Blog Archives

The Face of Cabbage, by Krystyna Fedosejevs

23/10/2020

“Great job!” yelled Tony.

“Wife’s creativity.” Al chuckled, setting out carved pumpkins.

“She okay? Alice avoids the kitchen after sunset,” Tony grimaced.

“Funny, Barb too. Imagines scary cabbage heads at our window.”

Hallowe’en evening, the husbands returned early from work. Dinnertime progressed smoothly. Their wives happily greeted trick-or-treaters, handing out sweets.

Frost warped Barb’s pumpkins overnight. On Tony’s lawn, a cabbage had settled with a stick poking through. Black smiling lips quivered above its green face. Same shade of green stuck on the soles of Al’s shoes.

A skeleton hanging nearby jived to the beat of the wind.

Brittle Grass, by Jim Woessner

23/10/2020

It’s late afternoon, and the flowers Father brought in the morning have already disappeared.

“What’s the rush?” he yells at a tanned man cutting grass. “Why not a whole day, just one lousy day?”

The man on the tractor shakes his head and continues mowing. My father unfolds a letter. I ask him what it is.

“It’s from the groundskeeper,” he says. He reads aloud, “We’ll replace the sod after it rains.” He refolds the letter and tucks it away. “I’m sure it will be better in the spring.”

Somewhere under the brittle grass he’s sure there’s a listening ear.

Teaching Moments, By Mark Tulin

23/10/2020

I dreaded when Grandpa Joe made us get his toolbox. He’d ask for a socket or a ratchet and expect us to know the difference. We watched him put together a shed as he explained every move in excruciating detail. “Now, this is how you hold a hammer, and this is where you place the nail. Hold the power saw like this while cutting the two-by-four. Always be aware of where the blade is at all times.”

I often wondered why Grandpa gave us excessive instructions until I remembered that he lost three fingers while making a workbench.

Storm, by Don Tassone

23/10/2020

The sky was sable, the headwinds were strong and great waves lapped at the deck. But the captain seemed oblivious.

“The sun will be shining in a minute,” he announced. “It will be like a miracle.”

The boat began to rock fiercely.

“Shouldn’t we hunker down?” cried the first mate.

“Full speed ahead!” the captain scowled.

The ship began to pitch so severely that crew and passengers alike were tossed into the maelstrom. Rats jumped overboard.

Gasping for air, the captain grabbed a sea-sick bag.

The ship’s doctor staggered to the intercom.

“Life vests on!” he directed. “Hold tight!”

Out of the Kitchen, by Carl "Papa" Palmer

23/10/2020

Responding to my desire of learning how to throw a wicked curve ball Mom says, “You’ll have to wait until the baby bottles finish boiling. You can help by taking them from the kettle” handing me the tongs. “Put them on the counter to dry while I get Dori from her rocker, dressed to go outside and grab my mitt.”

The little league coach, Mr. Temple, praises my winning performance, says I’m his new star pitcher.

“What a great curve ball, Ace. I bet your dad is really proud.”

game ball
placed atop
folded American flag

The Mirror, by Guy Fletcher

23/10/2020

The mirror has witnessed her as a young woman, eyes shining with aspirations. It has viewed her kissing a young man passionately, a couple of cats and children too.

The mirror has observed arguments, laughter, tears, all the emotions which make us human, poor creatures that we are.

She can scarcely believe how swiftly the years have departed like frost melting in the spring sunshine but now she is in the winter of existence.

Could this old lady with the thinning white hair really be her? Unfortunately the mirror does not lie.

Me Tarzan, You Jane, by Marjan Sierhuis

23/10/2020

His leg muscles ripple, and night creatures cavort beneath a canopy of dense vegetation as he paces back and forth across wooden floor boards.

Sweat exudes from the pores of his body with every movement. A loincloth partially covers his naked body as he looks out from the interior of his treehouse.

"Jane, come home, it's getting late," he shouts, cupping strong hands around his mouth.

Fingers suddenly massage his massive shoulders. He turns, looks down and his eyes light up with mischief. Lips lock on a passionate kiss. An evening of tree surfing can wait.

The Sandcastle, by Sue Clayton

23/10/2020

Waves buffeted the distant sandcastle, pounding away at its turrets, before swallowing the castle whole and rolling back out to sea.

I’d been in a deep sleep when the children began their construction. They returned from the promenade, leaving ice-cream to melt down their fingers as they viewed their ravaged creation.

“Where’s Daddy? Did he go to buy cappuccinos?”

