Just Throw Some More Meat Down
High of eighty with no chance of rain. Beautiful. Everyone's been looking forward to this day. Sweat forms around my forehead; it's hot. July fourth. People are everywhere, waiting in anticipation. The sizzle, the pop, I burn myself. No time to complain, I'm working the grill at McDonald's.
by Hudson Kemna
With each key and every string the world disappears. Like a burning ember slowly fades in the coolness of a summer night. Glowing all the while, illuminating what was once covered in darkness. Just enough to sparkle in your eyes revealing the depths of your soul. Alive. Pure. Free.
by Hudson Kemna
This is not fiction, it's a question to you, the readers. I've got this backlog that I'm working on adding to the blog. I've been adding about 10 pieces at a time, but I just got a new submission.
What do you think? Should I continue to publish the older stuff in the order it was received until I get to the new submissions, or do I publish all the older stuff to a date in the past and give the new stuff today's date to keep the newer things at the top of the blog?
Thanks for visiting, and for letting me know what you think.
Now that you've read some short-short fiction, how about some bad poetry? Come to my new site and submit a poem. Make it a really bad poem from your adolescent years. Submit any poetry to the same e-mail address, fifty word fiction, but make sure to indicate that you're submitting to Bad Poetry either in the subject line or at the beginning of the message.
Thanks for visiting!
What Flavor Is Your Life?
Sand is grating under foot when the black water embraces me. Over my head
and air is no longer mine to share. Something explodes within me; I burst to
the surface screaming to live. I am enlightened by the thought of what I
almost threw away-- The flavor of life.
by Jody Montoya
Small World Realities
The coffee table's edge is my goal; so tantalizing, so unattainable. I
chew a cookie, wet my pants, and plot anew. The cigarettes and coffee of my
elders will be mine. Rolling over, I squirm again; alas, scooped up. I
shouldn't have pooped too--foiled by smell.
by Jody Montoya
A fifty word fiction, “Now that’s a short story!” I told her. She agreed with a nod but little else; she was writing her own.
It would have been easier I suppose had I the slightest clue ‘what’ to write about. And then I realized I had already done it.
by Relsieg d'Arb
First wife called me a pack rat. I guess she
was the only one that saw me that way.
Second wife didn't stay with me past the
Third wife saw my collections and panicked.
Fourth wife seemed eager to join the others.
I wish I would have married them alphabetically.
by Daniel K. Brower
Stanislaus Komansky drove a Nova, perfectly tinted avocado with a rust spot near the bumper. He avoided inspecting the paint's imperfection just as he avoided the imperfection he perceived in the mirror. It had been seventeen years since he had seen his face. He wondered, "Any rust spots on me?"
by Amalisa Piccinino
The Prodigal's Mother
After the peaceful years he came home singing,
on a lame camel, over the mountain,bringing trouble,
His father running and skipping to greet him,
his brother sulking, kicking sand.
The servants, charmed,danced all evening,
while I, grieving in the kitchen,
poisoned his portion of fatted calf.
by M D Essinger
On Dharma Mountain
From the top of Dharma Mountain you can see almost everything and hear almost nothing except birdsong. Here an old pine tree preaches wisdom and a wild bird cries out truth. The mountain always seems to ask me a question. Today's question: What is Zen? Zen is being present even in your absence.
Monty R. Nolan
We dine outdoors on a warm April evening, too tired
and not talking. Dinner becomes tasteless. So walk me
to my car and kiss me goodnight. No. Please, not yet.
Months spent waiting, but no word. Suddenly he smiles
an invitation. Maybe music and dinner bring that now
I thought I only had to cuddle. I assumed my only obligations would be to join tea parties with panda bear or keep monsters at bay while she softly dreamed. Now it seems, I was always meant for this higher purpose, to be the effigy of her inner child.
by Mueller Nylander
Three days to go and off to college,
Room full of boxes and stuff.
Standing on the brink of adulthood, independence
Future unknown, stretching far as thought can imagine.
Possibilities, which road to take, choices, how should I travel…
To do it over again, nah… not in this lifetime anyway.
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