A Bad Spell by Paula Johnson

When Emily saw the posters for the spelling bee, she resolved to work hard and win first prize. A shiny trophy might get her invited to sleepovers and birthday parties! She kept her crazy dream to herself and spent weeks preparing for the big day.

When she entered the auditorium, her stomach knotted sharply, killing all her nervous butterflies. What have I done? she thought as her eyes welled with tears. She ran to the playground and opened her pencil case.

“I’m so very sorry, Ignatius,” Emily whispered. “I misunderstood.”

“No apology necessary,” buzzed the portly bumblebee. “Let us absquatulate! A-B-S-Q-U-A-T-U-L-A-T-E”

© Copyright 2018 Paula Johnson. All rights reserved.

Paula Johnson is the founder and editrix of The Rose City Sisters website.

Untitled by Jonathan Blum

After Phil and Sally had kissed under lampposts in a bunch of different weather, Phil got this tremendous hope. He invited over Sally and some neighborhood two-year-olds for a puppet show. “Remember, puppets may speak only in falsehoods,” Phil instructed the children, winking at Sally. “Wait! Spotto doesn’t know the alphabet!” cried a child with a finger giraffe. “My luck, too,” Sally said, putting on Mr. Blue Ears.

© Copyright 2018 Jonathan Blum. All rights reserved.
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Jonathan Blum is the author of the forthcoming collection of stories, The Usual Uncertainties (Rescue Press). He teaches fiction writing workshops in Pasadena.

Life and Death by Fariel Shafee

He stepped back from the door of death half alive, his fingers trembling, his gaze affixed to a horizon tucked in elsewhere inside his mind. He ate, spat out, sipped water fearully, and lay quietly on the bed until the summer breeze muted into thicker icy covers that wrapped around clarity.  The trees outside looked bare, and under the snow, creatures voluntarily slipped into seasonal forgetfulness. Inside the forest of his nerves, sparks looked out for forgotten islands, reached out to complete scattered phrases.  That room looked familiar.  The newborn giggled, and beckoned him to the land of provocative belonging.

© Copyright 2017 Fariel Shafee. All rights reserved.
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Fariel Shafee has degrees in science, but enjoys writing and art.  She has published prose and poetry in decomP, Ygdrasil, The Foundling Review, etc.

The Pallet Thief by Pat Becker

He was of questionable character. That was a widely acknowledged fact. Yet, many would never have suspected that he would pilfer pallets in the darkest hours of the night, from the backs of drugstores, grocery stores, liquor stores being by far his favorite. It was a crime and he was a criminal. But in the dark, he felt free. He was invisible and that gave him a power he never before considered. Continue reading The Pallet Thief by Pat Becker

A Jewish Child’s Christmas in Brooklyn by Steve Slavin

First snowflake,
Chaim come quick,
Let’s trim the Hanukkah bush!

Is Hanukkah the Jewish Christmas? Not even close! Ask any Jewish kid living in a Christian neighborhood. Or any Christian kid living in a Jewish neighborhood. Or any rabbi, priest, or minister, for that matter.

Growing up Jewish and poor in my Brooklyn neighborhood meant you had two strikes against you every Christmas. Even if your parents could afford to buy you presents, they weren’t supposed to. Continue reading A Jewish Child’s Christmas in Brooklyn by Steve Slavin

Bounce House Hunting

Between birthdays for five kids and national holidays, Derek’s neighbors erected a bounce house every other weekend. He’d slept next to an airfield during Desert Storm, but now a generator could wake him?

Derek dressed for a workout and carried his bag to his car. He drove three blocks uphill and parked in front of a vacant home. After setting up his Longbow T-76 in the backyard, he waited until his neighbors went inside for cake. Then Derek put one bullet in the vinyl castle and another in the generator.

He headed to the gym and never enjoyed Zumba more.

Candle Power by Paula Johnson

Lauren was now 13—finally a TEENAGER.  She was even having a NIGHTTIME birthday party.  With BOYS.  After primping all day, she completed her look with Maybelline Baby Lips lip gloss in Tickled Pink. She was STUNNING. (Prettier than Amanda, but not as awesome as Megan.) Her outfit was PERFECTION: Fuchsia hoodie, skinny jeans, and ballet flats.

The evening would be EPIC. First, a game of  “Never Have I Ever.” Then pizza and cupcakes. Then PRESENTS. Then everyone would leave with a glow-in-the-dark necklace.

Lauren was ready to PARTY!

As so she would when the clock struck 7pm. In three hours.

© Copyright 2017 Paula Johnson. All rights reserved.

Paula Johnson is the founder and editrix of The Rose City Sisters website. She is wishes you would submit your micro fiction or flash fiction.

Pencils Down by Paula Johnson

trainQuestion #1: Train A leaves the station heading east at 70 mph. Train B leaves a station 225 miles away, heading west at 60 mph. How far from each station do they meet?

