I stare at the blank screen, hoping to find a story already written in white letters on the white field.
I begin. “She thrilled as one of his hands went lower and the other went higher—” but suddenly the screen erases my words.
“There will be none of that.”
Tom Willemain wrote this story. See more at TomWillemain.com.
It’s where his best stories arrived without fail, in the shower with warm water running down his back.
Later, pencil sharp, notebook open, squeaky clean, he’d chew on the pink eraser and try to remember. The muse just laughed.
That’s how he learned the best stories never make the page.
Guy’s work has appeared in 43 literary journals including Carve, dacunha, and Exposition Review, where twice, he was a flash 405 winner. Third Wednesday ran his story, The Most Shoplifted Poet, as both flash fiction and poem of the week. Guy teaches low-fat fiction, lives on a houseboat, and walks the planks daily. He prefers to write on ATM slips with low balances while waiting for traffic lights to change.
I pick up a brush or place hands on the keys; the ghosts come out to share.
They’re bored, they’re lonely, with stories to tell.
They fib, omit, exaggerate.
They dream, they yearn, imaginate.
My hands are possessed. Others say I make art.
My beloved ghosts and I know better.
Maura’s ghosts are behind some cool microfiction published in 50-Word Stories, The Drabble, and Microfiction Monday Magazine, and some hot flash published in The Fiction Pool, Zeroflash, and The Dirty Pool. The ghosts also maintain a website at maurayzmore.com and tweet as @MauraYzmore.
Page after page I became increasingly convinced: I could have easily written this book myself! The sentences were short, the words simple. It would’ve turned me into an overnight literary sensation, much to the jealousy of my writer friends.
“Hmph,” I said, pressing pen to paper. Here’s what came out:
Debbi Antebi (@debbisland) lives in Istanbul, Turkey, and blogs at http://debbiantebi.com.
One never really knows when the urge to create will strike, only that when it does it is to be seized and held for as long as it may last.
So I put down the blood-slicked knife, ignoring the groaning, flayed mess before me, and waited for it to return.
Alan is an engineering student who doesn’t think he can write but likes to do so anyway.