The story of the week for December 26 to 30 is…
The Lost Shepherd by Bob Thurber
All posts by Tim
THAD DeVASSIE: Yellow
Is it more than diffused sunlight, of rounded, color-filled smiles, daffodils and aged linseed oil? Yes, of course. But behold the yellow I’ve known, an in-between color — a warning, starting as jaundice, coming full circle with every white faded — teeth, eyes, nail beds — then ceasing in the familiar embalmer’s hue.
Thad DeVassie is a multi-genre writer and fine art painter who creates from the outskirts of Columbus, Ohio. He is the author of three chapbooks and was awarded the James Tate International Poetry Prize in 2020. Find his written and painted works at thaddevassie.com.
ALYCE CLARK: Christmas Without Him
Christmas without him isn’t Christmas.
Magicless snow falls, waiting to be played with, as twinkling lights adorn a room that somehow remains dark.
A beautiful dinner (that I have no appetite for) awaits. Family and friends surround me. But he’s gone. Happiness left when he did…
Maybe I should apologize.
Alyce Clark still believes in and hopes for peace.
ELEANOR VENDRELL: Medical Marvel
Palpitations. Pain. Fatigue, lethargy, sweats, a new mole. I have every disease and they’re all terminal. I am a medical marvel. She was so brave, doctors will say. She dealt with so much.
I arrive at the clinic. The doctor checks me over.
“You’re fine,” she says. “Stay off Google.”
Eleanor Vendrell is a writer living in Oxford, UK. She writes novels and enjoys reading, wild swimming, and being a part- to full-time hypochondriac.
STEVEN HOLDING: Before Autumn
Night-time, black ink water; the open-air pool’s easy to break into.
Skinny dipping, diving in at the deep end. Ignoring the sting of chlorine, washing away the sweat of the last day of Summer.
Being young means never knowing time is running out.
Sinking, they kiss.
Hold their breath forever.
Steven Holding lives in the United Kingdom. Most recently, his work has appeared in ANNIHILATION from Black Ink Fiction. You can follow his work at www.stevenholding.co.uk.
BOB THURBER: The Lost Shepherd
The morning after Christmas, he awakens miles downstream, on a bed of sheepskins, beneath a lean-to of snow-covered boughs. While he feeds wood to the fire, which has diminished to coals, he remembers dreaming a song, hearing chords rippling in his heart, the melody carrying him across the frozen river.
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.
ISAAC FOX: What the Emperor Mumbles As He Realizes the Wine Was Poisoned
I am young. I am strong. I am virile.
My son doesn’t love me. I don’t mind. I never needed his love. I never will.
My brother doesn’t love me, either.
I am still young.
I am empire. I am young. I am empire. I am empire. I am I
Isaac Fox is an English and creative writing major at Lebanon Valley College. His work has previously appeared in Tiny Molecules, Rejection Letters, and several other publications. You can find him on Twitter at @isaac_k_fox.
D AVERY: Working Name
Candy is my working name
when I work, I make ends meet
some say I’m a little tart
though so many find me sweet
You would never go
to the low places I have been
though you’d likely know
many high-placed men
It’s questionable what I do—
also question who.
D. Avery plays with words at shiftnshake.wordpress.com. Her work sometimes appears in periodicals and publications.
CECILIA MARCHINSKI: Girlhood or Something
Toes to curl in dewy grass. Legs to run and leap, knees scraped from landings. A chest for excited yells and ribs to keep her safe. A dewy face to show her dissatisfaction. Lips to say, “I’m too skinny.” A mother to say, “At least you’re not fat like me.”
Cecilia Marchinski is a fiction writer. Born and raised in Austin, Texas, she now resides in Scotland.
NIKITA LINIVENKO: Basquiat Blue
Not sure the name. The shade Jean-Michel painted with. Flick through glossy pages, point to a reprint. ‘Untitled, 1982’. The clerk nods, turns away. Comes back with a small sample.
Later, then, after the stains, and second coat, had dried…
The high-res catalogue made the blue bolder than it was.
Nikita Linivenko is his own harshest critic. He found this story stale, vapid, and a little less than inconsequential. But at least he arranged his words fashionably.