She stands, trackside, holding his lunchpail. Bright blue dress, matching shoes, red lips, yellow hair, a permanent wave. The diesel rounds the bend same time daily, right after school, halts with that same sudden jerk.
She has her man, a real engineer. He has his girl, waiting for him alone.
Bradley Harris has: one swell girl to come home to, two prize-winning novels, three imaginary dogs, a quadruple bypass, five books to write, six thousand books to read, seven decades of consciousness, eight or nine people who act as if they like him, and ten thousand reasons to be grateful.
You could set your watch by Old Man Haney’s trip to the mailbox. That’s how I knew something was wrong Thursday morning.
A sense of foreboding set in.
I was about to call 911 when I saw the widow Wilkins leaving his house.
But you didn’t hear that from me.
Susan Gale Wickes is from Indiana. In addition to writing poetry and short stories, she enjoys penning aphorisms and epigrams.
Crosswords, cappuccinos, and Classic FM: I basked in the gentle cadence of Sundays until I was caught depositing company profits into my account. Now, Sundays are indistinguishable from every other day: anaemic coffee, bartering jam for marmalade, and the sonorous symphony of my cellmate making a different kind of deposit.
Fee Johnstone is a managing editor of a medical journal who lives in Scotland and favours cats, craft beer, and cheese over most other things.
I try to be patient but it’s tough. He often forgets who I am.
And he’s acting more peculiar than ever. Last week he made a caterpillar walk on the rim of his teacup. Said it’d go on for years if you just set it straight once in a while.
Mark Farley is attempting to write 1,000,000 words in 2016. Only 7,000 to go; please wish him luck! See more at mumbletoes.blogspot.com.
She exhales into a brand new year, fresh and vibrant. Each beat of her heart expels any niggling suspicions of staleness. The morning rays flicker through, brightening the room, and she feels the picture’s complete, till hubby shatters it with shards of routine: “Morning, Love. Fancy a cup of tea?”
Connell is reassured that the more things change, the more they stay the same.
“Do you feel like you are crazy?” she said with a brief pause.
When all she got was a look, she continued, “Because I do. All these people around me talk about things no one cares about. They go from work to home and back again. How is that living?”
Miranda Thomason lives at the southern tip of the Appalachian Mountains. After completing the novel On the Mercy of the World, Miranda is writing short stories.
He’d killed his first outlaw after drinking bourbon for breakfast; it had become part of his routine.
For similar reasons, he drank saké for supper and lemonade for lunch, though he didn’t much advertise the latter.
One time he swallowed mud at midnight, so he let the train robbers go.
This story is based on a title suggested by the ever profuse @MisterFiendZero.