I Have…

woman-under-treeBy Natalie Cone

The grass was soft beneath her knees. Shafts of sunlight blinked kaleidoscope patterns onto her skirt and glinted off the knife nestled in her lap. Today, her last thread snapped.

Looking away, she prayed desperately for God’s forgiveness as she pressed the blade to her wrists.

Her eyes fell on a carving in the trunk of a tree. It was a single word.

Purpose.

In that moment, something inside her shifted.

She pulled herself to her feet. Using the blade that was intended to end her life, she carved two more words above the one already there.

I have.

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© 2013 by Natalie Cone • All rights reserved

For Whom the Good Tolls

Glass of wine

By Bill Fullerton
(with apologies to ‘Papa’ Hemingway)

In a clean, well-lighted place out of the rain, the man and woman drank wine. The wine was good.

They ate the testicles of a young bull that had bravely faced death in the afternoon. Both were good.

Back in their room, he went to her breasts. Her breasts were there, and good.

“You were good,” she said.

“De nada,” he said, and left. It had been good.

They met no more.

Each died alone—in the rain.

It was a good rain, except on the mountain where snow fell on a frozen leopard. It was also good, and dead.

* * *
© 2012 by Bill Fullerton • All rights reserved

The Woman With Nine Lives

By M.P. Witwer

The first time she might have died came at age 17, when a saddle horse reared and threw her, breaking her back.

Over the years, she survived many more life-threatening events, each worse than the last: Guillain-Barré syndrome and its accompanying complete if temporary paralysis, pneumonia, spinal stenosis requiring two surgeries, an aneurysm (two more operations, and yes, they were brain surgery), a stroke, a heart attack, another bout of pneumonia. Resilient and resolute, she snubbed death eight times.

That last morning, she awoke with a little sniffle. By evening she was gone, done in by a common cold.

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© 2013 by M.P. Witwer • All rights reserved

Breathless

Strawberries-and-Cream-Bowl

By Maggie Rascal

Okay, so we’re supposed to write this ninety-nine word story and — well, it doesn’t hafta be exactly ninety-nine words, it can be less — but anyway, I don’t know what to write about and it’s due tomorrow, so I’m thinking maybe I could tell about the time Grandma took me to tea at a fancy hotel and they served strawberries and cream mixed with maple syrup, but I don’t know if I can describe it in ninety-nine words, it was so opulent — I like that word, don’t you? — or I might talk about Sparky, he’s such a cute puppy, and…

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© 2013 by M.P. Witwer • All rights reserved

The Assignment

By M.P. Witwer

“He would never forget those hands.” Frowning, Karen crossed out the sentence — too ambiguous.

She shifted nervously in the waiting room chair, trying to concentrate on her creative writing assignment to “craft a complete, unequivocal story using six words.”

“Screw you and your impossible assignment.” Probably wouldn’t fly.

Eventually, just one line remained:

“Relief came, then tears: ‘It’s benign.’”

Perfect. With a wan smile, she nodded in faint satisfaction.

Upon hearing her name called, however, Karen’s anxiety returned. She stowed her notebook, rose unsteadily and followed the nurse — clutching a fervent hope that life was about to imitate art.

* * *
© 2013 by M.P. Witwer • All rights reserved