The first time I left home, I managed to get to the front gate before Doreen ran out and grabbed my shoulder. I had walked out in the middle of a talking to, so I wasn’t really expecting to go very far.
The second time I made it out onto the street. She was sleeping that time and I was very, very quiet so I don’t know how she knew I was leaving.
But I didn’t plan it right, you see. I should have done it when Daddy and Doreen were at work.
The third time… Continue reading
Copyright -Mary Shipman
All I remember from the day the humans left is an all-encompassing, bright flash. They were gone before the night was dawn.
My three little ones are my world now, and the humans’ house is our home. The most recent danger is a lone wolf that roams the woods that have spilled over the front yard. While I hunt, I hide my kittens in the holes up in the wall. Wolves don’t jump that high.
And yet, I return to a quiet house. A claw marks the length of the wall; too high for a wolf; deep enough for a bear. My babies are gone.
For Friday Fictioneers. Football fever has caught me by the throat this season. I write this as I watch Spain v. Chile. Tell me, is football an inspiring muse?
Copyright – Douglas M. MacIlroy
Tyron smacked his lips happily. The perfect title hit him after two empty hours. ‘Seven mountains in seven years’, his answer to the challenge: ‘Wildest dreams’.
His finger hovered for a hesitating second longer. Then, click; the post was published. Continue reading
There were once three men who used to sit on the bench shaded by the carob tree at the far corner of the square. They were much younger than the tree, albeit as wrinkly and bent by age as its bark.
Everyday their vigil began right after the seven-thirty mass. They sipped English tea in a tall glass at eight-thirty, then bread and cheese at ten. The bench under the carob tree would be empty between twelve and two; which was precisely the span of time it took the sun to graze the wooden bench before its rays were eclipsed by the second house on the left. Continue reading
He placed a matryoshka doll on the table between them, amid the two glasses with remnants of red wine and the half burnt candle.
Excitement shot through her body right down to her fingertips. She tore the first layer open, then the second while small, uncontrollable bursts of glee escaped her grinning lips. Continue reading
‘Jack-ass!’ Angie spat before the last of the shattered head-lamps crumbled onto the ground.
She jumped out of the car frothing at the mouth.
‘You bitch!’ was how she was greeted by the other driver whose face was a similar shade of puce as Angie’s was.
The red Porsche she had hit was complete with waxed metal, platinum rims and two tail lights sprinkled on the ground like fine fairy dust.
It wasn’t her fault though. There she was minding her own business, when a five-seater Mitsubishi passed by with three sheep packed at the back of it going ‘Beh!’ Continue reading
One; choose your prey.
Easy. There he is across the bar, shining like a violet beacon in a sea of black. Wearing a white polo-shirt in a place like this says something about a man. For me, it says he wants to be eaten, devoured and spat out again. Happy to oblige.
Two; study your prey. Continue reading