Yesterday the sunset happened to me. Facing the West in earnest, the sky in my open mouth, I tasted the colors like they were sorbet from a street vendor, mangoes and strawberries and tangerines.
Then I went back inside, sent four emails, and clicked “Add to Cart” ten more times.
Abbey is a 22-year-old living in Brooklyn, NY. Her writing has appeared in her high school’s newspaper and the journal on her bedside table.
Under the Milky Way
she intensifies the pace
while humming a few notes
as she negotiates the bike trail curves
Once the trail ends
she pedals upward to the sky
into a hidden realm
one new to her senses
Her story expands
as it continues
through starlight
Is she flying?
Roberta Beach Jacobson is the fleakeeper at Five Fleas Itchy Poetry.
When Jack first heard the whispers, he figured it was just the breeze.
After all, living in the forest attracted creatures of varying degrees.
They became so easy to ignore, simply assigning it to the owls in the trees.
It only became a worry when those whispers turned to pleas.
Michael Samuel lives in Missouri, dreaming up stories in his head. Every so often, they get published.
Fill the cardboard boxes with choices.
Promise you’ll find homes for her great aunt’s linens,
her father’s oak desk, the paired wingchairs
she’s had for forty years.
Listen to her memories.
Let her change her mind, keep
the blue quilt, donate
the green one.
Don’t mention the inevitable estate sale.
Jennifer L Freed is author of When Light Shifts, a memoir-in-poems on care-giving, aging, and family relationships, inspired by the aftermath of her mother’s stroke. Her parents still inspire her. Please visit jfreed.weebly.com to learn more.
Winter clings tighter,
haloing the starlit moon
with glittering frost.
Trees become brushstrokes
sketched against uncertain skies,
their leaves departed.
Grey heron hunching
statue-like beside the ice
remembers swift fish.
Mist veils bare hedgerows,
spinning tangled stems into
lacy silhouettes.
One early snowdrop
braves this unrelenting chill,
promising the spring.
Deborah writes at an old desk surrounded by five hundred pet bugs.
A sniff in the dark—just curtains and the wind, but… When I close my eyes, it’s you. Folding the shirt you hang on the back of a chair, nails on guitar strings, your fingers on my skin, breath that leaves me breathless. Oh, to hear that song once more.
JL Peridot writes love letters to the future on devices from the past. You can find more of her work at jlperidot.com.
Delay on Arrival:
Eye the horizon
from the red light: jammed highway
and missing starlings.
End of the Line:
Waves at their crest glimpse
the receding to soon come
and crash to dry sand.
Seth Rosenman lives in the Philadelphia area. He currently does a little bit of this and hopes to move on to some of that. He’s calling this a “50-Word Haiku Story.” His poems and short fiction have appeared in 50-Word Stories, Microfiction Monday Magazine, The Bookends Review, and elsewhere. His blog goes by infiniteseth.blogspot.com.
Try the glistening sun-splash of a wave as it breaks,
or the brightness of close friends as they all laugh together.
Plumb a gemstone’s depths as it glimmers, shines and glows,
or gaze in awe as a snowflake dazzles purity and perfection.
In such moments, it’s waiting for you there.
You can find additional words by Matthew Curlewis at Bright Side Writings – optimism-led, fortnightly-ish (slightly longer than 50-word!) stories to brighten these dark times of chaos and collapse.
You were one of the good guys, like Cincinnatus
returning home, you modeled virtue and service.
And Wendell Berry, a farmer and gentleman
like you, writes of a kingfisher returning after dusk.
Fly now Jimmy, like that kingfisher wild in flight
led by his delight back from where you came.
Matthew grew up in northern Kentucky just across the Ohio River from Cincinnati, a city named after Cincinnatus, who had left his farm to lead the Roman Army during a time of great military crisis. After 16 days he defeated the enemy, gave up his power and returned to farming.
clickety-clacking is the tram
neighbors talking politics
it’s probably mid-morning
why’s it still pitch dark
or am I dreaming
no
turns out
I have yet to open my eyes
not bad
nice and soothing
what if I stay like this
also turn off my ears
will the world go away
J. S. O’Keefe is a scientist, trilingual translator and writer. His short stories and poems have been published in EDF, WENSUM, Roi Faineant, 101 Words, Spillwords, ScribesMICRO, 50WS, AntipodeanSF, Friday Flash Fiction, Spirit Fire Review, Medium, Paragraph Planet, 50 Give or Take, 6S, Satire, MMM, etc. See more at szjohnny.net