Short Story Review: Stone Mattress, by Margaret Atwood.  Margaret Atwood is one of the few writers that can take a difficult subject, weave it through a complicated plot, and have it come out the other

Alright, my fellow Space Monkeys. This is it. The final stretch.  If your eyes haven’t given out yet, and you can still read this, then let me start by saying that I’m very impressed with everything

Session one of Write Club is over, and I'm proud to report that we've all had our asses thoroughly kicked. Which is what we wanted, so...mission accomplished. And it seems like it payed off too, because

  First, let me explain why Write Club uses prompts.   While I’m sure that every writer in Write Club is capable of typing out a knockout publication length story on their own, it is my belief

Write Club is an intensive writing program where eight writers come together to write short stories for 16 weeks. Think of it as boot camp or Crossfit for writers. For more information, click here. 

People keep asking, what the Hell is Write Club?  I tell them it’s a recipe. Write Club is a pressure cooker and a recipe. Take eight human sacrifices, space monkeys, writers without an audience and

I was bored. Even as I wandered through the parched ruins of Queen Street, past burning barrels and past lost souls, alive but rotting on the side of the street, I was bored. Even as a man’s agonized screams

Karen told Fred Bell to go to the river and watch the sunset. She said it’d be good for him. The chirping birds, the crickets, the way the aroma of lavender would float over the river to the bench where

Sometimes there are perks to being a wine maniac. My step-dad mentioned to me that he had a vintage champagne in his closet, and I didn't believe him because he doesn't drink wine. Then he pulled out this,

Forward:  With the help of @Rhondak and the fine editors at the MSP Fiction Workshop, I managed to rescue and refurbish some stories from my google drive (AKA the story death-pit) for the steemit

  September 11, 1998  Please excuse my penmanship; I was forced to cut off my good writing hand with an ice hatchet. Frostbite had eaten its way into the bone. There was no blood. My name is

Sara could read tarot. She divined on the radio, live, for a segment called The Hard Cards. Every Sunday night, she would lead her callers into the empty unknown for 3.99 a minute. Tonight’s caller introduced

Source: Wikipedia Commons Word count: 909          Estimated reading time: 4:32 mins This was written in response to brunotreves's article titled, Why