A Good Day

A Good Day
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“Mommy, when you were little what was your biggest wish?”

“That I’d grow up really, really fast so I could buy a house.”

“Why? Didn’t you like living with Papa and Nanna?”

“Most of the time. Do you like living with me all of the time?”

“Uh-huh, especially at Thanksgiving and Christmas.”

“What about other times?”

“My birthday is a good day too.”

“And?”

“And so is your birthday.”

“Really? My birthday is a good day for you?”

“Yep. ‘Cause Daddy says you turn another year younger on that day. That means you’ll be my mommy for a long, long time.”

A.M. McKnight

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Flash Fiction Sunday Edition – Issue 63

Flash Fiction Sunday Edition - Issue 63

Welcome to our ongoing Flash Fiction Sunday Edition.

If you are new here, we do this every Sunday.

We also publish 101 word Flash Fiction every day. We even deliver:

Subscribe to Flash Fiction Daily

— Shannon

Flash Fiction chosen by Kevlin Henney

Sometimes” by K L Gillespie via Dr. Hurley’s Snake-Oil Cure

One of the joys of flash fiction is the ability to play with a simple conceit and do something both original and off piste that simply couldn’t be sustained over a longer form. This story does just this, starting from the opening ‘Sometimes I lose my mind’ and running with it.

Birthday Child” by Caroline M Yoachim via Daily Science Fiction

From one point of view this is a story of infertility and artificial children. From another, it arranges metaphors deeply and with surrealism. This is the kind of speculative fiction that is binocular: it is both points of view at once.

Lolita’s Lynch Mob” by Sarah Hilary via Every Day Fiction

This story involves that staple of the writing world, the reading group, but with a wonderful, speculative twist that nudges it in the direction of metafiction, a nudge that retains the ordinariness of the characters and is done with great humour.

Copy Machine” by Shane Halbach via Flash Fiction Online

This story takes a literal premise and unfolds it into a narrative that is absurd and logical and self-contained. It also carries its narrative in first and second person, which fits perfectly with the absurdity, logic, self-containedness.

P.S. If you want stories delivered, I am happy to e-mail them to you.

Book Giveaway – Best Short Stories from The Saturday Evening Post Great American Fiction Contest 2016

Book Giveaway

Are you new here? No problem. Scroll down to get the skinny and join the fun!

To all the returning 101’ers…welcome back!

To those that didn’t win…keep trying! Your odds are better than you think.

It’s time for this week’s Book Giveaway. But first…let’s talk about last week.

Last Week’s Book – InterWorld (Book 3) by Neil Gaiman and Michael Reaves

This Week’s Book – Best Short Stories from The Saturday Evening Post Great American Fiction Contest 2016

That is a long title for a book of short stories. 🙂

How Does the Book Giveaway Work?

Simple. We give away one book every single week.

Why? Because books are awesome and we love our 101’ers.

How? That is also simple:

  1. Make sure you are signed up to get our stories delivered to your inbox. Existing subscribers do not need to enter their e-mail again. That’s a relief!
  2. Now, sit back and read some stories! I know you like reading.
  3. Check your email every Friday for the Book Giveaway. That e-mail will guide you to a page just like this one. It’s sort of a loop!
  4. Read the book description. Are you Interested?
  5. The next day I will send you an email about the Book Giveaway. All you have to do is reply to that e-mail. Done!
  6. You have until Monday at 12PM PST to reply.

P.S. If you want stories delivered, I am happy to e-mail them to you.

Hanami

Hanami

Sensei hands out Diego petals, like those from the Okinawan song she’s teaching us. One per pair. My partner, a warm Italian man, is content to let me claim ours.

Later, Sensei makes me read a line from our worksheet. I read the Hiragana clumsily. Usually meaning comes with each word as I say it, but today my thoughts flutter like so many cherry petals, blossoming in the wind.

Sensei makes me repeat. The words don’t come out of my mouth right.

“What did I say?” My voice is sharp, grating.

She counsels a patient, feminine response;

“I…am a woman.”

— Tilde Del

P.S. If you want stories delivered, I am happy to e-mail them to you.

