“Walk with me,” she said. He glanced over his shoulder. She shrugged and walked away. He shifted, as if to follow, but rocked back with reluctance.
She didn’t pause, didn’t glance back.
When she’d turned the corner, he decided. He hurried, hungry and urgent. He pursued her.
“Mom!” he cried.
Wanda Jane is as Canadian as the Shield, and as resilient. She was born in Nova Scotia, back in the day, and has lived in four of the ten provinces. She intends to visit the North. Wanda writes for many of the reasons you can think of and some you probably wouldn’t. Words are the guitar strings, the tubes of oil paints, and the perfume of life. She experiments with genres, structure, and style. A day-to-day acquaintance with Wanda would reveal a woman who spends a lot of time listening, struggles with the obstacles of living, and drinks deeply of the companionship she shares with her several friends.
I started turning into a tree three days ago. Then stopped. It’s unseemly having only two branches and barely any leaves. But so many knots.
Mum shook her head and tutted. Dad patted me on the trunk, then checked his palm for splinters. Ever-practical Joanna showed the saw’s sharp teeth.
Rob Walton is a writer, performer and teacher from Scunthorpe, England. He now lives with his family in North Shields, from where he travels to perform in schools and libraries. Poems, short stories and flash fictions for children and adults have appeared in various magazines and anthologies. He collated the text for the New Hartley Memorial Pathway and collaborates with sculptor Russ Coleman. He won the UK’s National Flash Fiction Day micro-fiction competition 2015. He sometimes tweets @anicelad
and his oddness can be found at linesofdesire.co.uk
That walk, a simple turn around the block at day’s end. Birds chirping, warm breeze blowing, trees softly stirring. Still not quite summer.
And I’m just trying to talk to you.
Then sounds are swallowed up; the world goes still. We are in a bubble.
Stillness that’s Holy.
Stephanie Press love stories as an exploration of identity, the vision of what is to come, and understanding where we’ve been.
Uncle Clifford dealt scrap.
Valentino in overalls, his hair slicked with axle grease. Boot polish moustachioed, ladies swooned.
“Yaargh!” he bellowed, swaggering to the pub.
One night, he disturbed burglars.
At his wake, I slicked soot beneath his innocent nose.
“Yaargh,” I whispered.
Mourners tutted, scandalized.
But only the men.
Margaret McGoverne has recently published her first novella, while being distracted by short stories, flash fiction and her blog about all things writing
We had so many wonderful plans for the future, and now he and they are gone.
People say, “Move on. The past is gone; you have your future.”
My future was supposed to be with him.
The future is in one second.
The future is now.
I am scared.
Susan is a Curriculum Developer at a mortgage company. She is widowed with two grown daughters and two stepsons, and four awesome grandchildren, two boys and two girls.
to the ocean,
in vine leaves,
and throws one
from the water –
in the sun.
but all she needs
is his kiss.
writes novels, flash fiction and the occasional poem.
The first word I understood was “tired.” Always etched on mom’s face; she spoke in sighs. Dad’s language was disappointment. My brothers and I were taught it was us against the world, and our home constantly reminded us that we’d never know any different.
With hungry hearts, we grew silent.
Munira Sayyid has two siblings. Only one of which is a brother. Her parents think she talks too much sometimes.
Every night on a crag a half-day’s climb above the foothills, a crooked little man dances by a campfire, whispering “Guess my name,” and the echo carries across fields and valleys, streaming into the dreams of children, who grow to believe they’ll someday be able to spin straw into gold.
Over the years Bob Thurber’s work has received a long list of awards and prizes. His most recent book is a collection of brief stories titled “Nothing But Trouble.” His first novel, “Paperboy: A Dysfunctional Novel,” was recently rereleased. Visit BobThurber.net.
Unkept promises drift away in the breeze, the stench of exhaust lingering in the parking lot. His red mustang fades into the horizon. Here, he left his girl, watching from the payphone station.
She stops dialing. Instead, she limps onto the curb, gives the next driver a thumbs up.
Kiersten Wood, from Massachusetts, is a dedicated writer who loves horror movies, dancing, and spending her summers in the City.
I am middle aged when you mention
that as a child at Christmastime
you were chased around your neighborhood
by big blond boys shouting
I’ve known you all my life,
yet you are distant land,
and few years remain for me to touch that soil.
Jennifer usually writes poetry, occasionally writes short fiction. See more at her website.