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Stories Creative Writing Project.

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showcase some of the very best
new short fiction being written
We are always on the hunt for new voices,
new visions and new ideas, new ways of
telling the story of what life on Earth is all

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New short stories are added regularly from
some of the best new authors writing in the
English language today, selected by us, for

The deadline for submissions to the next issue
is on Friday November 6th 2015...
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Paul Beckman
One Million Stories
One Million Stories
One Million Stories
One Million Stories
One Million Stories
 She was trespassing in another
girl’s bedroom and wearing her
This girl was her father’s
daughter and Arthur’s intended. If only
she could return to yesterday when
these pink walls and her engagement
was enough. The underside of her wrist
was irritated from the clip she had
stolen from Vera’s garter belt, and
latched onto her cuff. A big red spot had
developed, flaming scarlet. Dinner was
threatening to come up. She smelled it-
irony and something else, like the smell
of a dead animal. Was it from the clip?
She remembered the rat she had seen
on her way to the morgue, it’s red eyes
had stared at her without blinking.
Last night she was the other girl. It was
the first time she heard Rhapsody in
Blue. Miss Myra Rosen was in the
Roseland Ballroom on 51st and
Broadway in Manhattan dancing the
Peabody, a jaunty foxtrot everyone had
just learned.
As Shag DeBrillen was about to turn
the corner
in the suburban area where
he lived, he spotted a lone car a short
ways down the town road. He whistled
and told himself it was an Impala, an
oldie, an olden golden, a gem of an
antique. With the six ports in the rear
end looking like gun ports on a fighter
aircraft, he affirmed it was a ’63. The car
was parked at a siding and the driver,
leaning out the window, was talking to a
young girl of ten or so that Shag
assumed was on her way to school.
He wondered if he was looking at an
illusion of sorts, not thinking he was
really seeing what he was seeing; there
was too much nothing around the scene.
An old car, a young girl, not much else
to look at, or take your eye to the quick.
Sometimes what you see is not what
you see.
Her name is Letitia and she lives in
the City — New York.
She teaches
creative writing at Columbia and writes
stories for Cosmo, Redbook and the
like. She will make me the villain in one
of her stories. Remember. I am not the
Don't believe everything that you read.
I live in the suburbs — Connecticut—
and got her name through friends of
friends and called her one Sunday
evening. My story is gospel. She will
write that I answered her ad in the
Village Voice Personals. That will be a
lie also. I don't even read the personals.
Ask anyone who knows me. I'm not the
kind of guy who would or could do such
a thing. Besides, I don't know what all
those abbreviations stand for, and no
one ever tells the truth in those ads. You
don't know what kind of person you will
wind up with...

They had just finished the last of the
coke and it was only 12:30.
It was
Thanksgiving morning, and Sean and
Max were sunk. They had gone five
minutes without saying a word to one
another when Sean broke the silence.
He was always the first one to admit
what they were both thinking.

“I’m not going to be able to sleep
tonight. There’s no way.”

Max agreed. “I can’t be in your parents
basement feeling like this. I don’t know
where I want to be right now, but this is
definitely not it.”
One Million Stories
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Flash Fiction and Short Stories At The Sharp End by Miscellaneous
Explore Writing At The
Sharp End
A Collection of Flash Fiction by Many
Miscellaneous Authors
Regularly Updated For Your
Entertainment and Delight...
Morning Run
James Santore
Yusuf M. Iqbal
But it is Haram. Why did we ever
allow it?’
Al Makrahmi’s eyebrows were
wriggling furry caterpillars gathered
from the nettle patch at the end of the
community centre car park and adhered
with a holy fixative to his brow.
‘Pardon Sahib?’ I was in awe of the
vision and waiting for the creatures to
break free and find shelter behind the
esteemed one’s ears.
‘Forbidden by scripture.’ Any moment
now. The struggle was extraordinary
and fascinating.
‘I’m sorry Sahib?’ For any servant of the
Prophet to be able to command such
power over small things there must be
the utmost respect, but my tummy was
beginning to shake.
‘This inelegant so-called folk dance,’ Al
Makrahmi was working himself up into a
state again. I topped up his iced water.
It was going to be another long hot day
and we were not used to such weather
very often in this part of the Cotswolds.
Photo on the Shelf
Bryan Kayser
Growing old was one thing. But
staying old for a long time
unfortunate to Kate. Everyone in her
family always spoke of her Great-
Gamma with such reverence, how lucky
she was to be 95, what a blessing it was
for her to be retired for over a third of
her life, what a full life she’d led. There
was never a word about how the stroke,
like the paralysis of Great-Gamma’s
right side was unnoticeable and her
room at the Great Oaks Nursing Home
was luxurious and comfortable. Kate
never said anything, but she wanted to
disagree every time someone
commented on Great-Gamma’s luck, or
what she took to be a stubbornness to
give in, whether it was over breakfast or
leaving behind the sterile smell of life
and death as they walked out the doors
of the nursing home...
One Million Stories