Plus Ca Change

Plus Ca Change

The reunion? Okay, I guess: my Marana classmates convened at Elizabeth’s ranch-ette a heck of a long drive outside Tucson. We enjoyed Mutt’s kielbasas and Sandra’s chocolate cake, and listened to Alan’s Motown CD he made for our 50th.

Around seven, dusk fell on E’s desert patio at the edge of the Ocotillo trees. Lizards and cactus bats came out. Talk turned to Billy K, our rancher schoolmate. Never liked him much, someone said.

Over Cheetos and Pinot Gris, we debated whether Billy deserved to be shot three times by his foreman last week. A good time was had by all.

— Carter O'Neill

P.S. If you want stories delivered, I am happy to e-mail them to you.

The Diagnosis

The Diagnosis

The gaunt, bed-ridden man suffered from chronic, projectile vomiting. Several doctors wearing hazmat suits stood a safe distance away.

The psychiatrist spoke. “We all agree. We have diagnosed your condition—it’s autometaphorphobia. Yours is the world’s first documented case. It’s a psychological disorder that triggers severe physiological symptoms. An autometaphorphobic suffers extreme nausea when speaking in metaphors.”

Visibly shaken, the patient replied, “Finally, an answer. Your diagnosis is music to my eyes.” Then he convulsed, gagged, and shot vomit thirteen feet. A personal best.

They immediately sedated him. The doctors concurred—using a mixed metaphor was worse, and could prove fatal.

Gary Davison

P.S. If you want stories delivered, I am happy to e-mail them to you.

Cascading Echoes

Cascading Echoes

Her rage resonates through the valley. I can hear her even through the thick cover of trees. I have not walked along that stony path for a long time. I am wary of meeting you.

You had laughed when I said the river was infuriated. But now you know she was irked.

I hear someone call out, an echo sailing through the raging gurgle. Is it a distant whisper from you?

I feel her fury as I walk towards the rocks. The river keeps crashing into them. Maybe they vex her. You were not enough. She wants more. I am coming.

— Vibha

P.S. If you want stories delivered, I am happy to e-mail them to you.

Fade to Black

Fade to Black

Johnny Edwards awakened to the steady beep, beep, beep of a vehicle backing up outside. Although his eyes were still closed, he saw the play of red light strobing across his ceiling. He wondered if old Mrs. Jenkins in the apartment downstairs had suffered a heart attack.

He was somewhat startled when his eyes refused to open.

“He’s in here; I think he’s breathing, but he won’t wake up.”

“Mr. Edwards! Can you hear me?”

’Course I can hear ya; yer yelling in my ear, was Johnny’s last thought. It became totally dark, the red light no longer behind his lids.

— Roy Dorman

P.S. If you want stories delivered, I am happy to e-mail them to you.

Cuffs

Cuffs

Onions, sheep, burnt grease: opposite to the smells of home, where the air is thick with expensive perfume and silverware polish.

Sunk low in the leather seats of her Porsche, she takes a lustful bite from the spicy lamb kebab. The warm sauce covers her chin.  Ketchup gushes down her face.

In seconds, the rivulet reaches the cameo clasped about her neck.

She uses the sleeve of her delicate lace shirt to purge the massacre.

She imagines the perplexed look on her mother-in-law’s face when she’s shown the stain.

The future is written on a cuff.

Precisely what she’s aiming for.

Sophie van Llewyn

P.S. If you want stories delivered, I am happy to e-mail them to you.

Loner

Loner

He should have known better.

He had hiked this far before. But he wasn’t counting on such a steep climb or getting lost or running out of daylight.

If he’d only brought a compass or flashlight. If he hadn’t been so cocky. If he hadn’t been such a loner.

Now, in the fading light, as his eyes scanned the mountain peaks below, he knew he’d need to find a place to spend the night.

He spotted a cave and ducked inside. He had just lain down when he heard a deep, menacing growl.

He was a loner, but he wasn’t alone.

Don Tassone

P.S. If you want stories delivered, I am happy to e-mail them to you.