By Jemma Morriss
okay the man …
bigger? not little then is it, nitwit. could be anything.
do the fourth word
it’s not that funny, Margaret
the man something the golden …
try the third word again
fucksake which word, Gerry?
oh my god is that a gu …
Jemma Morriss writes short fiction and is working on her first children’s novel.
By Lorna Stewart
I am currently out of the office.
For any urgent matters contact Linda on the number below. She will be stressed believing I have gone to the vending machine. Instead, unauthorized, I have taken the pool car. Hopefully by the time they realize I will be in a hotel bar with a fancy cocktail waiting for that geeky guy from IT to arrive with plane tickets.
Otherwise you can visit our website but we are currently experiencing technical difficulties. This is due to Andrew, geeky guy, inserting a virus so we could empty the company bank account.
Having grown up in a typing pool, Lorna moved to switchboard for a short period before joining the sales office. She likes to day dream of escape while staring out of the tinted windows pretending to be working.
By David Berger
This morning I woke up invisible. It took a minute or two to get used to. Wife and kids away. Wow!
It’s freakin’ 50° outside, but I don’t care. Glass and dog shit on the sidewalk Who cares? I’m headed for that house nearby no one talks about. I knock on the door. The lady opens up and I slip by her.
For an hour, I watch girls do odd things with gentlemen. It gets boring rapidly.
Back on the street headed home, I bang into something hard. It’s another invisible person.
“Who is that?” I hear my wife say.
Dave Berger is a union organizer living in New York City. His wife is a “stupendous jazz singer.”
By Michael Bloor
In 1507, Father John Damian (aka Giovanni Damiano de Falcucci), alchemist to James IV of Scotland, announced that he had discovered the secret of flight. Festooned in hen feathers, he stood on the battlements of James’ Royal Castle on Stirling Rock, declared that he was bound for France, and launched himself into space.
He fell straight into the castle midden, breaking his thigh bone. A truly spectacular miscalculation, but the king forgave him.
So could you maybe follow Good King James’ example, and forgive my failure to stop before I’d hit the back-wall of the garage?
Michael Bloor is a retired sociologist living in Dunblane, Scotland. His recent publications include The Cabinet of Heed, Ink Sweat & Tears, Occulum, The Copperfield Review, Scribble, Dodging the Rain, Everyday Fiction, The Fiction Pool, Firewords, and Spelk.
By John L. Malone
I’ve got a poem for you, a very short one, he promised with a garrulous grin, and then, in a long-winded introduction in which all the masters of brevity were cited from Basho to Lydia Davis, he proceeded to demolish all notions of shortness. The poem took ten seconds, the intro five minutes.
John Malone is a South Australian writer of short stories, flash fiction and poetry.
By Grace Galton
Josh closed the dryer and stole a glance at the girl of his dreams. Five weeks at college and he was still too shy to start a conversation.
The cycle finished. Reluctantly he collected his laundry and left.
He turned, delighted.
“How do you know my name?”
She held up a sock and laughed “Name tag.”
Thanks, Mum he thought.
By John Malone
I’m being interviewed today
For a job.
A cleaning job.
I shave, shower, put on good clothes.
Tidy the place up.
Ten minutes later his car pulls in the driveway.
He comes in, casually dressed, introduces himself.
Looks me over.
Asks questions. Probing questions.
I wince a little.
Relax, he says as he stands up, shakes my hand, smiles.
Now let’s see the house.
I take him through. Show him the vacuum cleaner, the mop, the bucket.
Now, he says, when would you like me to start?