Tag: Short Fiction

Latest News, Short Fiction

Week 420 – Sorry Sally But That Will Always Be Embarrassing, A Nun’s Pocket Of Foreskin And Supermarket Brain-Stormers Wanting Their Hidden Cake And Eating It! By Hugh Cron

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I have so many things floating about my head for this posting.

You may not have noticed but I do, in most of my posts, try and get in some writing context.

…We may need to come to that! And if I do, I’ll probably be dramatic!!

I ‘said’ to Leila early on this week, that I’d have to use the word ‘Aloof’, so in saying that, I have!

Was that a prompt?

Continue reading “Week 420 – Sorry Sally But That Will Always Be Embarrassing, A Nun’s Pocket Of Foreskin And Supermarket Brain-Stormers Wanting Their Hidden Cake And Eating It! By Hugh Cron” →
General Fiction, Short Fiction

 Black Flowers by Michael Ventimiglia

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Being home hurts. It’s a subtle sort of pain that isn’t always obvious, but it’s always there just the same. The aching starts the moment I cross the state line and it won’t stop ’til I cross it back over. I guess that’s just the price of having a past, having to live with it.

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Short Fiction

The Magician of Sixth Avenue by Sam Mueller

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There are two types of nurses: the ones who believe in ghosts, and the ones who are lying.

We don’t talk about it much, especially now that the war is over. You can feel it more than see it when we’re together—a collective haunting, invisible guests at the dinner table. The conversations lulls and our gazes drift and we stare at strangers we’ve seen somewhere before. Was it the operating table? A hospital bed? The morgue?

You do this kind of thing for years and eventually everyone becomes a ghost of someone, somewhere. We don’t talk about it much.

But sometimes we get drunk.

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Short Fiction

No boy, no Tie by  R. P. Singletary

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Three months later and back into my routine, I returned to church. I noticed all the families at early service. Little girls with exquisite ribbons, little boys all about their first ties. My father couldn’t teach me how to tie a tie. He was dyslexic. I was left-handed. Charming, the pair of us. Unsuccess greeted us at every skinned knee of childhood. Laces. Did it matter whether on new or old shoes, no. Scouting badges for all kinds of knots and things? Well, we attempted all that! Every sport imaginable involving foot or paw, naw. The neck tie was the worst. Eventually, I’d give up or stammer off. Or he would. Often crying throughout. He’d stopped cursing at some point. Sometimes, I would start cussin’ at another point. Only for Mom to intervene. She said she had to pray: “No boy, no tie, no boy.” I promise I remember that prayer.

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Short Fiction

Horse-collared by Tom Sheehan

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The great storm of 1822 hit greater Boston with swirling winds while Harriet Grant and her three children had left hours earlier to visit her sister in Lynnfield. The route she chose was through a wooded section with few houses en route. Edgar Grant didn’t begin to worry until the storm did not abate, its fury continuing with the wild winds laden with thick, heavy snow building up in a hurry.

If he went out there on his own, it would do little good if he too was caught asunder, unable to penetrate the thick fall, lose himself in such a massive undertaking. He knew he was caught between the good, the bad, and the actual horror of loss every which way he could imagine.

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All Stories, Humour, Short Fiction

A Conversation About The Sixties by Hugh Cron (Adult Content)

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“I’m fed up watching the news. Seemingly, the queen’s still dead.”

“That’s six months now and they’re still harping on about it. I can’t remember the last time I bought a paper.”

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Short Fiction

The Hive by Rania Hellal

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When you read this, I will most likely be dead.

The night is biting and cold against my naked skin. The rope is impossibly tight around my ankles, set on digging its way down to the bone.

I am not sure anymore, what will kill me first;  The cold , the starved predators of the forest or my own people.

Now, before I tell you my story, I want you to know, that I am nothing like the terrible things  you might have heard about me.

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Short Fiction

The Unknown Writer by Douglas Robbins

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His studio apartment sits downtown. It’s late morning. He puts on blue jeans, a black T-shirt and sits in his writing chair, his only chair. With no socks on, he looks down at his yellowed toenails. He prints out his three completed manuscripts. He walks over and clears off the mahogany wood table he picked up cheap. It has served him for writing, eating, and mail. His futon mattress is only a few feet away. He moves the table into the center of the room scraping it along the floor.

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Literally Reruns, Short Fiction

Literally Reruns – My Powdered Friend by David Henson

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In this impersonal age of cyber friends (like me), witch hunters who never meet in person and gaining the gospel from unholy sources David Henson’s My Powdered Friend is a satire that is uncomfortably close to being true. As in much of David’s work, he takes a bright, keen, even flippant tone, which intensifies the darker themes. And he has the great knack of making you believe just about anything.

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