Thirty-eight Percent

man-3419279_1280

By Debbie Taggio

He won’t do it again
He promised
Brown petals fall from roses
Replaced by new blooms
Red.
He sees red, quick to anger
I stay quiet – do everything right
A mouse, scuttling along skirting boards
Hold still; it hurts less that way
Violet this time
Secret marks, hidden
I make sure, no walking into doors for me
He won’t do it again
He loves me
‘You’ve got a keeper there,’ they say
Broken.
Broken jaw, broken ribs, broken promises
Broken spirit.
Yellow now,
Fading bruises, fading self
Pushed too far
Silver, steel…
He won’t do it again
I love you.

Advertisements

Untethered

enclosed-1281148_1280

By Traci Mullins

“We can’t pull the plug,” my sisters say, as though our mother’s tether to this world is a cord infused with life, like the one that brought her into it. But I know it’s a shackle, chaining her to a place she no longer belongs. “Don’t let me linger,” Momma’d told me. So on the seventh day I say “Enough is enough.” My sisters are horrified as I turn off the machine, but I feel Momma’s lips brush my cheek as I set her free.

     
Traci’s work has appeared in Flash Fiction Magazine, Dime Show Review, Ellipsis Zine, Flash Flood, Fantasia Divinity, Spillwords Press, and others.

Daydream

Happy Sunday. Here’s another drabble we love from the archives.

woman-coffee-cup-mugBy Kazz

editors pickFor the next hour I am just me.

I sip coffee and watch the people.

A young man hooks my gaze. He is writing. You don’t often see that these days.

He is young but … attractive. I wonder if he would glance at me and see past the shell of motherhood. We would talk of art and of writing and of how it could never work. Then have a delicious affair.

He looks up. I quickly look away and think of groceries.

As I leave I catch the eyes of an elderly man. He averts his gaze. He looks uncomfortable.

View original post

Company

white-rose-3170283_1280

By Phil Town

I went to visit my mother and had some business in the office. There on the counter, a photocopied …

“WARNING!
Deer & rabbits & floral tributes.
Please be aware that there are deer, rabbits and squirrels residing in the surrounding woodlands, and there may be the possibility of some floral tributes being eaten.”

Now, my mum was passionate about all animals – she watched TV nature programs around the clock, and would go out in thunderstorms to save stray cats abandoned under scrapped cars.

So next time, I’m leaving roses. White ones.

A bloody great big bunch of ‘em.

Alone

sunset-401541_1280

By Nerisha Kemraj

He never saw the tears freeze at the corner of her eyes, he only saw her smile. He never felt her body tense as he hugged her goodbye … too eager to leave. He missed the everyday struggles of her life as he wrapped himself in his own. Her world darkened because the light representing him slowly faded. Shadows danced as the stifling walls caved in.

Jesse knew she had to change things, but how? Maybe change would come soon? She hoped. The weight of the world weighed her down. She fell, and no one was there to lift her up.

Inspiration

writing-923882_1280

By D.A. Donaldson

“It’s called The Drabble,” she said. “One hundred-word limit.”

He sneered, “And you call that being published?”

“It’s something. It’s a start. It’s better than your Letters to the Editor.”

“At least people read those!”

“Do they? When’s the last time you heard from a reader?”

“Gimme a break,” he swigged his beer, “I don’t see any book deals coming out of your online dribbles.”

“Drabbles,” she corrected. “And my last post got 147 likes. At least I know that someone is reading and enjoying what I write. And you know what else? You just inspired my next submission!”

Multiple Personalities

wallpaper-3272504_1280

By RLM Cooper

I often think I’m insane. I hear voices. And there are multiple personalities all trying to get out. Male. Female. Old. Young. Black. White. Some are heroes and some wanted by the police. I’ve been places no one has ever gone before. And I know things. Things no one else knows. Or will ever know. My brain aches with it all. And I’ve done things. Scary things and boring things, too. The voices speak to me. They demand to be heard. Sometimes it’s frightening. But I … excuse me a second.

“What is it, dear?”

“Your editor is on the phone!”