Yon Silv’ry Moon

By Fiona M. Jones

“Look,” said the judge. “You can’t just assault someone for writing ‘thee’ and ‘thou’.”

“But he did it WRONG,” the defendant insisted. “And he said azure and stuff. I HAD to do it.”

“A poem can’t harm—”

“Just read it, please, your honour.”

The judge gulped.

His eyes rolled in different directions.

He struggled to breathe.

“Case dismissed,” he said hoarsely. “Let the defendant go. Clearly this was reasonable self-defense.” He dropped the paper and wiped his hands.

“Thee,” said the poem, crumpled but unabashed, “art the yon silv’ry moon, Whom scaleth the azure stare case of nights room.”

“Well, this particular story was inspired by some people who post their poetry on Twitter.” – the writer

The Way You Get Worked Up

By John L. Malone

The way you get worked up towards the end.
I can hear you, the noise of your coming, three rooms away.
Are such outbursts necessary?
Why, even the walls vibrate,
Now you’re really going.
Hope you don’t bust anything.
You’re not that young anymore, remember.
There’s no doubt you give it your all.
Do you enjoy it?
Sounds as if you do.
Now you’ve gone quiet, can I come in?
Yes ! The clothes are done.
One hour, twenty. Wish I had your stamina.
You must be exhausted.

“I get my material from the every day: an inexhaustible supply.” – the writer

Where Does the Time Go?

By Chris Hewitt

“Sorry, I’m late. Where does the time go?” said Dr Ed, walking into the examination room. “I’m surprised to see you, Mrs. Walters. Is there a problem?”

“Yes, Doctor,” said Susan, rubbing her side. “Since the operation, I get this terrible pain if I walk too far.”

“Are you in pain now?”

“I wasn’t. But just as you arrived—” Susan doubled over.

“Oh, dear,” said Dr Ed, pulling out his buzzing phone. “I think I’ve found the problem and my missing smartwatch.”
Swiping left, he held up the smartphone. “If it’s any consolation, you’ve done twenty-thousand steps this week.”

Chris Hewitt lives in the beautiful garden of England and in the odd moment he’s not walking the dog, he pursues his passion for writing fiction.

There Must be Something Nice I Can Say About You

By John L. Malone

Let me see.
There must be some nice things
I can say about you.
Like I stay indoors more often when you’re around,
get in touch with my inner recluse.
I get to read more,
post six or seven poems a week
rather than the usual four.
Less of a slacker.
Red wine tastes better with you.
So too a good roast.
I get to write haiku again on frosts and ice,
shivery, shivery three liners.
And I get to wear my exotic Mongolian beanie everywhere.
Winter I embrace you.

“I wrote this on our coldest day since June 1922.” – the writer

100 Words Is All You Get

Andrew Atkinson

My name is ‘Pinky’ Rutherford-Gilbert. That’s not my real name; I’m a character in a drabble story, therefore I’m reliant on the author for, well, everything.

Pinky straightened his bow tie in the hall mirror and checked his central parting. Replacing his monocle he addressed his host, “I say, Old Thing, what time do we attach the nose bags?”

Good grief! I’m an imbecile; an upper-class twit in a story that P.G. Wodehouse could have written. Get me out of here, fast!

Clutching his chest, Pinky collapsed at his host’s feet. Dead as a proverbial—

Not that quickly, please author.

“I’ve been writing drabbles for several years following a lengthy career writing and editing technical and professional reports, which were a great deal less fun.” – the writer

You Used to Call Out

By John L. Malone

You used to call out when we had sex, he said.
You would raise the roof and ululate.
Street lights would flare, power lines fizz
with excitement,
fruit bats rise from their roosts in alarm.
Whole shrouds of them.
Why, even the bed shook as if it were coming.
The very veins in my wrists wanted to pop.
It’s awfully florid, the editor said.
It’s meant to be a romance novel, not a porno.
Can you tone it down a little?

“I had great fun writing this, reducing it from 120 to 86 words.” – the writer


By John L. Malone

When are you getting a doorman?


A doorman, When are you getting one?

You’ve got me and Bev.

You two are bloody hopeless. You’re never around when I want to come in or go out.

You always want to come in or go out. You can’t make up your mind. We can’t just stand at the door all day long attending to your whims.

So can I have a doorman then?

They don’t come cheap. We’ll have to cut back on expenses. No more cans of flashy cat food.

Damn! Can I have a cut price doorman then?

John had great fun writing this, teasing readers.

The Deckchair Poem

By John L. Malone

This poem was meant to be a glorious thing,
To really take off, even sprout wings
But somewhere, somehow it took a wrong turn,
The vision got lost, the fuel failed to burn
So I switched phrases furiously, here and there
Sentences too, to give it more zest, flair
But I saw it wasn’t working, I began to panic,
It was like rearranging deck chairs on the Titanic.

“The greatest peacetime maritime disaster is the perfect metaphor for the poem that no matter what couldn’t save itself.” – the writer

First Contact

By David Berger

The silvery disc-shaped ship landed exactly where a rational space-going race would land their ship: on the mall in Washington, DC. A slim, silvery robot emerged from the ship. Every satellite, probe, listening device, etc., available was immediately focused on this humanoid.

Within minutes, a huge, metallic-grey Warbot had plodded from the Pentagon to the Mall, where the robot was standing next to its ship. When the Warbot came within ten meters of the obviously alien creature, the silvery skin of the newcomer began to flash with a dazzling rainbow of colors.

“Nice colors,” the Warbot rumbled.

“Oh, this old system!”

“I write to express myself as a social being and as an individual.” – the writer


By Sally Sadasivam

His parents kept telling him to let it go.
How could he?
His favorite chair. His very own bed. He felt violated.

It had been easy to find her in the end. The platinum blond’s breaking and entering reputation was as large as her appetite for porridge.

With the family pinned to the wall in fear, baby bear ate his way through her bowl of porridge.
Next, the pretty pink chair in the corner splintered in half with the axe he was carrying.
Finally, he lifted the duvet and climbed into her comfortable bed.
He ignored the screams.

“Just right.”

“I have quite a serious job and writing is pure escapism. If I can make someone else smile, even better!” – the writer