This morning, the winter rain hammers away external stains.
Yesterday, after the incident, my friends walked me home, and we built a pillow fort. They currently lay beside me, asleep and dreaming. I snuggle under the covers, warm in their company, and wait for the delivery of a new day.
Robin Bissett is a Teaching Artist and Writer from Central Texas. She enjoys absorbing and sharing stories and strengthening her surrounding literary communities.
Hamed Manouchehri was the middle child for 18 years. He became the last child after his older brother avenged their father’s honor.
Mathematics.
“Do the math, sir,” lawyer said. “You can forgive your daughter’s blood, but the boy’s family wants compensation or retribution.”
Hamed’s mother is lost in this equation.
Mohammad Hamed Manouchehri lives in a small town in Iran. He is a veterinarian and an award-winning photographer though his first love is reading and writing. Also, he is a two-time sharia law champion.
The shuddering wind
plays strange music,
____carrying away the feather
________fallen off that seagull.
____________Unaware
it glides
____following the currents
________like it drank too much wine.
A pale, gracile boy
picks up the feather
in its dance,
looks at it,
smiles
and puts it away in his box of treasures.
Anne Catherine Vassallo was born in Malta but lives in Tuscany, Italy. As a child she dearly wanted to paint but seeing that her efforts were all in vain, decided to “paint with words”. She teaches English in a private language school and writes with a group of poetry-writing friends, all expats.
“Marry me?”
“No,” I said, laughing. “It’s only our first date.”
Since then he’s proposed at home, on holiday, in castles, in parks, but I’ve always said no. It’s become an in-joke.
His note is propped on the mantelpiece. I don’t read it, finally realizing that the joke got old.
Laura Besley writes short fiction and squeezes her writing into the bookends of her day. She has lived in Holland, Germany, and Hong Kong, but now lives in land-locked central England and misses the sea. Her flash fiction collection, The Almost Mothers, was published in March 2020. She tweets at @laurabesley.
Rheigina walks into the familiar coffee shop, sitting across from the boy she’s known for years.
“I’m so sorry.”
Her smile dissolves as he wastes no time explaining. His face fractures into unrecognizable pieces. He is sobbing now, and so is she.
“But… you can’t,” she pleads.
“I love you.”
Leona Alonso is a high school sophomore from Texas who has a passion for STEM. However, in her free time she likes to play the viola, write, be with friends and family, as well as take long naps.
She knows the length of air
will stiffen towels, shirts, jeans,
but doesn’t care.
She likes watching, from the kitchen window,
how sunlight pushes shadow
along draping cloth.
Later, folding sheets against her chest,
she inhales. How do you name this? The balm
of this scent, fresh
off the line.
Jennifer L Freed mostly writes poems, which appear or are forthcoming in various journals and anthologies. Her website is jfreed.weebly.com
Black brother bound, begging, barely breathing, betrayed by badged bullies. Bystanders being blind. Bureaucracy bubble bursts. Battle begins. Be bold, be boisterous, build bridges because BlackLivesMatter. Be better, break bread, bond but be beneficial. Begin by believing blacks’ burdens, brokenness, bitterness, baggage. Breathe, Buddy, breathe. Be blessed beyond belief. BlackLivesMatter.
Lisa Miller loves living in Oregon, moving from Portland and out to the country recently. She loves her family but has had trouble writing since they moved in. She says it’s worth it, though, and her creativity is slowly creeping back.
Lady Huron was in a mood.
Waves roared ashore, obliterating most of the beach. Ancient trees washed up, now driftwood with the haunted look of past lives.
Sand blasted Jenny’s skin and stung her eyes. Still, she searched in the frothy debris for sea glass, finding beauty in the chaos.
Mary Haynes splits her time between a romantic old sailboat in tropical waters and a beach home on Lake Huron in Canada. A wanderer by fate, she embraces wherever she roams! Mary just published her first children’s book, “Who Ate My Peppers?”
To discourage temptations to divide and sell,
to encourage harmony and family gatherings, Baba and Papa
left the lakehouse property to just one
of their many children.
Granddaughter Mara called from the lake.
Our beloved grass-barren badminton court
is now a wildflower garden.
Squeals and laughter silenced for a generation.
When he finally started to listen, Matthew’s heart led him to Maine. Now, he lives and writes next to a lake, and sometimes Googles synonyms for the word “regret.”
When the GPS said that I had arrived at my destination, I found myself parked in front of an abandoned country church on a dead end, gravel road. Most of the paint had long peeled away, and the graveyard beside it was full.
I wondered who buried the last member.
Eddie D. Moore travels hundreds of hours a year, and he fills that time by listening to audiobooks. When he isn’t playing with his grandchildren, he writes his own stories. You can find a list of his publications on his blog, eddiedmoore.wordpress.com, or by visiting his Amazon Author Page. While you’re there, be sure to pick up a copy of his mini-anthology Misfits & Oddities.