ganymeder (joined over 9 years ago)
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Author Catherine Russell shares her life with her high school sweetheart, their son, and two ferocious puppies in the Wilds of Ohio while writing short stories, editing her novel, and learning more about the craft every day. Her work has been published in Flash Me magazine, Metro Fiction, Beyond Centauri, and the ‘Best of Friday Flash – Volume One‘ and the ‘Best of Friday Flash – Volume Two‘ anthologies.

Stories


Life Drawing

Staring up at me from behind the glass, a mouth that never seems to quite close and two bulbous eyes. They follow my finger as it traces lines up and down the screen, creating bubbles in its wake. My friend, golden scales and graceful fins, swims in his electronic cage, making loops and pinwheeling along with the actions of my moving digit. He doesn't seem to know his home, the aqua-blue paradise of his existence filled with fiery coral, sunken ships, and bright shining trinkets is only a dream - one that is not even his own.

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Heather had never found her talent.

The smallest amount of knitting made her arms feel like they'd fall from her shoulders. Her paintings looked like they'd been crafted by a toddler. Even decoupage, just gluing paper onto things to decorate them, seemed beyond her reach; in every project the images were wrinkled and unattractive. What was she doing wrong? Time and time again she struggled to release her creative genius, the one she had been told lived inside each and every person, but evidently she preferred to stay hidden deep inside.

Standing on the bridge, she watched the churning waters...

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The old trash can on Drake and Washington avenue was the witness to the biggest mistake of George's life. Sadly, he threw in the carnations he had bought, sad remembrances for ideas that should have died long ago. They covered his old manuscript like flowers on a grave.

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The ghosts of her past continued to haunt her.

The parents she'd disappointed, the boy she'd left behind, even the teacher who had taken her under her wing in the hopes of helping her realize her full potential. She saw them all before her as clearly as the last time she'd seen them. Their frowns, knitted brows, and downcast eyes. She hated those expressions, the disillusionment of their ideals written across them like ink on paper.

How could any of them have known her true potential? And if they had, would they have been heartened or horrified? Knowing ignorance was...

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It was hard to send a message in a bottle when you didn't even have the bottle.

Harry sighed as he put the folded bit of paper into the stream, hoping it would be carried to someone who would find him. Someone with better navigational skills than he had anyway. He couldn't even write his location, because he hadn't the slightest Goddamn idea where he was. GPS didn't do a hell of a lot of good with a dead phone, and if he hadn't slipped down that muddy slope...

Nevermind.

He rested along the stream's edge and looked up at...

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Becky hoped Tom saw what she had written before her teacher did.

Mr. Smith was notoriously tidy about the things in his classroom. Desks were wiped down once a day, not by the school janitorial staff but by him personally. In other classes she knew friends who would write on the desks, leaving messages for the students who sat there after them - a sort of school texting service between students without cell phones, but Tom took only this one class after her. Would he see her message? She could pass it off as a doodle and if he said...

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The maple leaves will change and fall with a certain grace - November will begin.

Carla read that sentence in her Literature textbook over and over, and the thought that kept running through her mind was, 'Who edited this book?'

That wasn't entirely true, but her internal monogue ran along these lines. Was she the only tenth grader who knew that semicolons connected independant phrases? Older people complained about how texting was ruining the language, but what difference did that make when a text book author, in what she assumed was an edited textbook ILLUSTRATING the language, couldn't even catch...

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story by Monsterbat, typed by mom:

"Sit up, please."

She sat up, her hair gleaming, her eyes glistening. She'd gotten these for free since she had gotten the deal. Show one picture of yourself in the magazine, get one physical therapy session free. She said, "You aren't very qualified at this; are you?"

Another arm got wrenched off. "Oops, sorry."

"You know what, that's it. Even if I'm a zombie, I have some rights. And if I hadn't eaten the court, I'd take you to one." Blood started dripping from her lips.

"Why don't you make a zombie court," he...

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Written by Monsterbat:

The mouse didn't know about the afterlife. It just started to move. After that evil cat had eaten him whole, it felt extremely liberating to climb back out of the jaws of death. It travelled to the nearest art supply store, and started to look around. It finally came to the big cheese: a large, yellow coloured notebook with holes made to give the illusion of a dairy product. Mr. Whiskers screamed with joy. He strained to open the notebook. He achieved his goal, but not without a price. The strain was too much. He began to...

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From the day the museum opened, the mammoth was the first thing every visitor saw. How could they miss it? It towered over the entrance when they came inside, rain or shine, its trunk high above their heads as though ready to trumpet. At least they assumed she would trumpet, but no one really knew or cared.

Designed to model a beast that lived ages ago, the poor thing stood and gathered dust on its bits that were too high for the cleaning staff to reach. So the witch, a neo-pagan from San Fran, took pity on the poor beast....

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