No, we didn’t save his life, at least not for long, but he didn’t have to die in gasping panic with waning airflow through his cancerous larynx.
God gave him some time to say “sorry” and “thank you”.
Although he could not speak, I could see it in his eyes.
Gergely, a paramedic, is thankful to be able to sometimes see the spellbinding and wonderful moments of birth both to this world and to heaven.
Towel on the sand, she sits in a cross-legged position. She closes her eyes and focuses on the way the wind blows her hair softly across her face. Inhaling slowly, she holds her breath deep inside, musing that this may be the very last time she breathes the ocean breeze.
Samantha Baltz loves to share her stories and loves to hear the stories of others.
He does his work under many pseudonyms. Sometimes he goes by cancer, or stroke, or heart attack; other times he’s called car accident, missing in action, or simply victim. No matter what he calls himself today, his true name is writ large and bold across each of our frail bodies.
Aeryn Rudel is a writer from Seattle, Washington. He is the author of the Acts of War novels published by Privateer Press, and his short fiction has appeared in The Arcanist, Factor Four Magazine, and Pseudopod, among others. Learn more about Aeryn’s work at rejectomancy.com or on Twitter.
A bite on my hand woke me from my nap on the mouldy sofa. “We talked about this,” I said.
The spider slung one eye toward me. “Were you using it?”
It wasn’t my point, but he was right. Terry had a way of cutting through my BS.
Andrew Walo doesn’t really know what else to do. He might as well tell stories.
You could set your watch by Old Man Haney’s trip to the mailbox. That’s how I knew something was wrong Thursday morning.
A sense of foreboding set in.
I was about to call 911 when I saw the widow Wilkins leaving his house.
But you didn’t hear that from me.
Susan Gale Wickes is from Indiana. In addition to writing poetry and short stories, she enjoys penning aphorisms and epigrams.
There was something I wanted. The glow of home, or the bittersweet ache of fulfillment. Something not tangible.
The restaurant was crowded; too loud, too bright. I sat by the window, watching flurries dance around the white glowing orbs of streetlights.
A man stood to leave.
“Take me with you.”
Erica Schaef worked as an Operating Room nurse for ten years before becoming a stay-at-home parent. She lives in rural Tennessee with her family.
On Grandma’s swaying porch, feet planted firmly on the top step, I feel her smile, hear her laugh, see her wrinkled eyes. Screen door swings on rusty hinges and I smell her famous peach cobbler.
“Well, come on,” mother says and I walk in, past the reverend with the urn.
A-Jae is a storytelling wordsmith who writes literary fiction and creative nonfiction, both the truth and otherwise. She is currently working on her first novel and an MFA at SF State. Find out more about her at ajaewoodberry.com.
When the aliens first took our eyes, we said, “Well, there goes sunsets,” as we settled into the black.
When the aliens took our noses we said, “Well, so much for roses,” and prided ourselves on the rhyme.
But when the aliens took our tongues… well, then we started listening.
Crystel lives in Hawaii with her husband and daughter.
The story of the week for April 15 to 19 is…
Ephemera by Maura Yzmore
Something wasn’t right.
Detective Tift examined his suspect. Newlywed Scott Blanchett scratched the dried blood flaking his wrists, sobbing all the while.
This case was clear-cut. They had enough evidence.
“Why don’t you just admit it?” Tift asked.
A pause. A sniffle.
“I can’t admit to what I can’t remember.”
Autumn Lala lives in Ohio, U.S.A. where she writes fiction and poetry while dabbling in nonfiction and screenwriting. While earning her M.A. in Rhetoric & Composition and teaching college sophomores English, she occasionally works as a freelance editor and graphic designer. See more at autumnlala.com.