Mum loved cats and dogs but wouldn’t let me have either.
Dad explained: “Mum gets too upset when they die. Our cat died before you were born and her heart almost broke. We vowed we would never have another.”
Mum passed last month. Now I understand. I don’t want another.
Sandra James writes from a rural property in Heathcote, Victoria, Australia.
The lady who creates the fabric of time-space lives around the corner from me. She’s always there on her porch, knitting, scowling and smoking Tiparillos. You work so hard, I say, and she grimaces “I have to…” but nothing more. Today, she was gone, and so was the moon.
Robert Ludemann is quietly retired and barely making a peep.
Inside the soup kitchen, foggy windows dripped. A blend of simmering soup, old damp clothing and unwashed souls wafted throughout. She came in with a gigantic, open golf umbrella. With two shakes and snowflakes cascading around her, she smiled, tossed her head and shyly asked, “Does my hair look alright?”
Cari Main wrote this story.
My Mother’s Day card read: IloveyousooooomuchmummyyourthebestbestbestandyoumakemehappeesloveloveloveexraloveBeeee!
I smiled, then frowned and got to work.
I drilled my daughter daily on word spacing and punctuation.
I instructed her on the capitalization of proper nouns.
I cautioned against repetition and hyperbole.
The next year:
“Dear Mother, Enjoy Mother’s Day. Sincerely, Beatrice.”
Success!
Mother to two teens, Joanna Norland feels nostalgic for the early years of creative spelling and free form punctuation. She is a playwright and writing coach based in East Sussex, UK and blogs about combining writing and parenting at mumswrite.com.
Once, during a thunderstorm, the boys huddled in an old stone church, snacking on communion wafers and slurping grape juice. Whenever a boy spoke about the storm his words were drowned out by the humming of the others. No matter which words were spoken the boys’ hearts buzzed like honeybees.
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.
They ask why I insist on playing Santa, and not an elf, at the mall.
It’s not just pay; there’s something great about being on top. Being a leader people gravitate towards.
Plus, no one can fire Santa.
Elves get fired and abused.
I know that all too well.
Yash Seyedbagheri is a graduate of Colorado State University’s MFA fiction program. His stories, “Soon,” “How To Be A Good Episcopalian,” “Tales From A Communion Line,” and “Community Time,” have been nominated for Pushcart Prizes. His work has been published in SmokeLong Quarterly, The Journal of Compressed Creative Arts, and Ariel Chart, among others.
Winged shadow blues the snow. Arrows in, drops a key into the window box. Brings you gifts, this crow─ green ribbon, pink pebbles. Remembers your kindness from when he was a chick.
Does he know you’re leaving? Fasten his key to your chain in case one of you gets lost.
Cheryl Snell is fluent in subtext.
It wasn’t the way we thought it would be.
There should have been fanfare,
cake,
balloons,
laughter,
endless pats on the back,
shouts of “Happy retirement!”
Instead,
there was downsizing,
quiet looks,
hushed remarks,
the packing away of desk contents into boxes,
a sudden, newfound awareness.
They’d moved our cheese.
Susan Gale Wickes is a writer from Indiana. She enjoys writing short stories and greeting card verses and the joy of cartoon captioning.
He must have seen me a mile away, free falling. Now I’m on the ground, lines tangled in the oak above, money scattering like feathers. And a fractured patella.
Yellow talons, big as a fist, coming closer. Eagles are good luck, no?
No.
Stern, cocky countenance, punishing eyes.
Divine judgement.
Steve Saulsbury lives on Maryland’s Eastern Shore. A writer of flash fiction, his work has appeared in many online journals and several printed collections. Most
recently, his piece, “The Field,” was included in the Halloween anthology Flash of the Dead.
Your precious smile is a rarity. What ails you cannot be remedied. You eat less and weaken, growing pale and gaunt, clutching your crucifix tight. Your family despairs. Only you can hear my voice, growing stronger. You spurned me in life, but soon, my love, we will be together forever.
Paul lives in Scotland. Sometimes he writes stories. Sometimes they’re even published.