So, go ahead and sweat a little. And submit the results to us.

Mia Carreon is currently working on her BFA in Creative Writing while still dabbling in directing plays and teaching theater to children and teens in El Paso, TX. She also has a love for movies and television that has helped fuel her creativity since she was a kid. 

A: Adrien is the bus boy at the local cafe. In high school we had three classes together. He’d always sleep. On graduation day he skipped out and didn’t walk. Turns out his grade average was a C-. People say that’s why he’s still a bus boy.

B: Bethany is my next door neighbor. Her arthritis acts up when it gets cold and she pays me $5 every time I help her with groceries. She has old ribbon candy in her front room and I tried it out of curiosity. It was disgusting.

C: Claudia sits next to me on a long bus ride to California. We discuss our families and friends. I tell her about visiting my cousin, Katia. She says she’s visiting her brother and his kids. They live on only $80 a week.

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We think it fits us perfectly.

We think small as in Small Literature

It’s been called micro fiction, flash fiction, tiny fiction and cigarette fiction.  Early on, these stories were called short shorts or even ultra shorts.  You may have your own name for it: bite-sized fiction or fun-sized fiction.

Call it what you will, it is a short story made even more so.  Flash fiction is to stories what haiku is to poetry: a world in a drop of water.

Get rid of any fluff.  Be ruthless in your editing.  Distill it down to its essence and then distill it again.  Get to the point.  Get to the point, now.

Fair enough.  Some people start with an ending or goal.  Others start with a great line or image and work from there.

However you do it, whatever your style, we are interested in seeing your work.  If you have a story to tell, consider sending it to us.  We will publish the best on our website.

We are also looking for short poetry and will even consider short plays for publication.

Scott Hogan holds a BA in Philosophy from UC Berkeley and an MA in English from SUNY StonyBrook.  He currently teaches math at a big public high school.

My name is Bill.  I live with my roommate Chris in a senior housing apartment.  We have a 2 bedroom, 2 bath apartment.  I live in one room and have my own bath and Chris lives in the other room with his own bathroom.  Both are upstairs.

I was on a list for senior housing for over a year.  Of the 100 units available around the city, nearly 500 seniors are on a waiting list.  You get on a waiting list and only get an apartment when someone dies or someone moves out and lives with their relatives or family.  Senior housing takes 1/3^rd of your income, whether you are on social security or something else.  My rent of $600 a month includes utilities and cable.

There’s a problem with Chris.  He’s a slob.  When I first moved in, I knew right away something was wrong.  I don’t go to bed without doing my dishes but Chris leaves his dirty dishes in the sink for days on end.  He sleeps on the couch downstairs.  He doesn’t sleep in his bedroom upstairs.  After a few months, I noticed the smell of his pillow on the coach.  It got so bad I put it outside and he kept asking me “Where is my pillow?” I told him I put it outside to air out the smell.

The blue towel.  Well, one day, soon after I moved in, I found a blue towel hanging in my bathroom.  It went well with the plastic blue dolphins on the shower curtain.  The blue towel was his.  I told Chris I didn’t want the blue towel in my bathroom and moved it out and put it in the linen closet.  The next day the blue towel was back in my bathroom.  Chris told me he liked the look of his blue towel in my bathroom.

A few days later I put the blue towel in the linen closet and locked it in there.  I locked my bedroom and the bathroom too.  I came home from work and found the blue towel back in the bathroom.  He had unlocked the closet and my bathroom.

I had had enough.  I took the blue towel and locked it in the trunk of my car.  Chris kept asking me “Where is my blue towel?” and I told him “Don’t worry, it’s in good hands.”

This is the same guy who asked me if they speak Italian in Italy when we watched a travel show.

We’ve always had a soft spot for Cowboy poetry.   In addition to Underwood, the Press is working up a second publication that focuses specifically on Cowboy and Western themed literature and poetry.  If you’ve got it, we would love to see it.

Yahoo!

In the meantime, we’ll provide you with a sample by Adam Arneson.

A constant bout in my mind.
Do I watch or should I ride?
Anytime that I say no,
There’s something missing in my soul.
Every time that I say yes,
I put myself through this stress.

It’s me and God all the way,
But positive thoughts sometimes stray.
It’s not about what’s in the end,
I just want to nod my head.

One boot to the left – one to the right,
No more mind games – not tonight.
Here we are – no place to hide,
Others can watch – I will ride.

by Randall Surles

Randall Surles serves in the US Army.  He has deployed multiple times to Afghanistan and has more than 20 years experience living and working in South America.  He currently lives in Italy with his wife and two dogs, where he plans to finish his MFA in Creative Writing. 

He seemed to be a large red cat,
with pointed ears and a long thin nose,
casually watching our approach.

We appeared to have interrupted his meal,
his evening tea, as he was British,
and he was loathe to leave

He glanced our way one final time,
no doubt trying to ascertain our purpose on his street,
then grabbed his meal and disappeared.

And reflecting on the Little Prince,
I wonder if that fox was tamed,
And if so, who truly was his friend.

Mighty Mouse – that miniature flying mouse of might and morals; that invulnerable, invincible, incorruptible caped crusader – I loved him! At age five or six, when I heard his theme song, “Here I come to save the day!” I was completely his, transported into Mighty Mouse’s next adventure.

One night, I was awakened to my parents, chasing a mouse. Not violent people during the day, my parents became big game hunters of the worse kind after dark. Mom grabbed the broom and Dad grabbed a trash can and the dust mop.

In pink flannel gown and tan flannel pajamas, the hunt began. Nibbling on cheese taken from a trap was the target. Before Dad was ready, that woman of rodent fighting renown swatted that mouse and – missed. It had to have been Mighty Mouse because he FLEW – FLEW, I tell you across the kitchen and took off running across the floor through the partially opened door of my bedroom.

Mom was so startled that she stopped for a second. Dad seemed to traverse through solid matter as he entered my room on the tail of that terrible, tiny, tenacious creature. He made a fierce swat with the dust mop, confident he had been the victor in that chase and kill episode. Instantly Mom wanted to see the trophy. Proudly, Dad lifted the mop – no mouse.  Looking everywhere for that mouse, which had hidden in the dust mop, Dad put the mop on my bed. Then that beady-eyed bit of repulsive rodent sauntered right up the middle of my bed! Mom began to beat the bed. I started screaming. Dad started beating the bed. The mouse turned and FLEW, I tell you he FLEW, across my bedroom.

Mom and Dad managed to simultaneously squeeze through the doorway. Dad took the lead. Dad and Mighty Mouse reached the living room at the same time. Dad slammed the trash can (which he had carried during the entire chase) over the mouse. With mouse in can, they went outside and discussed the method of disposal. Why Dad did what he did next, I will never know. He turned the mouse onto the ground and stomped it. Well, he stomped at it. It ran up Dad’s pajama leg. This quiet spoken, six foot two inch, two hundred twenty-five pound, reader of comics jumped, kicked, hopped on one leg, and cussed until Mighty Mouse, carrying Dad’s right house slipper, FLEW – I tell you FLEW through the air to the top of the house – right into the television antenna pole. Dad sat down in the front yard, gasping for air. Mom was speechless. There was complete silence.

Pointing at me, Dad puffed, “Looks like you’re going to have to get my shoe.” Dad lifted me up. Mighty Mouse lay still. I reached to pick up the shoe. He leaped up. I fell backward, bounced off Dad, landed on the sidewalk, and broke my arm.

I hate Mighty Mouse.