“He was fast asleep like you, and snoring, so we buried him in the sand then built the castle around his head,” they sobbed. “We thought he could escape.”

I crawled across to a sandy-covered hump.

Daddy was beyond escape.

Eyes, by Paritosh Chandra Dugar

23/10/2020

By the weekend, she had become everyone’s suspect. A complaint to the police. The interrogation began.

“So, planning to kidnap the boy?”

“No. No. No.”

“Why then did you keep lurking around the boy? Why so much attention to the boy? What’s your intention?”

“Sir, I mean no harm to anyone. He is so dear to me. I can see my son see me because of him. A month ago, my son left us forever.”

Instantly, the woman turned into an object of everyone’s respect.

His Father, by Pratik Mitra

23/10/2020

His father died decade ago. He felt his presence last night. It must be a dream for he didn't believe in ghost and all those shit.Morning light reminded him how sweet his relation used to be with his father. Father's known smile on his gory face flashed before him. He didn't have the strength to identify him back then in the morgue. He was told it was accident. Only the smile got on his nerve. Ten years. Yet he remembered how father became his victim...accidentally...only there was no smile then underneath the blood.

Siblings, by Herve Suys

23/10/2020

“Stop it, Sis. Mom and Dad can’t even hear you and there is no one else around. It’s just you and me. You’re making a fool of yourself… again. Get real, it would do you some good. You’re a pretty lousy actress. Stop pretending you’re having a cramp because you are definitely not. I am waiting, missy. Nobody will believe you, you know. In fact, come to think of it: you slipped, I did not push you in the pool at all. Anyway, you can keep your head under water as long as you want to. See if I care.”

The Accident, by Mahak Pandya

23/10/2020

Joy was returning to his home from woods by his car when he saw a woman. She was in the middle of road trying to stop him. As he stopped the car, the woman screamed “Please help me, I had an accident and my baby is stuck in the car”. Joy at once went to the car. He peeked inside the car. There was a baby crying on the front seat and a woman lying dead on the driver seat. The woman was the same who was trying to stop him. He turned backside but no one was there.

Sans Vicissitude, by Daniel Segurobio

23/10/2020

The ripples of rock poke into my leg, causing more discomfort the longer I sit. Waves crash hundreds of feet below me, beckoning. The sun retreats, wind chills my bones. “This is it. Nothing to do but…”. This isn’t right. There’s more to this than finding love. But what is there? My only purpose for living is gone, my spring of happiness dried up. “Fuck that”. Arising, the wind drags me towards the sea. I fight against it, back and across the road, my car parked on its far side.

The rumbling of an engine, the squealing of tires. Thud.

Holiday Nut Roll, by Susan DeFelice

23/10/2020

The year four died in Ohio grandma’s nut roll quelled the family debate about Vietnam. Voices rose in a passion until grandma presented the nut roll, silencing the table. It was impeccable when you cut into it, with six evenly spaced swirls across its diameter.

The last year grandma made nut roll the swirls had turned into a fat question mark shape and it was placed on the table alongside store bought pies. She sat in front of her creation, with her black coffee, rubbing her gnarled hands, studying its shape while her aging family discussed their upcoming kitchen remodel.

The Scream, by Pamela Kennedy

23/10/2020

The depth of my heart, cavernous, cold, and soulless, offers me only my past. Its drumming is a constant reminder of that moment. How can I have a future when I cannot stop embracing yesterday and not a happy day at that.

We were in love once and then that came to a sudden halt. Why? You never said. Your love for me just vanished. And then you vanished. Of course, it wasn't voluntary. I took care of that. I saw your disbelief and then your fear. And now I live with the horror of your scream.

Grieving, by Brian Taylor

23/10/2020

The funeral and gathering were over. Everyone worried about him being alone tonight. Several relatives offered to stay with him, but he solemnly refused, insisting he'd be fine. Yes, if he needed anything, he'd definitely call.

When everyone was gone, he farted loudly. That potato salad was brutal! He laughed. She would've been angry.

Then he got naked, found some heavy metal on Youtube, and rocked out. She'd be appalled.

Later, he ate ravioli out of a can, drank an old bottle of wine, and watched movies (the kind she hated) on Netflix until dawn.

Everyone grieves their own way.

Take Me To Your Leader, by Russell Conover

16/10/2020

Society couldn’t agree on a candidate to elect. The first had a history of eating alive anyone with whom he didn’t agree, while the second simply zapped them to another region of the planet.

Jarnu was leading the polls, but Felpac wasn’t far behind. The race was likely to come down to the wire, to be decided at the last moment. The residents of Planet Ralamarto waited with bated breath.

