It’s been a long time and I’ve missed you, my old friend.
The thought of you, your smell. The way you taste.
You’re always on my mind.
I know it’s been good to be away from you, but I want you back in my life.
Hello carbs, my old friend.
Susan is a Technical Writer by day and fiction writer at night. She adores her five grandkids.
I bought my ticket, prepared to travel
To fair Verona, for one night only
My guide met me, in doublet and tights
And together we followed the cobbled road
That led to a window, with balcony high
Where a maiden sighed and wondered why
Her lover had brought a rival
Joan Skura writes from Toronto, Canada, where she lives with her husband, Ron, and their finicky feline, Lola.
“Would you like another?” she asked, her devilish eyes sparkling mischievously. A sickening smile was plastered on her face. A couple of broken hearts dripped in the palm of her hand.
She watched him slowly sip away his last heart beat, slowly tapping her blood red nails against her glass.
Allesha E. wrote this story.
It’s morning. Early. You stir next to me. Tiny hairs on the back of your neck, patches of fine white silk. Undisturbed by your rustle.
You say I make you anxious. My hovering.
I inch closer. And feel your heat.
Inhaling, I can taste you.
And I wait.
Melissa lives in the Washington, DC area with her husband, Ken, dog Scout, and kitty, Mickey. She is an avid reader, writer, runner, and amateur actress.
Recalling the smiles of my youth
I see the greenery, opulence, white pillars, and cars
As fires, fragileness, and feigned freedom
Mistaken for a world of bliss
Now I flip through fertile flames
Molded tablecloths, fancy watches, and fired clay;
The only keepsakes
That outlasted God’s dark test of time
Annie Lyall Slaughter wrote this story.
How about a sandwich? Her words were casual enough, but her voice made me feel she was more in need of company than food.
Only twelve, but too serious, sad, and worried.
I told her, Soon you’ll blossom into a fine young lady. Obviously she wanted much quicker than soon.
Jim Freeze is seventy-two years old, retired and widowed. He was happily married for fifty-four years and has two grown sons. He began writing in early 2012 to have something to do. His short stories have been featured in several publications including Brilliant Flash Fiction, Calliope Magazine, The Original Writer, and Literally Stories.
Who knows why I even bother, but I inform every army that the rented siege weapons must be returned in the same condition if they want their deposit.
“Of course!” they all say.
Then they haul back a pile of splintered wood and mangled metal, assuming they return at all.
Iain Young found a two-for-one discount in his mail. He’s wondering how he got on that mailing list.
I’m still here, you know. Even through these misty eyes, I still see.
But when you look, you see an old person sitting in a chair, unable to speak,
the times I played and danced and laughed
Why don’t you see me?
you should still see
Henry would like to be great at everything but never will be.
An afternoon ritual: park bench, birdseed.
Wistful glances at spirited youngsters and peacock-proud parents swapping milestone stories, recipes, gossip.
She used to bring her kids here to zipline, chase ducks, and pick pungent, sticky-stemmed dandelion posies.
Her life carried in her satchel, she disappears into twilight to join other Invisibles.
Melanie Cranenburgh wrote this story.
To see the silence across a clouded sky and suddenly a crack, thunder like a whip.
Then a drenching rain. The heavens are lit – bright flashes like fire. The silence
back again. Weight upon my shoulders dropped fast – the gift of forgiveness.
Silence cracks my memory – fear like a whip.
Michael Mogel wrote this story.