Nanoism

The lawn mower departed after the heroic flower’s execution. The humble flower who bowed at his feet opened her eyes. Alive. Alone.

Olivia Berrier is often clueless and always shoeless.

Everyone’s gone to bed. House is dark. Silence is suffocating. You hear a fart someone failed to conceal. Now you’re sure you’re not alone.

Ludimila Hashimoto’s translations into Portuguese include Alan Moore’s Voice of the Fire and Terry Pratchett’s Discworld novels.

He was sitting in the sinking, fiberglass dinosaur when they caught him. “Lake monsters don’t get any respect,” was all he’d say.

Alasdair Stuart grew up on the Isle of Man and is adept at making his own fun. He is the host of Pseudopod and the editor of Hub.

Kissed a frog and got a coupon. Send off 500 for a handsome prince. Not sure I can be bothered. 20 coupons for a cuddly toy.

John Ayliff is a writer in the computer games industry and lives in the UK.

She works cleaning rooms at the Oceanview motel. There’s no view of the ocean, but she smells brine in the air. She thinks that’s enough.

Jennifer Tatroe (@jhtatroe) lives in Seattle, where she’s working on a novel that’s decidedly longer than 140 characters.

This was the winning entry in Nanoism’s Nanofiction Contest.

The therapist saw his career ending. “Should I come in for a session later?” she asked, hooking her bra. His silence replied, “No.”

Jason is a psychotherapist, husband, father, actor, and writer. He loves philosophy, liberalism, and his iPhone. His nanofiction appears @thesmugrepartee; he’s @jasonact too.

This story placed second in our Nanoism Nanofiction Contest.

God opened his left eye and saw that it was good. Too good. He opened his right eye to create a universe less good, yet more exciting.

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

This story placed third in our Nanoism Nanofiction Contest.

She wore nothing but excuses. They covered her entire body, like a shroud.
“I love you anyway,” he said. “I forgive you. We can try again.”

Terra LeMay was born on top of a volcano. She’s fond of out-of-print books, bad poetry, and anagrams.

Someone stole the cage. “We’re better off without,” you say. The crow on your shoulder doesn’t speak. It knows what you are.

Michelle Fee lives in the mountains, sometimes, and writes what she finds there.

After the faeries cursed it with sentience, the radio grew tired of hearing the same tunes twice a day.

You can find Michelle Ristuccia’s writing blog at wakingdreamsblog.blogspot.com