The rooms were bare and cold, but if she squinted, she could almost see the life they’d planned. The baby, yawning and sucking. Him, sprawled on the sofa, the TV on. So much love she’d felt like bursting.
Where was it now?
She turned to leave; arms empty, heart full.
Laura Pearson is a writer of blog posts, novels and flash fiction. She lives in Leicestershire with her husband and two young children.
When he could only see UV light, he feared his distress call would be answered too late. When the vine replaced every blood vessel with xylem and phloem, he knew he would never be the same. But when his body flowered and the petals spoke, he deactivated the call himself.
boomer trujillo’s never turned into a plant, but he’s not sure he’s fully human either. Check out his fiction and philosophy at: boomert.info.
Jim’s and Bob’s lives were inextricably linked. They scoured newspapers daily with no interest in modern technology.
One day, Bob read, “Jim Cooper: USA’s oldest man: Dead” and knew his time had come.
One-hundred-and-ten years old, he was now the country’s oldest man.
Worried, he turned to the horoscopes page.
John B. Sinclair is a much-travelled Scot who has now returned to Scotland, where he enjoys freelance writing on a variety of subjects.
I removed the dust sheet from the harpsichord. I wasn’t expecting this. There was sheet music underneath; old music with old keys.
I dredged my memory for the fingering of, say, B quadruple flat, and pressed.
It was badly out of tune. Or was it supposed to sound like that?
Mike Lynch is an amateur author, father, runner and cyclist. He is 44 and lives in Edinburgh, Scotland.
The ropes have weathered and worn thin. Time has left them frayed and tattered.
They endure sunny days, scintillating heat waves, and frigid cold.
The tree which holds them has grown withered, rotten, and is rapidly dying.
In an attempt at rescue, the ropes are removed,
…and replaced with chains.
Craig is actually a happy clam of a man despite his tortured soul.
Again, leaving the grocery store, to the side of the exit, I see that large cage of big, bouncy, colorful plastic balls.
I want one each time I see them, but my wife and grandkids assure me I’m too old to play with such things anymore.
When did that happen?
Alexander Key teaches high school when absolutely desperate for attention.
“I wish I had their legs,” I hollered at the mother as her two girls raced ahead on the path.
“Well, they get to go to bed at 8 PM,” she chuckled back.
Such a jolly, inane exchange.
Then I thought, wait a second, what if I went to bed at 8?
rJo Herman dreams of writing the one perfect tale her grandchildren will tell their grandchildren. She lives in the Colorado high desert with her grey striped companion, Emil Catt I.
Friday. Like every day, the widower awoke to a still estate, silence broken occasionally by his stoic butler’s steps.
His children had left long ago with their trust funds.
His diminished spirits lifted when his chauffeur drove him to his last joy. Taking his place, he smiled. “Welcome to Walmart!”
Bryan Joyner is a middle-aged banker who read about 50-word stories in Daniel Pink’s book “A Whole New Mind”, and began using the concept to connect with his two college age children. Each of them write stories and send them to each other for feedback.
“Papa Panda! Papa Panda!”
There it went again.
It was incessant, unceasing, never-ending. (Synonyms were one of Papa Panda’s few pleasures.)
Papa Panda rolled over, half-opened one eye, and gestured impatiently at the annoying, agitating throng.
The tourists roared with glee.
Papa Panda found zoo life emotionally taxing.
He could no longer deny it: he was turning into a cat. He had thicker and thicker hair growing all over his body, he took frequent naps, he saw things during the night…
She could no longer deny it: he was getting older, and he thought he was a cat.