The Agony of Defeat

Arms crossed with eagle eyes glued to the screen, Victor
prepares for a final round of Marvel vs. CapCom.
Kick, spin, punch, dodge! Jump, tumble, duck, evade!
He sees an opening and unleashes a
deadly combination but alas, his foe’s
preemptive strike spells his doom!
Again, Chun Li Taseihas
shows him the
meaning of
humiliation!

Lake Erie

We stood on the beach, coarse sand and smooth stones.
Couples shifted position, keeping our distance from each other.
While we waited, we chose water worn stones.
These we slipped into our jacket pockets.
We warmed them with our hands.
Impatient, we waited for sunset.
Foolish, wishing time away!
So we were.
Green flash.
Stone.

- Miriam N. Kotzin


This piece originally appeared in Per Contra.

Surgical Day

She smiles a Cheshire Cat Grin and gives me a Valium.
Radiation-needle markers disguise themselves as tortured croquet wickets.
I fret while talking to the White Rabbit.
I’m rolling down toward the Mad Hatter.
My laughter paints the tension red.
The anesthesiologist visits, breathing drugs.
“Off with your breasts.”
“It’s the Queen.”
“Tea time.”
“Alice?”

- Mary Ellen Letarte


This piece originally appeared in 55 Fiction.

The Arrival of Morning

“I’m not gonna miss this meteor shower,” says Fiona as
she lies down on the blanket with her digital
camera, some Mr. Chips and her iPod. Eyes
closed, she thinks about the praises she’ll
get when she shows the pictures
to her class. Suddenly she
hears, “Wake up, Sweetie!”
It’s Mom. “Breakfast
is getting
cold.”


This piece originally appeared in Paperbag Writes.

The Episode Before Relaxation

Shandry stored the black lid canister in his breast pocket.
No one else was looking as he did it.
Noise from the marketplace grew to surround him.
The nervous tension finally left the air.
Luckily he knew the place well.
His actions were not suspicious.
Everyone kept to themselves.
He returned home.
Sitting down.
Puff!

- PinchMe


This piece originally appeared in Paperbag Writes. I met PinchMe through Mylot.com and this person gamely shared his fifty five word short story.

White

Someone has called my name and her voice is tempting.
I step out slowly amidst the house’s horrifying darkness.
I hold my shivering hands, memorizing my steps.
Breath is heard like a stupid hell.
In the distance, white is glimpsed.
I touch it, it’s wet.
The horror-struck shout’s heard.
Mom’s facial cream!
I’ve mistaken —
Ghost.

- Luida Cabatana

Wishful Thinking

She walked out on me one fine day in September.
Her letter waited for me on the dining table.
“I’m leaving. I’m so sorry. Love lots, Grace.”
Even now I still dream of her.
Her kiss. Her smile. Her face.
I still wait for her.
Or a phone call:
Ring. Ring. “Hello?”
”I’m back.”
Damn.

- Mark Lorenzana

Posted with permission from Mark Lorenzana, fledgling copywriter by day, aspiring essayist/struggling fictionist by night.

Ice Cream

Casting guilty glances sideways, I steal furtive and lustful looks.
Behind the counter, nestled in gossamer mist sits seduction.
Ice cream colors in luscious parade torture me.
I must have some or suffer torment.
Lips moisten as my knuckles pale.
In the end, I surrender.
A craving too overwhelming.
The avalanche begins.
Blissful indulgence.
Heaven.

- Bisoy

This Bisoy piece originally appeared in Creative Writing Exercises as, well, a creative writing exercise. Duh. Bisoy originated a regular creative writing exercise in his company, participated by copy writers in the office.

The Defense Of The Weak

Pirates, munitions running out, sailed in retreat against stout hearts.
The battle raged, whilst no victor can be adjudged.
Heaved mightily, to the last drop of blood.
Weaklings, yet determined to defend their land.
The townsfolk, manned the fortress guns.
Fought against panic and fear.
The fortress slowly crumbles.
Hearts foul intent.
Pirate cannons!
Boom!

- Jovir Amatong

This Jovir Amatong piece originally appeared in Message In A Bottle as a creative writing exercise. Jovir Amatong lives in Compostela, Cebu.

Vengeance

I finally found the vile creature that took my son.
Her coffin, I lay open under the pale moonlight.
Her serene countenance belies the pitiless temptress within.
Her youthful visage hides centuries of murder.
North winds breathe a cold gale.
But I tremble in rage.
This wooden dagger unleashed.
My grip tightens.
No hesitation.
Death.


This short story originally appeared in Paperbag Writes.