Author Profile: Richard Edenfield

RichardEdenfield

How and when did you decide, or discover, that you were to be a writer?

A girl with red hair when I was in kindergarten. I wrote, “I love you,” on a bathroom pass and gave it to her. She understood the poetry of it. The principal did not understand my poetry. Since then, I have strived to be misunderstood by the right people. Continue reading

The Baby Rhinoceros Circus and the Tale of Time’s Rainbow

By Richard Edenfield

Editor’s Note: This piece was written in response to a series of stories published by FewerThan500 editors called Dust Bowl Chemistry, Invisible Nazis. The series was sparked by a 1933 yearbook page a writing prompt. Read the editors’ stories here.

Robert H Silber had started his own frog farm. Instead of cows or sheep one saw endless green vibrating as if a giant lawn were plugged into a high voltage socket. A breeze stroked a visceral horizon of writhing flesh. The deepest chirping as if crickets with laryngitis.

“A frog farm?”

“Yes. Frogs.”

“For the legs?”

“I guess.” Continue reading

Author Profile: Michael C Keith

keith photo 1

How and when did you decide, or discover, that you were to be a writer?

I think I knew that when I was a kid. I’m told by my mother that I wrote little stories when I was around 10. Mostly about furry animals and creatures from other worlds. Continue reading

After

By Michael C. Keith

He’s deeply disturbed but has concealed that fact well enough to keep from drawing unwanted attention. He wonders what it is that has him clenching his fists and feeling the rise of his heartbeat? Is it the sudden darkness in the room or the icy air that seeps through a break in the windowpane that makes him so jumpy? He smells something, too, which puts him off . . . churns his stomach. A scent that rose from the freshly severed arm of an Afghan villager he rushed to aid as an army medic. Then there’s the rose-colored water that trickles onto his shoes as he slumps at the basin’s edge. Clare, he thinks, you shouldn’t have done it. His lover’s hand twitches in a postmortem spasm and he screams for her out of habit.


Michael C. Keith teaches colleges and writes fiction. For more information visit: www.michaelckeith.com.

The Quiet House

By Lynne Handy

My neck is swole up from itching. Scratching doesn’t help. Maybe it’s the soap—too much lye.

I hear music. Someone’s singing out in the garden. Tomatoes will be ripe soon. What I wouldn’t give to have a bite of those yellow ones. Sweet, they are.

Would like to play my guitar, but couldn’t bring it with me. Wouldn’t Mary love to hear those old songs I used to sing to her? After she was gone, I’d sit out on the mountain and play them, hoping she could hear me in heaven. Then I went back to town. I heard people were looking for me. Continue reading

Author Profile: Michael Baldwin

MikeBaldwin2

How and when did you decide, or discover, that you were to be a writer?

I enjoyed writing stories in high school, as well as reading science and science-fiction voraciously. I didn’t know any writers personally growing up, so I was only inspired by the reading I did. I loved stories but hated poetry, which I studied in high school and found boring. However, during the Cuban Missile Crisis, I was inspired to write a poem and became a poet at that moment. I’ve continued to write poetry sporadically since then and have published several award-winning volumes. It was only in my 40’s that I returned to writing fiction. Since then I’ve written a novel and numerous short stories. It’s never too late.

What inspired you to write flash fiction?

Continue reading

Tattoo

By Michael Baldwin

She had been a beautiful, vibrant young woman when I last saw Lana just a few weeks ago. Now she was gaunt, agitated, with dark sunken eyes. She had obviously been through some recent trauma. She clutched my arm in desperation and moaned, “Look at this damn tattoo!”

She raised her shirt. The tattoo looked something like a dragon or elaborate snake, coiled menacingly on her stomach. It appeared to be emerging from her body,  almost three-dimensional in its macabre realism. I had never seen anything like it.

“That’s an impressive tat,” I said, not wanting to touch it. “But I wouldn’t have expected you to choose something like that for yourself.” Continue reading