By John Adams
“I’m not here to tell jokes.” He scoops up the microphone with the same confidence he practices rescuing sea otters from oil spills. “I’m here to tell truths.”
“Your ‘truths’ aren’t funny either!” a woman heckles over her Jack Daniels.
A bead of moisture forms on his forehead. “Humor distracts us from a world in crisis.”
“I wish it’d distract us from your set!” calls another rando.
The comic starts full-on sweating. “Fight the establishment!”
“Fight your booking agent!”
Defeated, he spends the rest of his five minutes talking about the wacky things people do with their butts.
John Adams is a founding member of That’s No Movie, an improv comedy team that plays at festivals across the United States. He lives in the Kansas City area, where he produces comedy shows and frets about writing.
By Frances Tate
Why does the attractiveness of the weather inversely correlate to my plans for the day?
Pondering this as I drive to work in glorious sunshine, I discover another mystery.
Why am I paying more attention to the vehicle in front of me than its driver is? She’s perfecting the stereotype and the even distribution of her foundation.
The red traffic light takes on a different meaning as a mascara wand appears. Waves. She rolls forward, crosses the lane marker. Again.
I’m tempted to follow her to work. Attach a bright red ‘L’ plate to her vehicle. Warning: Lipstick under application.
Tell us why you write: “There’s an option?!” – the writer
By John Adams
“Impostor Syndrome.” Tommy’s voice cracks on that last syllable. “Thinking you don’t deserve good things you’ve earned.” He doesn’t look at me, hasn’t looked at me since our friends left. “I… have it too, Natalie, sometimes.” He fumbles with the zipper on his letterman’s jacket.
I want to hold his hand.
I want him to hold my hand.
But he doesn’t.
“I tripped,” I say. “During cheerleader tryouts. I still got on the squad, and—”
He looks at me.
He takes my hand.
And within my synthetic human-suit, underneath my oozing true skin, my seven scaled hearts flutter.
John Adams lives in the Kansas City area, where he produces comedy shows and writes to amuse himself.
By John L. Malone
You get thinner every day.
I see you wasting away
Yet you give yourself so willingly
You have been of much use to me.
Yet this can’t go on, my friend,
Soon you will be wafer thin
Our relationship must sadly end
And so adieu but please don’t mope
When I get another bar of soap.
John Malone is a South Australian writer of flash fiction, short stories and poetry. He delights in Literature wherever it is found.
By Allen Billy
Contact! Target sighted, in range. Clear on all sides, approach vector optimal. No friendlies or enemies visible.
Faint sounds of the ongoing conflict in the offshore fishery drift in.
Move in to complete mission. Weapon good, safety off, approach considered safe, all sides still clear.
Launch! Close on target, move fast. I have a clear shot – can fire.
Have fired! Evade, dip and duck, use cover.
A quick backward look confirms the target suffered a direct hit.
That’s one windshield that won’t glare for a while.
Time to fly to the fishery to refuel and recharge the primary weapon.
Allen is a new flash fiction writer and writes to have fun with life’s experiences.
By Sandy Wilson
The fairground crone gave her three wishes. Eleanor laughed and wished for a holiday. The next morning she won a holiday for two in Magalluf. When she told her dad she was taking Darren, he said, “No you’re not!”
“I wish you were dead!” she said truculently. After her father’s funeral she lay on her bed floating in a sea of misery. Then she remembered; she had one wish left!
She raced back to her dad’s grave. “I wish you were alive!” she shouted. Nothing seemed to happen. Of course, she couldn’t hear her father screaming six feet beneath her.
“I enjoy examining and dissecting emotions whether writing memoirs, fiction or poetry.” – the writer
By Pat Brunson
By Mrs. Jerry Wilson
Jerry Wilson said it a thousand times, “Cats are so damn stupid.” White Socks had nicked herself on a tuna can three times in the last eight years. All minor lacerations.
His wife said, “Then don’t give her a sharp can!” She rushed Jerry to the emergency room. The cat oblivious to all the drama.
“Yes Mr. Wilson, your fingers will need stiches,” the ER physician said. “Aren’t you the same guy I stitched up his fingers six months ago?” Jerry nodded.
“It’s essential only your wife operate the can opener.”
“I write to make people smile, whether in a journal article, short story, or cartoon.” – the writer