Janie wanted hugs. She demanded them. She pestered me for them.
I hugged her but my arms began to hug her tighter. Tighter. And finally, too tight.
Mary doesn’t need hugs. She just wants a beautiful yard. She buys me shears and spades. Sharp and heavy tools.
She pesters me.
Joe Malone is living alone in Africa in a mud house. His blog is here: http://joem18b.wordpress.com/.
“I am recent Russian immigrant. Have not yet learned good English.”
“Well, sir, we can help you with the written part.”
“God bless U.S.A.”
“First you must take the eyesight test,” the instructor pointed to a chart which read: C-X-W-O-C-R-K. “Can you read it?”
“Read it? That is my cousin.”
Gary Clifton, forty years a cop, has over sixty short fiction pieces published or pending with various venues. He has an M.S. from Abilene Christian University.
I hate overnight road trips. They’re always the same, just following a thin white broken line that stretches on forever in a blackened landscape. It draws you into the centre where darkness encroaches from the sides until…
BLOODY HELL! If I didn’t swerve that truck would have got me tonight.
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.
I cast a concerned eye at the juvenile Cooper’s Hawk, assessing his intentions toward our shared focus, my favorites: chickadees, black, white, light Purbeck-marble tan.
“Don’t you dare,” I say.
He doesn’t honor my plea.
Ashamed of my fascination, I let my camera capture him as he swoops to kill.
D.J.H. Woodward has played with words since she was a child, her first work being a collection of poetry and drawings for her maternal grandmother. Now an administrative maven who enjoys life most when her non-work hours are spent in learning and creativity, D.J. especially enjoys pursuits that are the opposite of what she gets paid to do.
Lying on my bed I observe my breath to escape the images in my head.
But no matter how much I meditate an image always appears. It’s seductive, dangerous.
I can’t help but to persuaded by it into submitting to my compulsion, cry, and again try to escape it all
Matt Neputin is a recovering psychotic and psychology student who uses his past illness as inspiration to write creepy stories and sometimes even whole books, one of which he gives away for free on his website.
It was a moonlit night. They stood on the pier end, watching the storm brewing at sea.
He loved her so, yet he knew he pushed her to her limit. She had always stayed.
He knew she had strength. There on the pier, with one swift push… she proved it.
Stephanie Hougen is an avid reader and loves the challenge of the 50-word story!
The pawnbroker adjusted his eyeglass whilst circling Joe’s wedding ring through his supple fingers.
“Twenty dollars,” he snapped.
“But it’s solid gold. Cost two hundred new,” Joe pleaded.
“Twenty,” the pawnbroker repeated.
Joe snatched the ring and left, satisfied. For this first day, he was in control of his addiction.
John B Sinclair is a much-travelled Scot who has now returned to Scotland, where he enjoys freelance writing on a variety of subjects.
The truck moved at a high speed, the driver singing along to the music on his iPod.
His phone vibrated in the back seat, receiving a call from his wife. The road ahead was cracked.
It was too late before the driver realized danger. He never reached home for dinner.
Mr. Literato, unlike his name, is not Spanish. He reigns from somewhere unknown in Asia and maintains a blog: alwaysrandomposts.blogspot.com.
Why are there more crows? Global warming? More neighborhood carrion? The crow is not a solitary bird. Crows flock.
They communicate, these birds, now more than before. Loudly. The crow is a grumpy bird, a querulous bird. Increasingly loud.
Increasingly angry.
Reports have been coming in. The crows are attacking.
Joe Malone was expelled from the Central African Republic and now lives in South Sudan, where there is nothing to do but write. Check out his blog.
The butler beckoned me to follow. He reeked of evil intentions, but I reluctantly moved forward.
When the lights flickered out, I spun around wildly until a bone chilling scream froze me with fear.
Then, with my heart pounding, I whispered, “Albescu?”
He didn’t respond,
…but death eagerly welcomed me.
Mrs. Lessard resides in Vermont where she aspires to be a published author someday. Until then, she is content to entertain her four children with her numerous creative tales.