?”
“Yes, like a fat man.”
Marty looked at his brother as Tony ate a cup of Jello. “Then why did you jump in the water? You could never swim.”
“I know… But deep down, I always thought I could float.”
Kristina England resides in Worcester, MA. Her writing is published or forthcoming at Extract(s), Gargoyle, The Story Shack, and other magazines. For more on her writing, visit http://kristinaengland.blogspot.com.
The war lasted many years, but today would mark its end. The knight pulled his sword out of the murderous king knowing his action had saved many lives.
Honor above all, the knight told himself. But nonetheless, he whispered one final sentence to the king.
“Be at peace, my brother.”
Wim De Cuyper spends most of his time writing for a Belgian website and reading books. English not being his first language, he thanks videogames and movies in particular for making him able to read most of his books.
Check out his website: www.4gamers.be