Platero And I: Miss Dolores

Look at Don Fernando, Platero. He is wearing his best suit.

He bought it thirty-seven years ago, when he was first invited to read to the fifth grade Miss Dolores has taught for so long. He had written two children’s short stories in his life. Miss Dolores loved both.Today he will be reading for the last time. Miss Dolores is retiring and her successor doesn’t believe in reading by 'a failed writer.'

"What are you going to do now?" I asked.

“Write new stories,” he replied adamantly.

Maybe he'll write short stories about a sweet donkey like you, Platero.

From Guest Contributor Hervé Suys

Hervé (°1968 – Ronse, Belgium) started writing short stories whilst recovering from a sports injury and he hasn’t stopped since. Generally he writes them hatless and barefooted.

Sir Francis Bacon

CONTEST SUBMISSION:

Sir Francis Bacon, an educated beagle, wondered about his name, did some research, and learned that his namesake was a statesman and writer who lived at the same time as Shakespeare. Some people thought that Bacon was the real writer of Shakespeare's plays. This puzzled Sir Francis Bacon the beagle.

"Why is my name Sir Francis Bacon?" he asked his human friend.

"Because I like bacon, and you like bacon."

"Did Bacon write Shakespeare's plays?"

"No. Silly idea. Would you rather be named Shakespeare? I could give you a spear to shake."

"I prefer eating bacon. And answering to Bacon."

From Guest Contributor: Anita G. Gorman

Writer's Block

He sighs.

“What’s wrong, darling?”

She stretches her arms out from behind over his chest.

“This isn’t going anywhere. I’ve been staring at this blank piece of paper for hours now. What am I saying, for days.”

Once more, he sighs.

She squeezes him just a bit tighter.

“The only thing I seem to be good at is writing about how tough it is to write and to be a writer. The daily struggle with words and how to use them. Questioning myself if it’s all worth it.”

She loosens her grip.

“But at this, darling, you’re so very good.”

From Guest Contributor Hervé Suys

Hervé Suys (°1968 – Ronse, Belgium) started writing short stories whilst recovering from a sports injury and he hasn’t stopped since. Generally he writes them hatless and barefooted.

Authors And Readers

It became obvious to the Minister of Culture that everyone wanted to be a writer, and no one wanted to be a reader. When the Minister of Culture collected statistics, she noticed that most of the stories published by reputable publications remained unread. With the support of Parliament, the MOC instituted a new rule: for every story published on the internet, the writer was obliged to read ten stories by other authors and write a summary and critique of each story. This practice led to a number of happy authors and readers, who turned out to be the same people.

From Guest Contributor Anita G. Gorman

Burning Uncertainty

HISTORICAL FICTION ENTRY:

My elder sister Tanya and I burn portraits of Nicholas, watching his solemn eyes melting. Melting, melting. Flames envelop his beard, rising into the night sky.

“To the Revolution,” she proclaims. “We’ll be happy again.”

“To happiness,” I proclaim. I hug Tanya. She smells of sweat and oil and victory.

I wonder what will come next. We’ve lost homes and positions, slaved in Siberia. She was a teacher and I, a writer. Those positions are in the past, though.

Will we be of use? Or will the Revolution brand us too bourgeois?

I wish the picture wouldn’t burn so fast.From Guest Contributor Yash Seyedbagheri

Yash is a graduate of Colorado State University's MFA program in fiction. Yash’s work is forthcoming or has been published in WestWard Quarterly, Café Lit, 50 Word Stories, (mac)ro (mic), and Ariel Chart.

Possibly Stephen

The writer stared at the page, expecting inspiration to spring at him from the fibres of the old-style reporters’ notebook.

Words trickled...gushed...cascaded. He ripped the page out, rolled it into a tight ball and chucked. It bounced off the bin, thran as the incorporeal muse.

“What was wrong with that?” she asked, form flickering in the draught.

“It was in Latin,” he spat.

She giggled a bit. “Sorry, my mind wandered. I know, how about–?”

“Look, could you put on something less filmy. It’s distracting. Tired, not dead.”

“Tweeds okay?”

He nodded, and wrote Misery.

From Guest Contributor Perry McDaid

Reminiscence

Kahea thought pensively about her college days as she made her way to the coffee table, stirring her tea absentmindedly, her spoon making soft clinking sounds against the glass cup.

"What will you do with a degree in English?” voices murmured. “A degree in computers, now that's a solid deal".

"You will get nowhere."

"Writing isn't a career."

Kahea recollected their condemning tones, sneers and concerned looks as she reached for that day's newspaper.

"Hmm...I look good", she said, gazing approvingly at her photo next to the article that read: Kahea Sanders becomes the youngest writer to bag a Pulitzer.

From Guest Contributor Drishika Nadella

Drishika is a 15 year old from India. She seeks comfort in words, tunes, and nature. Her blog Desolation And Delectation will be happy to see you.

Dinner With Margaret Atwood

The conversation was polite, she's Canadian after all, but surface. Her interest seemed genuine when I mentioned I wanted to be a writer, the way a mother is interested in her five-year-old's finger painting. I needed to flaunt my understanding, to let her know that I get it, and hated to think I was being patronized. She tolerated my high school English critiques with all the grace that you'd expect, but as the food dwindled, my desperation grew. I felt like I was missing my chance, that somehow if I won her approval, everything would be okay. I would matter.

Another submission to Every Day A Century, which will be posted soon.