So, who won? Does it matter? No matter the outcome of the election, society would remain divided. Maybe Earth could teach about elections. Take me to your leader! Or not.

Dear Joy, by Rosaleen Lynch

16/10/2020

Dear joy, when you die, I bury you in a matchbox in the yard and stub my cigarette out, pocking the once white pebble dash wall, like the bullet holes in my brother's chest, I see when identifying the body, making sure he's dead and that there's no hope left that it's someone else's brother, yes that I wish dead, and it's that shame revisited that strangles what joy is left, your ghost rising with the wisps from my last lit match and the crematorium smokestack, at a funeral I can't attend, so I bury you in this matchbox instead.

Jealousy, by Mary Wallace

16/10/2020

She was supposed to be special, but she turned out like all the rest. He had given her everything yet he wasn't enough. She wanted to be loved, admired by everyone.

He sliced her with a kitchen knife, his rage evaporating as she lay broken; beauty unmarred, perfume lingering.

The spade slipped easily into the soft warm soil of his back garden. He buried her deep. Deep enough to cover her thrice over. She would belong to no one but him.

When his Iris bloomed next year, it would be for his eyes only.

River Blues, by Christine Emmert

16/10/2020

I had fallen from the boat when we reached the rapids. They did not return, and so I clung to the safety of the shoreline until night.

One day I imagined someone would sing of this. I imagined I would hear them. The snake that wound about my waist squeezed out the painful melody. I never tasted so good to an animal once he swallowed me. Inside his winding self I knew the song. I knew melody and verse, but the snake was singing it.

Fear of Flash Fiction, by I M Cameron

16/10/2020

“I’m worried about writing flash fiction.”

“Why?”

“When you are forced down to the bare bones of a story, there really are only a few stories to tell.”

“Like what?”

“Cinderella, Cain and Abel, the literary greats. Some say that all plots can be rooted back to a small handful of stories.”

“So?”

“If I am writing just 100 words, how will the story be mine?”

“I guess you won’t know if you can do it without trying.”

“Hey, I’ve just done it!”

“Have you?”

“Yes, I’ve only gone and written my own David and Goliath in 100 words.”

“Sweet.”

Blood Moon, by Al Watt

16/10/2020

‘That’s nice lipstick you’re wearing, what’s it called?

‘Blood Moon.’

‘That’s an unusual name.

It’s North American tribal. They say that it’s the best time of the year for revenge.’

‘It’s bright and fair shows off your lips.’

‘I picked it especially for Handy Andy.’

WHAT! – him that thinks he can harass any woman he likes cos he’s married the boss’s daughter?

‘Well, I’ve put a stop to his nonsense.’

‘What’ve you done?’

‘I was behind him in the lift and put a smear of lipstick on the back of his collar. What’ll his wife say to daddy about that?’

Long Way Home, by DB Cox

16/10/2020

Alvin wants to reach home before nightfall. Fugitive time is on the run. The warmth has left the sun. “This time my dear,” he whispers, “I’ll take my pills and do whatever you say.” Alvin slows to a stop and steadies himself—just ahead his house…

… Patients turn toward the old man as he stops wandering the walls and shouts out her name. For a split second, the fragile illusion floats over the entire ward. Then it settles, like dust, to the tile floor—leaving only the cadence of a ticking radiator to fill the space between each heartbeat.

Raising the Bar, by Sandra James

16/10/2020

An email from a friend – Have you written your FFF story?

No.

Why not?

It’s the standard. It’s getting higher and higher. Comic ones are wittier and sad ones more emotional. The horror tales are getting scarier, the love stories sweeter, twists twistier and punchlines punchier! I’m afraid mine will sound bland and won’t get any likes or comments.

Well you definitely won’t if you don’t submit anything. If you keep trying you’ll get better and better, too.

Hmmm, you know you’re right, don’t you?

Yes! And, you know what that means.

Yeah, stop procrastinating and write my story…

Papa's Gone Fishin', by Doug Bartlett

16/10/2020

Ernie loved the great outdoors and today he was aboard a fishing boat on the open sea, being tossed about by turbulent waves and the thrust of salty air pressed against his face.

He was loving every minute of it.

He snagged a marlin and was in for the fight of his life. Three hours later he emerged the victor.

He was so excited to get home and write about his recent adventure that when they docked he had left his fishing gear onboard.

Santiago, a crew member, realized this and shouted out,” Senor Hemingway, stop! You’ve forgotten your gear.”

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