At first, she felt free. She’d bask in the summer evening radiance, watching the kaleidoscope of stars filling the night sky with their regular patterns. Like lights from faraway friends, watching over her.
But in winter, the pavement was cold. Clouds blocked out the stars. Friends seemed very far away.
Jo Withers hopes that everyone has friends nearby. You can follow Jo on Twitter.
I miss reading your gothic paranormal dinosaur erotica poetry.
I miss you playing B-side heavy metal on low volume whilst veganising carnivorous recipes.
I miss picking up a full jar of pickles and standing stupidly with only the lid in my hand.
I missed the meaning of your goodbye note.
Alice Lam moved to Australia from the UK with her partner and they share a house in Melbourne, along with a cheese-seeking, greying Boxer dog. See more at alicelambooks.com.
Is not always
In many situations
It is a vice
You are sweet
Happily you greet
But they are there
To get your meat
It’s your peace
That they wish
Drain your brain
Till you allow
And learn to complain
Preeti Singh is an Indian French interpreter, writer-journalist, cinema artist.
You can learn more about her at: https://about.me/preeti-singh
We threw out his WWII manuals on the M4 Sherman, the “Tommycooker.” Piles of clothes and shoes carted off to Goodwill. Flotsam of a lifetime, from legal documents to Nazi plunder to oxygen masks, still fighting his own private war. The holocaust filled each room, that lingering smell of pipe-smoke.
Jim Doss lives in Sykesville, Maryland, and earns his living as a software engineer. He has previously published two books of poems: Learning to Talk Again and What Remains. In partnership with Werner Schmitt, he also published a book of German translations entitled The Last Gold of Expired Stars: The Complete Poems of Georg Trakl 1908 – 1914. In his spare time, he is an editor for the Loch Raven Review.
“Hand over that bag. Quick,” the man snarled.
He remembered inspirational words from his father, martyred in Kargil: “Always be brave.”
No time for valour, he reasoned.
He gingerly surrendered the bag. The man unzipped it, gave an evil smile, and shot him.
There is no fixed time for valour.
Vijai Pant is a language teacher in a school in India. He is also a freelance writer.
“Donald, you dropped the mirror on the floor.”
“I know. I was shaving and the thing was sneering at me.”
“You were seeing yourself.”
“I don’t care who I was seeing. I am the president and no one sneers at the president. Get me a new mirror that only smiles.”
Fillip Verdun wrote this story.
In a place with no trees the boys built a forest of stone.
They chiseled and stacked, erecting one here, one there.
They carved branches and engraved leaves.
In daylight the fake trees looked ridiculous.
But at night, when the moon rose, forming long shadows, the world felt like home.
Bob Thurber is the author of “Paperboy: A Dysfunctional Novel” and two collections of stories. A celebrated master of Flash and Micro Fiction, his work has appeared in 60 anthologies, received dozens of awards, and been used in schools and colleges throughout the world. He resides in Massachusetts where, despite severe vision loss, he continues to write every day. Visit his website at BobThurber.net.
They sit me down. Father’s words are broken and confusing. Mother’s tears are silent, but they shimmer with fear and anger, tracing her flushed cheeks as they fall.
The woman at the door remains stoic, but her eyes are sympathetic. Her lips whisper: my son, how I have missed you!
Lancelot is a retired U.S. Navy Submarine Chief and a creative writer at heart who fears rejection, and therefore keeps his stories locked away in his mind.
Yesterday he took me to heaven.
Then he took me to the cleaners.
Strangest one-night stand ever.
“You want a beer?” I’d asked.
“No, I’m good.”
Yes, he was.
So was his accomplice.
All my valuables, gone… except for those I carried with me.
Only one of them was missing.
Susan Gale Wickes is from Indiana. She enjoys writing and thinking about writing.
In his first spring in a new land, Pietro took a cutting from a peach tree and inserted it into a slit on the branch of a living plum tree. A graft, like himself: an Italian transplanted into the Canadian landscape.
Bound together, two fruits would flourish on one tree.
Teresa Del Mastro sends Tim 50-word stories from Toronto. She creates them in Kerry Hodgson’s basement at her writing group.