Edmund eased the donation truck into the woman’s driveway. He thought he had been here before, to this exact house, when spousal donations had first become a trend. It should not have surprised him—the courts ordering such a thing. With the divorce rate at nearly 70% now, the courts had to do something.
Continue reading “Donating Love by Amber Hart”
James was making the Saturday omelettes as they called them. The late morning meal he made each week whilst Penny took her long Saturday bath. He cracked two white shell eggs into the glass bowl. He preferred the white shell to the browner shell ones. He tapped in some salt and pepper, picked up the whisk and mixed slowly with the bowl secured between his arm and torso. He admired the way they went from two yellow spheres to a marbled swirl of yolk and transparent albumen, through to a singular, opaque, autumnal sun colour. The girls were playing in the garden, chasing each other around, shrieking when one made a grab for the other. The day was warm enough to keep the kitchen door to the garden open. He put a frying pan on the hob, lit the gas, and knifed in the butter which bubbled immediately. After circling the melted butter around the pan, he tilted the mix into it at a slight angle allowing it to slowly slide in. He went into the hallway and called upstairs.
Continue reading “Saturday Omelettes by Paul Kimm”
I sit down at my desk to work on the script’s first draft and open my right-hand drawer. A 25 cm man leaps out and slaps my face. You might not think something that small could pack much of a wallop, but he does. In the beginning I could handle him, but he grows larger and more brazen every day. I put him in there to teach him who’s boss, but since that did not work, I grab him in my fist.
Continue reading “Is It Me or My Talent You See? By Cy Hill”
I was attempting to hibernate through an atypical stormy November afternoon when my realm’s lead (and only) Imaginary Friend, Renfield, barged into my office, blinded the room with light and cheerfully yelled “Breaking news!”
“Can’t you see I’m hibernating?”
“Oh, you’ll want to know about this,” she said with a smile (always smiling). “Daisy and Peety are the greatest superhero team.”
Continue reading “G.O.A.T. by Leila Allison”
Just Going For a Cabbage, by site co-founder, Diane M. Dickson, is a fine example of seamless technique. The neighbors alert the MC to what’s really going on and cause the story to bloom fully in her head and for the reader at the same time.
Continue reading “Literally Reruns – Just Going for A Cabbage by Diane M Dickson”
Dear Daisy
Greetings!
Leila caught a cold while composing this weekly update and claimed that she was only worth “two-thirds of my usual genius” (a statement which proves that the common cold has no ill effects on the ego). Instead of calling out sick and thrusting her duty on her fellow Editors, she asked that I, Daisy Cloverleaf, write the introduction to this week’s wrap and that she would handle the middle and end. Which is precisely what has happened.
Continue reading “374- Dear Daisy, The Week That Still Is, And Nine New Ways To Avoid Heaven”
Clara runs her fingertips across Rose’s palm and analyses her sweat. “You need food,” she says. Rose looks down at Clara, her small human-like daughter, and mutters her agreement. Hand in hand they saunter along in search of sustenance, checking each restaurant as they go. What they want is an elegant meal in good company for Rose, and a beautifully presented snack of kitchen waste biofuel for Clara. Up ahead, Rose sees a few friends, also hand in hand with their little helpers, walking into one of her favourite places to spend a lazy afternoon. Not wanting to miss out Rose speeds up. Clara tries to hold her back, but Rose drags her along until they reach the door. Clara resists going any further, but Rose gives her one almighty yank and Clara relinquishes her determination.
Continue reading “Be Aware, the Hand That Feeds by Stephen Oram”
“Got any juice?” I asked Stewart when he pulled up.
“Hello to you too,” he said, as his helmet collapsed into his collar. He pulled a charge off his vest and tossed it to me.
“How long she been up there?” he asked, shielding his eyes against the hazy, setting sun as he looked to the top of the bridge.
Continue reading “Cryobaby by Sean Burke”
The man who pit this roof against rain, his best friend and owner of the final store in town, the woman who pits seed against element to feed me all my life, our humdrum hay baler, two others I didn’t know and I sit in a circle in Shopkeeper’s empty store. These are our Friday nights now after the litany of systems failures. “Supply chain-issues,” Papa mumbles when it comes up. “Just the economy cycling again, actually,” Shopkeeper grumbles. “No one believes us about the mass injuries,” the two guests basically whisper.
Continue reading “Modern Entertainment by Megan Wildhood”
When I invaded the Bond Bread Factory, as a hungry seven-year-older, on a plank from a neighboring building, my sister Patricia, younger by a year, was my scout, my watch dog, my whistleblower, all to make sure we’d have toast off our kitchen stovetop which required bread to begin with, mystifying my mother about “Who in these days gives fresh bread to kids on the prowl.
Continue reading “Loaves of Life by Tom Sheehan”
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