Charity Jones

“Caught Marinara Handed ” by Charity Jones

Submitted to Contest #162

I never really liked spaghetti, or meatballs for that matter. Spaghetti and meatballs, it’s just such a cliché combination. Then again, I am a cliché guy-I wear a suit to work and I come home to an empty apartment. The type of guy who can barely speak to women unless it’s Jill from Advertising because she reminds him of mom-but that's besides the point. The point is work had consumed me so much that I had yet again faile...

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“Precipitation” by Charity Jones

Submitted to Contest #118

Rain bounces back up from the clouded cement as it hits the ground. The rainstorm casts a muddied filter across the concrete jungle gym. The only splash of color from a nearby playground, a sweet red emerges the twisting slide heavily influenced by the steamy downpour. The shimmering playscape glows in comparison to its high and mighty bureaucratic brethren. I stare out my window sulking away day after day. Bored of the...

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“Message in a Bottle ” by Charity Jones

The sweet stenches of bourbon, whiskey, and vodka dance in the murky air while my tongue has its way with the chilling walls of my virgin shot glass. Slamming down that piece of glass on the bars slippery surface, I hover myself over towards Benny the bartender and point towards an awkward couple across from us.  “You see that uh-big breasted blondie over there sitting with mirror on legs,” “Yeah Marty…,”

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“The Dominatrix Who Conquered Body and Brain” by Charity Jones

Submitted to Contest #47

Warm morning air seeps through the window that's been left open from the night before. The sun is shining bright and the sound of free spirited birds sing their free spirited songs without a care about how many more minutes of shut eye you were hoping to get. You lie with your open eyes facing the cone of light that shines through the sliver between the curtains. The bright baby blue of the summer sky reminds you of the...

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“A Stomach for Pages” by Charity Jones

Submitted to Contest #46

Emily scribbles aggressively, marking up the lined dollar store notepad. The sound of her mortifyingly dry felt tip pen sends shivers down my spine. To retaliate I begin tap, tap, tapping my pen to the most irritating rhythm I could. Not a word comes to mind as Emily speeds away at her cahier practically lighting the pages on fire. “Emily can you please use another pen,” I say on the edge of losing my tem...

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