If you’re ever in Judge S’s courtroom, remain alert. Literal-minded, he once threw the book—Exhibit A in a plagiarism case—at a sleepy defendant. During criminal trials, an overhead projector displays pertinent statutes on the ceiling: a graphic reminder from His Honor that no one is above the law.
John H. Dromey has contributed to a wide variety of online and print publications.
A condescending acquaintance questioned an amateur musician.
“How’d your backyard concert go?”
“Great. The crowd spilled out into the alley.”
“I’ll bet you didn’t receive any material compensation.”
“Actually, I was given a portion of the gate.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, I got a couple of boards and one of the hinges.”
John H. Dromey has micro-fiction, flash fiction, and short stories published in about 220 venues.
Scar, I explain, comes from the Greek word eschara, meaning “place of fire.” Mine is fresh still, still raised and flaming red. I warn him once, twice, three times: don’t touch it. But he doesn’t listen; he never listens to me.
This is what I think about while he burns.
Veronica Montes is the author of the award-winning chapbook The Conquered Sits at the Bus Stop, Waiting (Black Lawrence Press) and Benedicta Takes Wing & Other Stories (Philippine American Literary House). Her flash fiction has been published in Wigleaf, SmokeLong Quarterly, CHEAP POP, Fractured Lit, and elsewhere. See more at veronica-montes.com.
Have you seen my left eye? I’ve misplaced it.
Again.
In 5th grade, my teacher told me to keep my eye on my paper.
So I plucked it out and kept it on my paper.
Don’t worry. It doesn’t hurt. It’s more of an inconvenience.
Thanks anyway.
I found it.
LC Treeheart has survived two super typhoons and paddled outrigger canoes in the ocean. She lives with her wife, Lizzy, in Oregon. They share their home with two extraordinary dogs, Pakpak and Mozart, and their grand piano, Francesca.
“Remember,” she said to her client, “just because you can’t think of anything new to write this moment doesn’t mean the world is going to end.”
The poet agreed and wished his agent a good night as she walked to the garden gate.
She didn’t make it.
No one did.
Harris Coverley wrote this story.
Listen to Grandma, I was told.
“Little steps help you climb the ladder of success.”
“Never look back, onward and upwards.”
“Wipe away the smears of detractors.”
Thanks, Grandma.
“Shine in your achievements; be part of the gleaming city.”
Good advice; so I quit university and became a window cleaner.
Stuart is from Christchurch New Zealand. He is retired and enjoys writing flash and short stories. He is working on a children’s book.
I glanced at her.
She eyeballed me.
Looked away.
Silent intensity swelled
As the space truncated.
And then:
We were finding it difficult to breathe
The smell, the heavy footsteps.
And yet we couldn’t bring ourselves to speak
And state the obvious.
A literal presence:
The elephant in the room.
Jon is from the North West of England and works in local Government with a background in Newspaper Journalism. He’s a father of two, who inspire him. He is attempting to write more and be creative with short written forms.
His eyes were glued to her as she moved gracefully across the dance floor.
As graceful as was possible with the fourteen stone man’s eyeballs stuck to her.
The drag quite honestly made a frightful mess of his trousers.
He tried to recover his composure.
She needed access to acetone.
Jon is a local government employee with a Newspaper Journalism background. He’s new to writing shorts. They’ve never really fit.
You opened my heart; you saw inside me; you understood what I needed.
You were the one that awoke me to a brand new day and helped me live again.
Without you I wouldn’t be here, I couldn’t be here. You are my one and only saviour.
My heart surgeon.
Connell was inspired to write this story by his father-in-law’s successful heart valve operation, which was originally misdiagnosed in another hospital. See more of his literary mishaps at paragraphplanet and home.wtd-magazine.com.
“One last thing, Officer Markham.”
“Yes, Captain?”
“Look out for youths wearing baggy trousers. That’s the mark of the Hooligans’ Club!”
“Yes, sir!” Markham strode off on patrol.
The Captain chuckled. Rookies were so gullible!
He felt differently later, while processing the paperwork for seventeen wrongful arrests of baggy-trousered teenagers.
This story is based on the title suggested by Nicholas Barlow.