Jesse James robbed trains in the Wild West. What if Amtrak got robbed? I’d sneak up on the bad guys and throw ‘em out the windows! Passengers would cheer! The conductor would give me his hat! The engineer would blast the horn in my honor! That’s funny. The train horn sounds like a school bell—

“Pencils down!” said the teacher. “Pass your tests forward! See you Monday.”

© Copyright 2016 Paula Johnson. All rights reserved.
• • • • •
Paula Johnson is the founder and editrix of The Rose City Sisters website. She is wishes you would submit your micro fiction or flash fiction.

Manic Pixie Dream Boy by Paula Johnson

Oliver appeared when Audrey needed a jump-start. She looked out her window and saw him performing tai chi. But she was on the twenty-third floor, and the building next door was mostly steel beams.

Catching her eye, he pointed to his watch, mimed eating, then dropped to his knees, begging. They met in her lobby. Was this a lunch date? A kidnapping? Both?

Audrey was soon able to decode Oliver’s sporadic text invitations (Sneakers. Passport. Tabasco!) but never understood the man. “If that boy were a toy, he’d be an Etch-a-Sketchy,” Audrey told her friends before checking her cell phone—again.

© Copyright 2016 Paula Johnson. All rights reserved.
• • • • •
Paula Johnson is the founder and editrix of The Rose City Sisters website. She is spending July “at” Camp NaNoWriMo writing a collection of 100-word stories.

The Other Side of the Coin by Justin Ballard

“This doctor is never on time” I muttered while fiddling with my coin.

Though I am grateful despite having to sit here for 66 minutes. He’s one of the good ones. He helped me for 39 glorious minutes that proved more valuable than the 12 years before. I was on 8 more medications than 4 years prior. Facing 3 more to balance the side effects of the others. (HA!) It shouldn’t be a joke. Just seems laughable how I didn’t notice extra bottles in my cabinet till now.

I gave my coin to a woman on the way out.

© Copyright 2016 Justin Ballard. All rights reserved.
• • • • •
Justin Ballard is a Renaissance man. This is his second micro fiction story.

Passing Castle Green by Jackie Pugh Kogan

I was nearly to Castle Green when the wind found its way beneath my collar. Off guard because there is never much winter here even in winter, I’d left the apartment without a scarf. No, not off guard. Daydreaming. Be honest. I flipped up the hood on my thin coat.

When I’d first spotted her that hot, bright day last summer, the light intense, rendering shadows sharp, I’d been heading for the bus, as I am now, on my way to the library to shelve books for another eight hours, to waste another day. I could have been painting in good light. No! Honesty, remember? I haven’t had the oils out in more than three years. And today is winter, it’s overcast—light is needed to paint. Head cleared now? Continue reading Passing Castle Green by Jackie Pugh Kogan

Détente by Miko Johnston

We cling together while the earth shakes, trees topple, our hearts pound.

We’re unhurt, but forward path’s obliterated, return trail’s impassable, and we’ve no supplies.

Bushes rustle; a young backpacking couple emerge, sharing a canteen.

“Got any extra?” I ask.

The couple exchange glances. Guy shakes his head. “Shouldn’t be out here without water, grandpa,” then asks lady, “Where to now?” Continue reading Détente by Miko Johnston

Chester Wintersnap Knew the Odds & He Was No Gambler by Geanora D. Bonner

But he loved his Mrs. so didn’t counter delusion with sensible logic.

At a bodega on the border of despair, he chose the wiser “pay over time” option. Leaving, he chuckled. A grubby hand stretched his way. A
woman? Feeling magnanimous, he said, “Share the dream,” and let the hand select one of the fluttering tickets. He ignored the inquiry of
how he could be reached when “they” won.

Mrs. was envious of the polished woman who held the large pasteboard check days later. Chester could not see her hands and so never knew how the odds had worked.

© Copyright 2016 Geanora D. Bonner. All rights reserved.
• • • • •
Not exactly straight but out of Compton and almost to Portland (OR), Geanora D. Bonner has always written. For more than 40 years she approached writing like a timid woman in a demure one-piece preparing to swim at a public beach in July. Now she is trying to be more like the 300-pound man in a Speedo plunging into the pond on New Year’s Day.

The Move by William Wren

You are in a box. You’ve only a handful of inches to any side—left and right, before and behind.

The world trembles and rumbles. Every so often, it tilts inexplicably.

Faces appear in front of you. Squinting. They are four to five times the size of your own. They coo and murmur. They insert large appendages through slats in the box. Pink appendages. Brown appendages. Appendages knuckled and supple like tree branches, each trying to poke and scratch you.

Voices ask if you’re okay and you want to say, “I’m in a box! How okay can I be?” Instead, you ignore them and hope they go away. Continue reading The Move by William Wren