I've Really Lost My MindThe young man smiled, with just a touch of embarrassment. “I seem to have lost my mind.”I've Really Lost My Mind1 year ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
The female attendant looked at him. “This is a railway ticket office.”
“You want the lost property section over there.” She pointed at a counter where a severe-looking man was rearranging misplaced umbrellas.
“Thank you!” The young man nodded politely and headed across to the other section.
The lost property attendant looked up as the young man approached. “Is it an umbrella you want?” He indicated the display.
The young man appeared to be tempted for a moment by a purple one decorated with cats and dogs, but then apparently remembered why he was there.
“No,” he said. “I’ve lost my mind. I’m pretty sure here was the last time I used it—I was trying to work out what would be the cheapest ticket to Inverness on a weekday in June, outside peak hours, travelling with my back to the engin
ItchyFirst anniversary: Paper.Itchy2 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
Our love unfolded.
Seventh anniversary: Wool.
It all unravelled.
Antikythera mechanismElise sunk down with the rest of the ship, dragged down by her brass innards. Wordlessly, she begged her creator to let go, but she knew he wouldn't. He'd brought her to life out of love, and he would do anything to save her. Elise watched him struggle and drown, her perfect sculpted face impassive while her mind whirred and clicked behind it in turmoil.Antikythera mechanism3 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
She hit the seabed and was swallowed in a cloud of mud as the carcass of the ship broke apart around her. Over the ages her gears seized up and her alabaster curves effervesced and decayed, macerated by the sea. Still her soul lingered on. Aphrodite had infused life into her copper heart, and it would never stop now. Never.
She lay in the Lethe for the longest time, while the lives of men went on oblivious above. When she was dredged up, she was no longer recognisable as an entity, let alone the paragon of femininity she had once been. She was limbless and worn, a sentient pebble. They held her in their hands and probed her jammed up m
His EyesIt has been three months since we heard from the mainland.His Eyes1 year ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
Speculation abounds. Some catastrophe has befallen them there: a plague has ended them, perhaps, or a war, or something so dreadful that we cannot even imagine it. We are left here to starve, slowly, as we wait for news and supplies.
At noon we saw a boat on the horizon.
Through the spyglass we saw that its occupant was a lone boy, and that his skin was patterned with lesions. Sula saw something in his eyes, he said, though he would not speak more clearly of it; but he was so shaken by the sight that he begged us to shoot the boat down at a distance.
We were without choice but to obey. We pitied the boy, perhaps, but if he carried a plague – as indeed he must have – any show of mercy might have doomed us. We fired the cannon as soon as he came within range.
At nightfall we burned the flotsam brought in by the tide. There was no sign of the boy's body. With luck the current carried it away, to be eaten by the fish.
Her Necklace Now It began as a very small thing.Her Necklace Now4 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
Junior and his dad disagreed on an item made in their silversmithing shop.
That shop was kept away from the family's houses, set up in an old outbuilding because of noise.
Silversmithing was always too noisy for the dozen homes on the family's half-section of wood and meadow land.
The lapidary equipment alone made a terrible sound.
Allie, Junior's wife, used that equipment to smooth rough turquoise and coral into stones ready for silverwork. She used a spinning grinder of damp and charcoal gray stone for her main work. When Allie put a stone against that, it sounded just like the machine it was. She used a smaller spinning buffer to polish stones.
One Saturday, human voices escalated in the little, old shop about who owned a particular design.
Even Allie, using loud lapidary equipment, heard Junior and his father argue. Naturally, curiosity won and she slowed her work, listening through a thin old wall of warped
Bullet When I was a kid, I wanted to be Superman.Bullet3 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
They said he was faster than a speeding bullet. Not just any old bullet, moseying home after a long day at the office. A speeding one, tearing up the atmosphere like nothing in the world could stop it. I wanted to punch through the sound barrier and carry on and on, away from everything.
I started running a year after my mom died. I was nine years old, but already fast enough to beat my army dad to the corner of the street. There was a local cop with a big brewster moustache who was always dragging me back home. I forget his name. His sedan could run faster than my legs, and his hand was quick enough to grab my collar. When he was still fetching me back two years later, he stopped by to have a word with my dad.
