He always smiled and waved when she was walking by his house on the way to work. Her heart would start beating much faster, but she wondered why he never came out to talk, and it pained her.
Until the day she saw him leaving his place in a wheelchair.
Katya Duft is a translator, interpreter, and language teacher. She enjoys writing short stories, poetry, and her blog Tales from the Bus.
“See Spot run!” yelled Dick.
“Why?” responded Jane.
“Huh?” replied Dick.
“Why?” repeated Jane.
“Uhmm,” said Dick.
“I have a million things to get done at home today,” Jane continued. “Why should I look at a stupid running dog?”
“Uhhm…” Dick mumbled.
“My mother warned me I’d regret this marriage.”
Michael Coolen is a performance artist, pianist, composer, actor, and writer who lives in Corvallis, Oregon.
The time had come for growing old together. She welcomed it with no regret, foreseeing tranquil days of tales retold, of common memories.
But he has lost the early days they shared. He wanders without her in a shadowy past.
Alone she cares for him; alone he lives on unaware.
Catherine Mathews is a State Department retiree formerly stationed overseas in Paris, Rome, Tel Aviv, Athens, Frankfurt, and Istanbul. She is now living in Northern Virginia and writing about her life.
The man jumped off the window. Not unhappy. Not disgruntled.
The building was 100 stories high; he had a story for each flight he climbed, as he now flew past them. Some funny. Some sad. Some crazy. Some had wisdom.
He was about to see something he’d never seen before.
Alex Mascarenhas is an actor and a poet, and has written for the stage and screen as well. His debut novel(la) THE DOG, THE VOICE & THE SIDE ROAD is available on Amazon. He is also fluent in Portuguese and has worked as a translator.
I’ve never been one for salvation. And being baptized in a sink in some god-forsaken prison seemed a bit desperate.
The pastor, though, was certain. He had written an essay and sent a check. Now, his paper cross could save us sinners. He would forgive what the dead never could.
J. Ian Manczur wrote this story.
Across the lawn, beyond
my gaze, my daughters’ voices
rise-and-falling, lilt-and-laughing,
while the robin in the dogwood
breaks a tiny tip of branch and flies away
then comes and breaks
again,
again, again,
his swoop so close, even
the thrumming of his wings
is in the breath that I exhale.
Jennifer L. Freed lives in Massachusetts, where she writes poetry, takes care of her family, and likes to play with clay, which she disguises as ceramic sculpture. She has taught ESL in China, the Czech Republic, and the U.S. This poem appears in her chapbook, These Hands Still Holding (Finishing Line Press, 2014). Please visit her website, Jfreed.weebly.com.
Knapsack loaded with gems, I wander the market, trying to forget the smell of blood. Bananas sizzle in palm oil. Smoke, vanilla incense, and drum music fill the aisles. A one-eyed man follows me. Revenge oozes from his good eye. He fires the gun inside his shirt and I pray.
Patricia Albela-Silver lives in Los Angeles.
A witch stole our only lemon tree from the backyard. She rode on it, shoving the last ripe lemon into her toothless mouth.
A frightening, nonsensical sense of helplessness woke me up.
Auntie hovered over me and I remembered that real life is scarier than the witches of our dreams.
Azarin Sadegh, a former student of the late Les Plesko, is working on her 125,000 word novel, The Suicide Note.