She won’t stop haunting me.
I can see her wavy hair. I can hear her sweet voice. I can smell her soap and fragrance. I can taste her red lips. I can still sense her as I walk over the ground where I buried her.
She won’t stop haunting me.
Chad Bunch writes speculative fiction from the suburbs of Saint Louis. He is currently trying to publish the first of many novels.
“It’s me or the dog,” she barked. Dinner was apparently ruined.
Max was in his bed, half asleep, one ear up.
“I mean it,” she growled. Teeth bared and muzzle-less she pattered away
I sighed, got up and went to pack my bags.
Max stretched, dog-yawned, then rose and followed.
Jon is a local government employee with a newspaper journalism background who is experimenting with short written forms.
“Private Robertson!”
“Yes sir!”
“Where’s your moustache?”
“It’s under my nose, sir!”
“I can’t see it.”
“Maybe you’re not looking hard enough, sir!”
“I won’t have insolence or insubordination!”
Robertson brazenly drinks some of the captain’s milk, “Here sir!”
“Dismissed, Robertson!!”
Sporting the unit’s best ever (milk) moustache, Sally leaves.
Connell believes that it doesn’t matter if you are male or female: if you’ve got it, flaunt it. Read more of his fractured words right here at 50WS or at paragraphplanet, home.wtd-magazine.com, and postcardshorts.com.
Several of Lily’s co-workers grew moustaches that November. Her eyes watering, she forced herself to smile and congratulate them. She made a generous donation to fight cancer.
That evening, at the drugstore, Lily decided to try a different brand of bleach cream.
The electrolysis appointment was still two weeks away.
Deborah Davis lives and writes in Richland, Michigan, with her trusty dog, Gracie, by her side. Her work has been featured in The Great Lakes Review, Bethlehem Writers’ Roundtable Magazine, Halfway Down the Stairs, and Searchlights and Signal Flares.
I walked in to get a delicious sub sandwich. Behind the counter was a person who had a beautiful black moustache that could have been waxed and morphed like Salvador Dali.
I got my usual. I purchased my food. I glanced at the name tag of the sandwich engineer:
Becky
Garrett Pierce is a fun person who play a total of eight instruments.
You feel the wind kiss your face, dance in your hair. Your white cotton dress swishes around your feet, tickling you.
Your neck itches. You wish you could reach back to scratch it but your hands are bound. The noose around your neck is too tight.
The hangman is late.
AJ Joseph is a bookaholic, semi-insomniac, unsuccessfully recovering javaholic, but most importantly she’s a writer. She is currently in the process of restructuring her life around her first love: words.
She was standing along the highway the first time I saw her, hair blowing freely in the wind. I thought about stopping to pick her up, but it was just a thought.
I’ve seen her six times since, always somewhere different.
I can’t stop thinking about her.
But only thinking.
This story was based on the prompt “by the road” on TypeTrigger.
I asked Mom once why I had an uncle but no aunt. I figured they were a bundle deal.
Mom said, “Your uncle has three defining characteristics: veiny biceps, chest hair, and a fanny pack full of beef jerky.”
I still don’t know which of those is the bad thing.
“Nicht vergessen!”
The key was placed underneath the worded paperweight. She placed anything of importance here. Bills rarely paid, jobs rarely done, and the key remained beneath.
I couldn’t remember the translation, so I forgot…
how to eat…
what to think…
where is she?
I forget.
I always forget.
What?
Martin Shone cleans for a living and is not long away from being fifty, although he is forever twenty-eight.