"He's pretty quick on those legs of his," he said. "You thought about getting him to do sports? Might burn up some energy
ResearchSome writers frequently delete browsing history.Research3 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
Red, Yellow, and BlueToo poor to purchase more art supplies, I learned to paint only with primary colors; I covered canvas after canvas--or reclaimed wood when it was a choice between painting or eating--with saturated sentiment. Canary yellow was the color of the dress you wore the day we met--and it harmonized perfectly with your straw colored hair--while cadmium red matched both your tempting scarlet lips and the fire I saw in your eyes. But ultramarine blue didn't suit you, and I never once used it until the day God or Guilt or some Guy stole you from me.Red, Yellow, and Blue1 year ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
KonjukuYou think you are a pebble.Konjuku3 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
That's not the most romantic thing to say to someone, so you'll have to forgive my clumsiness. You think you are a pebble. That you have been worn down and eroded to the point where all corners have been smoothed out. That you have allowed the awkward elbows and ankle bones, the stutter and the scars, to be rubbed out. That you've let them wear you down until you are no longer abrasive when you come into direct contact with what they expect you to be.
You are not a pebble.
You are not small or part of a greater pattern. You are not disposable, at the mercy of Poisedon's temperate shifts. You are not the sum of the parts around you. You are not a pebble.
You are soil; and some may say that that's not the most kind thing to say to someone. People will walk all over you. By that, I mean that you will rise to new heights and be the beginning of something beyond what we have now. Like a sharp cliff you will become the platform that others have to build from
Tactical Espionage ActionKurt Plissken reloaded his gun. Then he reloaded it again. Sneaking behind an enemy guard he raised his combat knife and prepared to perform a stealth kill. Then he did a forward roll directly into the back of the guard's knees and set off an alarm. Spotlights and red laser sights swept to his position, and a dozen gunshots later he was dead. This wasn't how things were supposed to go.Tactical Espionage Action2 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
Back in the 90s Kurt had been the best of the best, the foremost name in tactical espionage action. He and his player had been an unstoppable team, training relentlessly together until every mission had been mastered and every secret unlocked. In the fifteen years that followed, he'd been content to gather dust in the loft, secure in the knowledge that he'd done everything there was to do and seen everything there was to see. His legacy would live on in his player's pro skills, and his save file stood as a monument to his illustrious career.
He'd been happy up there, but it had come as a pleasant surpris
Golden TicketThe candy factory? But I'm diabetic.Golden Ticket3 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
The Crazy Kind"How much is that dragon in the window?"The Crazy Kind3 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
"What, Balthazar? Keep dreaming kid it takes a special kind to care for a dragon."
"The crazy kind."
"You take care of him."
"Aye, that I do."
"Yeah, yeah, don't go pointing out the obvious. What do you want a dragon for?"
" How much you got in your pocket kid?"
United, We WriteHear me read itUnited, We Write3 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
0hgravity, if by some divine fortune you should decide that today is the day you will fail me, then let me soar through the ChemicalSkyline. Grant me a-lovely-anxiety that raises a storm InTheStarryNightSky for me to riseandbe above all else. Let me soar.
How I long to be the frail rider-on-the-storm and not a victim of the RoamingShadow, Rogue-Of-The-Night, that BlackVelvetNightmare of my nights and days. I long
It's Always Blackest Before the ThroneCurriculum VitaeIt's Always Blackest Before the Throne1 year ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
Snake Cult Leader
General in the Legions of Shagamemnon
Reason Left Last Job:
Green, three-boobed alien women wanting to be taught the Earth-concept of love.
Has own armour (black leather with spikes).
Interviewer’s notes: This guy seems perfect!
I realise there is no way for me to get this letter to you but I feel in need of a sympathetic ear at the moment.
Things haven’t been going too well. I thought the dungeon was the way to go in order to gain power and riches but people somehow completely misinterpreted the whips and chains. Thought it was a place offering… erotic satisfaction. It all made me terribly uncomfortable.
So I gave up and swapped genres from Fantasy to Sci-Fi. But things didn’t improve and now I appear to have ended up in Gritty Realism. I’ve managed to get a minimum w
Watching Butterflies--FFM 17Sometimes, he wishes he had someone to talk to. Ray sits on a bench, his rusting, creaky elbows perched on his rusting, creaky knees, and watches the butterflies. Cumulonimbus clouds stretch across the sky above his head, the kinks in his metal spine curved against the wood and groaning with the breeze.Watching Butterflies--FFM 173 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
"Let's put him here," they'd said, a gleam in their eyes. "He'll make a great tourist attraction!"
They'd glued him to the bench, molding his rusting, creaky feet to a slab of heavy concrete. "Feed the birds with Ray," they'd yelled. "He's a great listener!"
And for twenty years, he was. He'd heard war stories and sex scandals and all the secrets a child could keep bottled up in their chests. He'd heard sob stories and comedic reenactments and over thirty-two million declarations of love. He'd kept count. Sometimes, people came back more than once. Often, Ray had been ignored.
