She smiled sweetly, her fingers brushing mine, and my breath caught, heart swelled.
But the smile was mere politeness, the contact accidental as she held the door open and I moved to take it. She didn’t know who I was, didn’t know I loved her, would never, ever know.
Maria is inspired by everyday events, and odd coincidences. She’s excited for the time she’s able to high-five people again.
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.
“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.
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.
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.
Three years had passed since the virus lockdown, and she ached to go outside.
Every morning she put on her shoes, only to turn back at the doorstep.
Still not safe, she thought, though the media said otherwise. What if she walked into a deep cough or an explosive sneeze?
Debbi Antebi (@debbisland) lives in London, UK, with her husband and books.
She finished the jigsaw. Broke it up. Knitted a scarf. Unpicked it.
Life goes on and on and on, whether she wants it to or not. She doesn’t. She wants to jump into infinity, close her eyes, close her mind, close the box.
She opens it. Fits two pieces together.
Daniel Clark is a writer who dabbles in many forms and styles. His micro fiction has been published on 101words.org and is forthcoming in Dreams Walking.
Hillock – Lingering glances at waitress. Your phone number secretly scrawled on the bill.
Bridge – Flowers, expensive dinners. Breathless streams of fragile promises.
Church With Spire – Expected. Drunken proposals, forgotten by morning.
Mountain – Personal trainer, more than once, while I was pregnant.
Quarry – Pit. The deep, dark realisation you’d never cared.
Jo Withers writes short fiction from her home in South Australia. Recent work appears in Reflex Fiction, NFFD Anthology and Best Microfictions 2020.