Stories from
November, 2012

Puzzle pieces fell to the floor in a jumble. Maria looked down at the abstract image staring back at her and recognized her father.

Christopher Hivner writes, reads and uses sarcasm.

This story was a selection from the #twitterfiction festival

So, Toto. a) We’re not in Kansas anymore. b) I’m on trial for murder. In retrospect, we should have stuck with the storm cellar.

@Mari_ness lives and writes in central Florida, under the unhelpful guidance of two adorable cats.

This story was a selection from the #twitterfiction festival

Until one day, Tantalus reached his hand and took fruit from the tree.  No need to yearn.  It should not have made him feel so empty.

Sean Vivier wrote this.

This story was a selection from the #twitterfiction festival

We’ve been at this a while. Over 3.5 years in fact (a lifetime in internet years). So if people are going to be writing and talking about Twitter Fiction, you can bet your tweets that we’ll be publishing right alongside ’em. There’s a five day festival going on, and we’ll be publishing a brand new piece every day in a daily contest.

For the festival, our submissions process has changed. Unlimited submissions, every day. Send as many as you want, as long they are inspired (loosely) by these daily themes:

Wednesday:  the classics, revisited
Thursday: generations
Friday: legen—wait for it—dary
Saturday: the practical and mundane
Sunday: an alternate present

Send your pieces to Try to leave room for the story to end with “#twitterfiction” and don’t forget your third-person bio. All submissions will be considered for regular publication (naturally). Each winner will be published the following day.

Happy writing.

The wolf feinted twice. When nobody believed the boy’s third cry of alarm, he attacked in earnest.

Sean Vivier makes his money from writing and teaching whenever he can.

I forget what you look like, I forget everything. Then a picture of Scully reminds me. I don’t know why. Her nose, mouth. Your mouth, again.

Christina Moody lives on a deserted island, without the comfort of a volleyball named Wilson.

The faded blue backpack sat wearily in the corner. I glanced at it, wanting it to disappear once and for all.

Jessica Xu is an enthusiastic writer living in San Diego, CA.