Systematic Amnesia [10.2.12 Daywrite]They came for us at four in the morning. We had stayed up all night, of course we had, peering out of the windows into the darkness, foreheads pressed up against the icy glass. Our breath fogged our vision, but it didn't matter. We knew no number of sentries could keep us safe when they finally came.Systematic Amnesia [10.2.12 Daywrite]3 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
So they waited most of the night, just one more step in their game of playing with our minds. We were tired when they came, fearful. Edgy. But they arrived in silence, just a whisper as they surrounded our house.
Then Cole's cell phone rang. Its trill in the deathly silence shocked us all out of whatever level of unconsciousness we each happened to be in, and we all stared at him with wide eyes. The only people with that number were supposedly in all in the room with us.
"It's them," he said, voice tight. "They're doing it again." It was a power play of course, and we had all known it long before he said it. We were just clinging to that last hope
Enduring AtlasGrunting, Atlas shifted the weight of the heavens to his left shoulder so he could check his phone. Dionysus' party looked insane, it seemed like everyone who was anyone was there. Every other photo on instagram was Dionysus with his arms around a different Maenad. God of the grape harvest? More like god of the grope harvest.Enduring Atlas3 months ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
Logging in to Facebook, Atlas saw that Zeus suddenly had a lot more female friends. His relationship with Hera had been changed to 'it's complicated' again. According to his status update, Apollo had played a few songs from his new album on his magical lyre. Reception was apparently positive. Atlas wished someone had posted a video.
He browsed a collection of party photos. Everybody looked like they were having fun. There was Demeter, pouring out her new microbrew. There was Hecate, chatting up some girl. He lingered on a photo of Aphrodite and sighed. After a while he 'liked' it, but then 'unliked' it again and scrolled away.
Was there a single deity in al
Men and Monsters"Why can't serial murderers kill like normal people?"Men and Monsters4 years ago in Introductions & Chapters More Like This
I paused for a moment, shooting Detective Rattigan a sideways glance before I finished lighting my cigarette. "What?"
"You know," Rat said. "With a quick stab. Or a gun. Like a normal person."
"I'm a little disturbed by your apparent belief that it's normal for people to kill each other. Maybe you've been working this job a little too long," I said, kneeling to examine the bloody corpse that lay in front of me.
"I'm just saying that there are easier ways to kill someone, that's all. Quick knife blade in between the ribs, that's all it takes."
"Rat? Do me a favor and stop talking."
That man frightens me sometimes. John Rattigan has been my partner for almost 4 years, and I still haven't gotten used to his... eccentricities. Still, he's smart and reliable enough, and a good cop. I looked back at the body, taking a drag from my
Two for TeaJohn loved tea. Just the thought of it made him feel warm inside. Sometimes it even felt as though tea were a part of him. But then, he was a teapot.Two for Tea3 years ago in Humor More Like This
No. He had to face it. He was an ex-teapot. It was six months since the last time he'd been used to make tea. Six months since he'd ended up in this charity shop. He'd started off in the window, then been moved back to the table, then onto a low shelf, then a top shelf and now he was residing on what could only be called the 'junk shelf': sharing space with a haggard baby doll, some statement jewellery and a couple of battered paperbacks. He couldn't help but feel bitter. Yes, he had been through the wars but he knew he was still capable of providing good service. Of fulfilling the role for which he had been created.
It was nearly closing time. The shop had been empty but one last customer had slipped in. She had a few shopping bags with her: her last call before home, John guessed. He hadn't seen her before but the male volunteer
Not Like the Movies"Vampires do not sparkle!"Not Like the Movies3 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
"How the hell would you know!"
Half an hour later Rosie left the body in a back alley, licked the remnants of blood from her fangs and, with a satisfied smile, rejoined the night life on the streets.
ChimeraOn midsummer's morning a boy found his way to the top of the hill. He met with the face of a lioness.Chimera1 year ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
She spewed fire into the sky, and said: “Child, be ever proud: be ever regal: fear not the fire, but wield it as your own. You shall find strength, and all barriers shall fall before you.”
Awed, and frightened, the boy carved her words into his heart.
On midsummer's midday a man found his way to the top of the hill. He met with the face of a serpent.
She spewed fire into the earth, and said: “King, you have forgotten yourself. You have forgotten your people. Too long have your eyes gazed heavenwards: frail is your might, and brittle: you must bring yourself back to the earth.”
These words he heard; but he forgot them.
On midsummer's evening a beggar found his way to the top of the hill. He met with the face of a goat.
She spewed fire into his eyes, and said: “O Graybeard, you have fallen far. All your fancies have led to failure, and the fury of your heart