There was no use pretending anymore. That slinky pair of black pants she’d paid too much for last winter just did not fit anymore. Lorna sighed, giving up on the struggle to drag the pants past her thighs. She stared glumly down at herself. There was rather more self than there used to be, really.
“Right, that’s enough! The diet starts today,” she said to her reflection in the mirror. A movement caught her eye. “What the hell?” Lorna said, staring at the mirror. Her reflection was eating a bar of chocolate! That mirror had always made her look fat.
S.A. McKenzie writes offbeat stories featuring time-traveling rabbits, carnivorous unicorns and man-eating subway trains, because someone has to speak up for these misunderstood creatures.
I keep running along a trail, down a narrow path, up a steep hill, around a high school track, jogging and sprinting, I need to run fast, counting my hours, minutes, and seconds on a stopwatch.
Don’t want to creep along, crawling like an infant in a loose-fitting diaper, who doesn’t know the difference from a 10K and a 100-meter.
I run to elude old age, keep my body slim and toned, to be a super-flash extraordinaire that nobody’s going to catch Like a lightning bolt from the sky, I move through a slow-paced world, across the final finish line.
“I write to document the stories in my head.” – the writer
I wondered what they were thinking, all those grinning people standing around him taking their selfies. I wondered what he was thinking but I don’t think they cared or even noticed that he looked strained as if he had a problem, looked uncomfortable as if perched on the edge of a toilet straining with effort. Perhaps that was his problem, ideas don’t come when you strain, they float into your head dreamlike glowing gold as you stretch out your arms into infinity dreamlike, glowing gold, with no one around to take selfies.
Sir Francis Bacon (1561-1626), Lord Chancellor to James I, was a pioneer of experimental science. Yet his report of one of his most famous experiments, showing that boiling water freezes faster than cold water, was scoffed at by fellow scientists for three hundred-odd years. Bacon’s experiment was unwittingly repeated by Erasto Mpemba, a Tanzanian high school student in 1963. Publication of the ‘Mpemba Effect’ led to further controlled experiments replicating Bacon’s finding.
Sadly, I can’t wait three-hundred years for Margaret to recognise the scientific fact that twigs and small branches won’t decompose any time soon in the garden composter.
Michael Bloor only discovered the exhilarations of short fiction after he retired.
I open windows to a New Year. Paint last year’s walls lavender. Rearrange books according to hopefulness, instead of most depressing. But credit card bills leap from screens. Student loans demand payment. They don’t recognize spaces I’ve finally tackled. People I’ve apologized to. Tempers I’ve combatted.
I close the computer. Pledge to pay X loan. Y card. Preempt numbers. But when I reopen the computer, they remind me I’m delinquent. A statistic who once withdrew into Merlot-induced euphoria. Discarded responsibility.
I clean, blast Tchaikovsky waltzes, polish my desk, open windows wider. But numbers dart out. I can’t paint over them.
“I write to explore human behavior, to ask questions, and to poke fun at the world.” – the writer
After touring Antietam’s hallowed battleground, where many thousands of Civil War soldiers were slain or wounded one fateful day, my twins sons and I came upon Private Soldier Monument, a towering marble statue of a federal army soldier affectionately dubbed “Old Simon.”
As we read Old Simon’s engraving: “Not for themselves but for their country September 17, 1862,” a tiny finch emerged out of nowhere and alighted upon the soldier’s cap. Before I could take a picture, the bird began to sing, its lyrical voice weaving together strands of sadness, gratitude and hope: a ballad from heaven, leaving me breathless.
“I write to unlock a bit of the hope and inspiration that resides within us during these difficult times.” – the writer