I’ll ask, are you ready? and she won’t hear me the first time. She’ll be busy wrestling the damp residue out of her clothes, cursing the dryer for its indolence.
I’ll ask again.
Are you ready?
Continue reading “End in Sight by Tyler Wilkerson”
Tag: Short Fiction
Sunday Whoever
This month’s Whoever has been with the site since we published her first work in 2015. We love seeing her name in the submissions emails because there is always something quirky and intriguing. If you haven’t checked out her back catalogue have a look at Ashlie Allan’s page. You’ll be glad you did.
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Week 441-Egg Mayonnaise To Mourn To, Mary’s Flying Baby And I Loved His Wee Trike.
If I was to believe the stereotypes on TV I’d be very jealous of the Americans. You see, most times I have watched anything from a Comedy to a Thriller, most Americans are portrayed as hard working folks who strive to be the best at their work and are never happiest until they are happy at work.
Continue reading “Week 441-Egg Mayonnaise To Mourn To, Mary’s Flying Baby And I Loved His Wee Trike.”
Grave Stepping by Steven French
Warning – Content that some readers may find upsetting – refer to tags on the bottom of the page
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What do you say to a person who tells you, when they get one of those shivers-running-up-and-down-the-spine feelings, that not only is someone really walking across their grave but that they can tell who it is …? Well, I can state for the record that what you absolutely do not do is laugh. I learned that the hard way. So, when he sat bolt upright in his armchair, rolling his shoulders and glaring at me as if it were somehow all my fault, I knew better than to look up from my ironing.
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A Long Time Between Yesterday and Tomorrow by J Bradley Minnick
Mr. Overalls comes into Old Da’s room at Henrytown Home for the Elderly and Infirm at night—not each night—but often—and pisses in the radiator. This is particularly problematic in winter. She tells Nurse Bee that she hears the hiss, which, she says, makes her queasy and uneasy, and she says she worries that if she can get used to the smell, she might be able to get used to anything, and she says she fears what it is she may have already gotten used to.
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Blue Heat by Susan DeFelice
Neighbor, how we can talk of bone-on-bone arthritis woes, our children, and the Highlander’s muscles over the fence in less than ten minutes! Listen, I have a gift for you for watching over my house whenever I’m on a trip. It’s a bright blue pottery cup with hand-painted fuchsia flowers, suns, and lime green leaves swirling around it. It looks unusual here, but it isn’t in Mexico. Stores are crammed with that lovely pottery and delicate glassware splashed with chunky abstract designs straight from the impulsive mind of the painter.
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The Zen Master and the Genie by Rick Sherman
The zen master sat on his tatami mat in the spare, spacious chamber of the temple. His eyes were half closed as he sat, deep in zazen, at one with everything. He became aware that he was at one with the universe and then realized that that awareness was a concept and that was an illusion. He took a took a deep breath, breathing in the universe. Then he exhaled. And thus he was at oneness again.
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11:11 by Charles Sutphin
A man who is middle aged wakes up in a room . . . a middle-aged man wakes in an unfamiliar place where he has lived for the past 30 years, except that’s not right. A man awakens in a house where he has lived since getting married. His wife is deceased, his daughter leaves for college this afternoon (or tomorrow). I’m not sure which . . . but she leaves soon enough and I’ve waited a long time to tell this tale.
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L’amore di una Madre by Claire M Welton
When I am stressed, I sit on my bed and count five things. A booklight, melatonin tablets, black nail polish, faded jeans, and knitting needles. Name four things I feel: the dangling pillow tassel, the chilly windowpane, the geography textbook, my pinky toe. I cannot hear three things, because my uncle is working, and my mother is quiet. So I listen to the consistent hum of the heater three times as long as normal for good measure. I can smell the cheap air freshener and my soccer shoes. With the window open, my tongue catches the breeze and I taste cold.
When my mother is stressed, she slits her wrists in the bathtub.
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Boneyard Blues by John Vander
Chuckata-thuck Chuckata-thuck Chuckata-thuck Chuckata-thuck …
The rhythm of the boxcar rumbling down the track reminds Billy of a song he wrote a long time ago, back when he was still playing for nickels and dimes outside the lumber yards and cotton mills along the Mississippi River. Although he hasn’t sung the thing in years, he can still remember the words.
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literally stories 