She says, “The roads to hell and heaven are unmarked. At their intersection, a man who’s either a devil or an angel sells flowers. Angels always speak truth; devils always lie. One question ensures you get to heaven.”
“Yeah,” he lies.
Graham Robert Scott teaches writing at a university in north Texas. His stories have appeared in Barrelhouse Online, Nature, and The Drabble. See more at hemicyon.wordpress.com.
What if I’d held Sophie close
What if I’d whispered:
‘What if something happens to you?’
What if I’d insisted.
If only I’d taken heed of the weather forecast
If only I hadn’t walked into the storm
If only I’d stayed home
If only I’d listened to Mike
S.B. Borgersen writes, knits socks, and accepts that, at 75, there is still plenty to learn as she studies beginner piano on the shores of Nova Scotia Canada. Sue’s favoured genres are micro fiction and poetry but she does have thirteen draft novellas gathering dust. See more at sueborgersen.com.
In dream, images lure: my hands spanning his bony scapula, lips kissing his neck, leg snaking his muscles as I lean back, believing he won’t ever let me go.
Awake, I pray for strength I cannot muster, to rise, to walk, to forgive the texting teen for unraveling our tango.
Sudha Balagopal’s short fiction appears in Jellyfish Review, Drabble, New Flash Fiction Review, New World Writing, and other journals. She is the author of a novel, A New Dawn. See more at sudhabalagopal.com.
He’d taken this route every year. Nothing like this ever happened before. Guy came out of nowhere.
The reindeer were fatter this year so they blocked his view.
Opening his hip flask, he studied the splatter on the road.
Nobody believed in him anyway. Better go before witnesses turn up.
Joey does not and never did believe in the existence of Santa.
Life is great. Health, mobility, liberty.
Then, an inadvertent moment. A slip and twisting tumble. The crash is sharp; the crack loud. Such a quick and simple thing.
But the scorching pain: deep, crippling, and endless.
Operations and rehab do little. Each move brings agony and depression.
Life is hell.
Bill Diamond writes in the Colorado Mountains. See more at bdiamondwriting.com
Ping! Letterbox… Thwack! Liquidambar…
Matt an’ me were slingshootin’ in the front yard.
There was a shatterin’ of glass and crunchin’ of metal.
The newspaper reckoned the driver hit the light pole and died at the scene.
We argued over who shot the stone, then never spoke of it again.
Growing up, slingshooting was a fun pastime for Melanie until one day she may or may not have caused someone to receive a serious injury…
When the elevator got stuck, her heart began to pound. Her feeble hand stretched out for the call button. She couldn’t reach.
“Anyone in there?”
She gasped for the air to respond.
“Guess not. We’ll have maintenance take a look at it on Monday.”
They taped up a paper sign.
Sarah Hausman finds inspiration in her apartment building’s shoddy maintenance. She posts updates on her writing at facebook.com/sarahhausmanwrites, but probably only her mom checks it.
The stage was set against a spectacular backdrop. The supporting character, a slick, mossy, camouflaged rock, stood ready.
I played the lead perfectly, delivering my agonized one-word line with no hesitation. It was over quickly.
Alas: sweet death and the mountain had made me the star of my own tragedy.
Linda writes quotes, songs, poetry and short stories and is enjoying the challenge of writing 50 word stories. Among her wishes is to never star in her own tragedy.
The Crossing Guard stands her vigil in the rain. Sign held high, she shepherds the helpless ones against the harried, cell phone-obsessed masses.
She is always watching, but you will never see her. She was struck and killed last year, blood seeping into the crosswalk. Still, she watches.
A. Elizabeth Herting is an aspiring freelance writer and busy mother of three living in colorful Colorado. She has had stories featured in Dark Fire Fiction, Bewildering Stories, New Realm, Friday Fiction, Peacock Journal, Speculative 66, and Under the Bed. She recently completed a novel called Wet Birds Don’t Fly at Night that she is hoping to find a home for one day. See more at her website or Facebook page.
I wonder what would have become of him. The bulletproof teenage years stole his future because of a fatal flaw in reasoning. His car had defied gravity in the curve, and sixty to zero became his final act. I lived and grew old.
I wonder what will become of me.
Gordon Lysen resides at Sugar Point on Lake Manitoba. Retired from police work after some 27 years, Gordon co-authored the novel “A Deadly Blend of Souls” with his wife, Lisa. Writing and painting are Gordon’s relaxation methods when retirement becomes too stressful.