Wind blowing through my ears. Finally, I’m free!
“Get back here!”
I can eat real food and be away from the horrid lady.
“Let me dress you up and make you beautiful for all to see again!”
Oh crap, she’s so crazy! Wait, no!
“Hello, Kitty.”
Ah rats, caught again.
From Cerritos, CA, Julio Rosales is a high school student in creative writing. Quick, simple, and to the point, he’ll delighte any willing candidate. Writing outside of his comfort zone, he continues to improve with each piece of work.
Dort awoke naked in a clearing. Snow burned her cuts and bruises as she rose to her hands and knees. She had neither muzzle nor fur, only pale skin and weak muscles.
She sniffed the air and recognized her pack nearby, but they were all human, too.
Cursed and doomed.
Kay Lesgo has worked as a journalist and radio personality, but now makes actual money at an office job. Kay is currently working on her first novel and several short stories and still wants to be a writer when she grows up.
We sixty-three stomped in en masse to tidy up the graves. Hundreds of Canada geese already grooming the grounds lifted as one into the air, circled, scolded.
We finished in record time, dried wreaths, wilted flowers piled by the curbs.
Eighty thousand graves freshened ’til Memorial Day. Rest in peace.
rJo Herman dreams of writing one perfect tale her grandchildren will pass down to their grandchildren. She lives with her grey-striped companion, Emil Catt, I, in the Colorado high desert.
Editor’s Note: Martin Luther King day was on January 21. I apologize for seeing this story too late to post it on that date…
Pet World was eerily quiet that morning.
The opened hamster cage doors hung limp and broken, the aquarium fished of all within, bird seed scattered and spotted feathers dotted upon the floor. All quiet, but for the contented purr of Pancho the puma, recent, felonious escapee of the nearby zoo.
Alex Sinclair was born in the winter of 1973 in Nottingham, England, and, on the cusp of his 40th birthday, is still trapped there. He longs for a looser, more liberal society where his own shaky morality and absurd beliefs could find succor and praise. Until that day, he bides his time, waiting to pounce like a graying and jaded ocelot. To amuse him and occupy all available time for the next 40 years of his life, he has just become father to twins, who, though but 3 months old, are acutely aware that daddy may not be quite right in the head. This small matter is overlooked as he can expertly and lovingly feed, burp, and nappy change each baby in just 15 minutes, whilst also attend to cooking duties downstairs with good humour. He lives with his long-suffering partner Shona, and cats David and Mogwai.
Clear starlit sky above the frozen snow, we sit unmoving, eyes scanning the fields ahead, praying for the next attack so that we can move, life sought in another’s blood.
Our breath freezing our eyes, but hands too heavy to lift, behind the eyes the mind slips into eternal vigilance.
Craig MacDonald lives in Scotland, where he has worked as a hypnotherapist and computer consultant. He loves trying new and interesting things and meeting new people.
He once admired her quiet efficiency.
But now she moves cheerfully through her task and he knows that he will never look her in the eye again.
“There you go, all clean.”
He arranges his face into a smile as his wife tucks the clean sheets around his failing body.
Delancey Stewart is a fiction writer living in Southern Maryland. When no indulging her imagination, she works for the man as a tech writer and tends two small boys who, her husband assures her, are hers. Find her at delanceystewart.wordpress.com.
My legs were jelly, heart pounding in my ears.
A car roared as a cyclist swerved, cutting off my exit. Everything stopped. A dead unison.
Then: phew! I was still alive. I released the harness, my fingers red and cramped. The guide dog traffic training was over. Good girl, Ellie!
Amy is a twenty-something Braille student who loves 80s movies, tea with honey, and odd socks. She lives with her guide dog, Ellie, who eats squeaky balls for dinner or breakfast. She blogs at blind-style.com and tweets as @braillesnail.
Donna’s ninety-year-old mother spotted the Christmas tree in her daughter’s living room. It was hard to miss.
She frowned, warning, “This is how it starts.”
Last March Donna married an Italian, a Catholic to boot. Donna is Jewish but very quickly acquired a taste for cannoli and tiramisu.
Mother was right.
Recently retired, Marian Brooks has begun to write some short fiction. She lives in Pennsylvania with her husband. Her work has appeared in Thick Jam, Curly Red Stories, Short Humour and others.
Editor’s note: This story came in prior to Christmas, and it was entirely my fault that it wasn’t posted closer to the holidays! I think it’s still worth reading though, don’t you? :)
Feeling down, he decided to go fishing. It wasn’t long before he caught a decent sized fish.
He looked down as it was dying and trying to take breaths, as if underwater.
He picked it up and threw it back. “No reason your fate should be as terrible as mine.”
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.
“Well, this sucks.”
Blue tumbled with gray and cold slowly warmed. It was just Mike’s luck, and he blamed Leslie for talking him into it.
Resigned to a shorter afternoon than planned, he futilely pulled his broken ripcord until the green on the ground met the green in his eyes.
Ben Jackson is a father, blogger, student, teacher, martial artist, and majestically bearded. He lives in Natick, Massachusetts. You can read more of his writing at http://www.dadofthedecade.com.