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Cheryl Snell

 

 

Monster with Green Eyes

Follow your room-mate and her boyfriend, but not so close that either one notices. Think shadow. Think Pink Panther. Plop down in the middle seat of three in the theater. Pretend you don’t hear your room-mate say “Do you mind?” Back at the apartment tell her you want to switch bedrooms. “I need the room with the door.” Because migraines. Because anxiety. Remind her you’re fragile. She thinks flower but you mean bomb. Help her drag her mattress down the hall and heave it onto the living room floor. He’ll never stay over now. But then he does. So, whine about privacy. Call her in the middle of the night to pick you up when you’re too drunk to drive. Give her a dirty look when you see who’s with her. As a last resort, tell her, “We should share him.” Because loneliness. Because fairness. When she laughs and says, “You don’t even like him!” realize she’s got a point. Slam the door on it.

 

 

Cheryl Snell’s books include several poetry collections and the novels of her Bombay Trilogy. Her most recent writing has appeared in 100 Word Story, Does It Have Pockets? Switch, Gone Lawn, Your Impossible Voice, Pure Slush, and other journals.

Tom Ball

I, Shelly, said to Amos, “We live in a nightmare amusement park World, here on Moon Miranda!” He replied, “How did we ever come to this?” I said, “In my case, I was lured by the potential thrills of continuous action.” He said, “Me, too. And it’s a new World, so there were no ratings to go by.” I said, “There must be some way we can escape!” He said

Noel King

In the photo-booth Eva gets self conscious, blinking when the flash pops. “It’s not me,” she screams out loud as the photo pops out.

George Vincent

The boy was lost and he went to the beach on his own.
He walked along the beach and he was scared of everything: of himself, of the sand and the sun and sea. He walked with his head down.

Sophie Thompson

There are few sounds sadder than the plinky-plonk of Greensleeves from a passing ice cream van.  Mickey Mouse’s face plastered on its arse, rainwater rivulets streaking down his grimy cheeks.

Alison Wassell

Evelyn Battersby was a difficult woman to please, an easy one to disappoint. When her children brought their gifts on silver salvers she would sniff, wrinkle her nose, send them back to the kitchen.

Kayleigh Kitt

Henry leafed through the applications on his desk, sighed, picking up the first one.
Application no. 56/438/b
Activity/Description: Cheese rolling.  A large rinded cheese placed at the top of a hill. . .

Theo Stone

Into the Hills

. . . Every day he would wake up and rearrange his sense of self, renew his memories of the world before, and head back into routine in order to make the next paycheck. . .

Arthur Mandal

      Childhood’s Cave The worst times were Thursdays. They were the weekly meetings, when things were assigned, calculated, declared. A reprimand or an insult always brought her father home in the worst of moods. Her mother, on edge, the frozen mask of...