Gretel’s Choice

By galianoalison

There’s still dishes to scrub, floors to sweep, and laundry to wash, but at least I’m not hungry anymore. Hansel just eats and cries while I do all the work.

Some things don’t change.

And who’s to say we wouldn’t be there still, if the witch hadn’t gotten impatient, and thought to make a meal out of me? Nothing builds muscle like housework, and all it took was a quick shove and she’s the one roasting in the oven.

I haven’t freed Hansel yet.Right now, there’s no one to tell me what to do. Freedom tastes better than gingerbread.

“Drabbles are the cookies of my writing life. They let me experiment, try out – an idea, a style – with no long-term commitment. But just because they’re short and sweet doesn’t mean I don’t pay attention. I try to let the restriction of ingredients and word count keep me on my toes.” – the writer

The End of a Drought

By Lisa H. Owens

I could almost feel the rain on my skin. Big bloopy raindrops soaking my dusty hair and quenching a constant deep dark thirst. I stopped the car, turning off the windshield wipers to press parched lips to the droplets as they collected on the glass. It was a tease akin to a desert oasis. Water, so close yet so far away.

Slender pines swayed, bare branches mocking their excesses as they cast off the rain in wide sheets. My need was so intense. I threw open the door and stepped out, head thrown back—mouth open wide—greedily slurping the clouds’ offerings.

“I write to saturate one’s senses with neat things and odd things.” – the writer


By Lynn White

“To sleep, perchance to dream”, he said.
And I’m hoping for the sweet dreams implied,
ready to welcome them to my bed
like the tree welcomes its leaves.
But I cannot choose them,
cannot control them,
cannot prevent them
turning to nightmares
that wake me
screaming and sweating
night after night.
And I cannot choose
the time when the long sleep
shall come
and take me to my final bed
holding the flowers tight
in my boney hand.

“I write to let the words escape.” – the poet

Ben’s Real Problem

By Gip Plaster

The problem with Ben’s beard is that the hairs at the bottom grow up toward the rest, forming an uneven ridge across his neck when they get long. He can’t shave a decent neckline because the ridge peaks too high on the left side.

He’d have to shave too much.

Sometimes he trims his beard short to conceal, but he prefers it long.

The problem with Ben’s life is that he’s alone.

One evening, he met a stunning guy. “Let’s get some coffee,” the guy insisted.

“No thanks. I’m really tired,” Ben said, grabbing the left side of his face.

Gip Plaster is a web content writer for money and experiments with microfiction for fun. He’s always a writer, even when he isn’t writing.

The Letter

By Denys Novikov

Some words shape your life. Some completely ruin its perfection. But silence is the worst.

Regrets are calling me on the phone. A classic heartbreak situation.

Words fill everything related to humans: pages, lines and hearts. Feelings carefully sorted into chapters and record albums keep me away from loneliness tonight. Dylan’s “Blood on the Tracks” reminds me of what I’m powered by.

By the warmth of her loving heart. I can’t buy the ticket for that route, but luckily, the mail gets there.

So I blow the dust off my typewriter.

“I write to let the feelings go.” – the writer

A Fresh Angle


(Originally published December 9, 2015)

By Nick Dunster

The elderly tenant called me up to make a formal complaint, insisting that I visit him in person that cold, December morning.

“It’s that immoral young woman over there,” he explained, gesturing toward a window in an adjacent block. “Every day she wanders around in her apartment with no clothes on.  It’s really not acceptable.”

I peered across. “Well,” I said, “I can’t see anything.”

“Ah no,” the tenant explained. “You can’t see anything from there. You’ll have to stand on this table and then lean your shoulder against this wall. Then you’ll have the right angle.”

Ice and Paracetamol

By Dr. Vaishnavi Pusapati

Most come with their workbooks filled in ahead, courtesy of after-school tuitions and parents trying to get them ahead of class. They need me less and less than I had imagined. I learned to read their horrible scribblings like they were scriptures.

Shelly asked to visit the nurse. She had high fever. I gave her a hall pass knowing that since my school days, the nurse only gives ice and paracetamol. I am not really a teacher, am I? I am like ice and paracetamol, more like an aide to students whose parents seem to have it all figured out.

“I write because I cannot stop … It has become second nature like breathing … I write because of a million reasons.” – the writer

Sold Sign

By Scott Hallarn

They accept the offer. The real estate agent congratulates the couple and says they can sign the papers tomorrow morning. Thirty-four years in the house with the leaded windows and wraparound veranda, the house they thought they’d never sell. They raised their kids and babysat their grandson here. Backyard barbecues, holiday gatherings, neighborhood socials—they were always held here. After the agent leaves, the couple go to separate rooms to quietly reflect on the sale. He sits stone-faced in the kitchen, dreading an uncertain future. She sits cheerfully in the den, eagerly awaiting a new life with her long-time lover.

“Writing keeps me grounded.” – the writer


By David Henson

She goes down
for the last time.
The children rush
into the surf,
drag her to shore,
take turns
at her mouth.
When her husband notices,
he rushes over
she’ll have no breath
left for him.

“I write for the enjoyment and to be creative.” – the poet

White Rabbit, White Rabbit, White Rabbit

By T.L. Tomljanovic

My little brother Jack is muttering “white rabbit” under his breath per my advice, but he keeps choking on the smoke. I regret bringing him. Weekends mean friends, fires, and getting baked in the woods.

I’m making out with my boyfriend to a cacophony of laughter and a Spotify playlist when I realize Jack is gone. My boyfriend gets another beer, and I slip off into the bush.

I hear a wet smacking sound and follow it. Jack’s muttering, but we can’t wish this away. The hare is black wet with blood and still twitching. I pick up a rock.

“Ripping my chest open and bleeding my heart out on the page is perversely therapeutic.” – the writer