You liked that shelf too. The one at the back by the window that looked onto Olan Mills, Family Photographer. Graphic Fiction. The place where our ten-year-old selves swapped plastic-sheathed tales of Gaul and boy detectives between each other. If only we’d met. Maybe we’d have realised we weren’t alone.
Amanda Quinn lives in the northeast of England where she works as a freelance writer and tutor. Her writing has been published by Shooter Literary Magazine, Open Pen, Ellipsis Zine, Butcher’s Dog, and Spelk Fiction among others. She can be found online at amandaquinn.co.uk and on Twitter at @amandaqwriter.
I greet him with a wave; he responds with a nod.
He never speaks a word, though I understand what he is saying. I don’t have to speak for him to know what I’m telling him.
Together, we have a silent conversation.
Before he turns to leave, he signs goodbye.
Karissa Collis is a student at Orion High School. She lives with two other sisters and a handful of animals.
“Sip, sir?” the wino asked, holding a bottle of cheap wine up to the gentleman ready to jump off a bridge after a stock market collapse.
“I appreciate the thought, but I’m ill.”
“It’d be a tonic!”
“Just one couldn’t hurt,” the gentleman replied, sitting with his new best friend.
USAF veteran Tony Wayne Brown has won contests by Art Forum Magazine and Union Writers, second place in Writers’ Journal, and honorable mention in Writers’ Digest. His fiction has been published about fifty-five times, including by Huffington Post, Main Street Rag, Vestal Review, Birmingham Arts Journal, Foliate Oak, Bartleby Snopes, 50-Word Stories, 100 Word Stories, Horrified Press, Liars’ League Hong Kong, Every Writers Resource, The Write Place At the Write Time, Infective Ink, Word Gumbo, and The Story Teller.
She finished tying his black tie before tucking it into the pink vest his fiancée picked out.
“I thought you didn’t want to be loved,” he said, looking down.
“I didn’t,” she smiled. “But sometimes people change their minds,” she whispered, squeezing his shoulder reassuringly before heading towards the sanctuary.
Alyssa Beth Galloway is an unpublished fiction and poetry writer. She enjoys watching Hitchcock films and browsing used book stores in her spare time. Galloway currently attends Southeast Missouri State University, and is seeking a career in writing.
She lay on the bed and thought about the end of their friendship. Her heart ached.
It wasn’t a clean shot through head or heart, either; it was a slow knife through the stomach, quietly releasing bile and stomach acid. A drunken car ride home. A shamed car ride back.
Blanche Case camouflages herself with a “real job” while plotting to take over the world with artistic endeavors.
For one summer, we were best of friends. Autumn undid us, something in the changing colours, the changing winds.
We hardly spoke during tenth grade. Then June arrived. I hoped, childishly, that the sunlight would reunite us.
Life may move in cycles, but you never cross the same river twice.
A mouse lived inside my walls. I tried to feed it cheese and peanut butter and other tasty things.
“I cannot take your gifts, sir,” it said. “I am afraid you will trap me!”
I convinced it I wouldn’t. We became friends.
A small problem: my rodent-phobic wife found out.
This story is based on a title suggested by @eikoandmog.
Ramone had a very diverse selection of friends. He enjoyed spending time with Havarti, Provolone, Mozzarella, and Brie.
He didn’t get along that well with Cheddar or Feta, but Gouda was fun.
Ramone’s mom told him, “Cheeses can’t be real friends,” but he knew better.
Oh yes, he knew better.