This is not a bar. This is not a place
to linger. People come and go
rather quickly. Usually
they’re in a hurry. Occasionally,
one might require
a moment to recalibrate,
to adjust to sudden loss,
the vanishing of someone
very dear, very special.
Before resettling into
stabilized day-to-day sorrow.
Bob Thurber is the author of six books. Regarded as a master of Flash and Micro Fiction, his work has appeared in Esquire and other magazines, been anthologized 60 times, received a long list of awards, and been utilized in schools and colleges throughout the world. He resides in Massachusetts. Visit his website at BobThurber.net.
Shocking pain. Light burns through my eyelids. My muscles seize. The air around me crashes and crackles, buzzes and zaps. My skin tingles; my body releases.
Then all is soft, silent darkness. I try my hand. It clenches.
I hear a triumphant shout next to me: “It’s alive! It’s alive!”
Jessica Hoard is a writer of over 25 years. She received her MA in Creative Writing from the University of Memphis. She has appeared on stage and screen and has published her photography. Her writing has been published in magazines and literary journals including Breath & Shadow, Pear Noir!, Karamu, The Society of Classical Poets Journal, and Short, Fast, and Deadly among others. She is mother to three cat children and in her spare time likes to go camping in her vintage Shasta camper, Rosie.
“April ’68, I was cooking in a dive in Dubuque.
“The boss put up a sign: “Closed in Memory”. We all sat in the back, cursing, crying, hugging each other. Someone found a bottle, rum, to make the coffee go down better. He paid us regular for that day, too.”
Tony Press tries to pay attention. Sometimes. His collection CROSSING THE LINES (Big Table) can be found; indeed, he has several copies ready for mailing.
It was 1918. Grandpa loved his 9 grandchildren, but the Flu was deadly, so whenever a grandchild approached, he held up his hand, and shouted, “Hey!”
His grandkids still loved him, but they never hugged.
They started calling him “Heypappy”, and that’s how it was for his remaining 25 years.
Harry Demarest wrote this true story about his great grandfather, Franklin Conklin.
I let the tears fall. Years in that house… So many memories. Pictures that hung on the wall my entire life. Gone. Emptied out; packed up; now just boxes. Granddad’s gone. Grandma’s in a nursing home. Just an address now.
Still this place holds me, locked deep within my soul.
Alyce Clark is adjusting to sheltering in place, practicing social distancing when shopping for essentials… and truly missing her grandmother.
My grandpa talks about the good ol’ days, a time when kids chewed dirt and roller skated. I decide to try both.
The dirt tastes funny. The skating sores my back.
Grandpa humps over. I expect a scold but receive a pat on the shoulder. Welcome to the club, scout.
Eric Persaud is an Indo-Guyanese American living in New York City. His other works of fiction can be found in Flash Fiction Magazine and 101 words.
Weapon loaded, I exit the elevator, striding past the reception.
Weeks of building trust, flirting, stalking. The habits of my prey learned. A lioness with her rhinoceros in sight. Armoured in innocence and Gucci, I hand it over.
“Brought you lunch, babe.”
Peanuts in a sandwich; who could have guessed?
L. S. Muller is a Swiss Swedish tea drinker, who reads too many books, loves canines and writes fantasy and horror.
She grappled with the creature – bulky, clawed – for only a matter of minutes before its eyes lit up with recognition. It turned and softly padded away. She watched it recede as the sun crept through the blind then got up to check it had gone. She spoke the mantra victoriously.
Veronica Barnsley’s writing has been published in Brittle Star and Like the Wind. She’s enjoying having a go at microfiction.
The suit was too tight.
There was no air, his mouth dry like sandpaper.
The press looked at him like he had done something wrong, taking pictures and writing notes for headlines he could not respond to.
But he knew that when he got there, he wouldn’t have to care.
Dominic Bond has tried to write poetry among other things and have been published online on and in print in Driftwood Press, Poetry Birmingham and Kallisto Gaia magazines.
The first blossom
On my winter squash
Lacking a male,
She will fade,
And her fruit will fail.
Still, she opens in beauty
Under the sun
And offers her grace
To the day.
So too may we all;
And that is quite enough.
Casey Laine comes from a long line of talkative women. She works as Fantasy Editor at Cosmic Roots and Eldritch Shores, and publishes an annual anthology of fiction and poetry for her writing group, Writers Assembled. In her spare time, she chases butterflies with her camera. Find her at Facebook, Cosmic Roots and Eldritch Shores, and Amazon.