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.
That summer the churches stopped selling religion.
You had to know a guy who knew a guy.
I was living by the ocean with a sea captain’s daughter.
He brought home boxes of the stuff.
We shared holy communion. We wept through miracles.
Her and me. Us and the sea.
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, though legally blind, he continues to write every day. Visit his website at BobThurber.net.
“I followed your vision through the hellholes of northern France.”
Now, on a chateau hospital lawn near Ypres, she laughed beside him.
“Custance, nurse of my wounds, beacon of my desire.”
The purloined brandy, springtime lark song, and his idolatry bonded her heart to his.
Close by, field cannons rumbled.
Retired in Ontario, Gary Thomson has ample time to blow Satchmo’s and Beatles’ tunes on his Hohner harmonica.
Gladus glanced out the window and grumbled, “Those darn kids are stealing my pears and cutting across my property again. They’ve got no respect for others. Their parents should be ashamed. Things were different in my day.”
She sighed. “There must be a rule against visiting lonely old ladies now.”
Eddie D. Moore travels extensively for work, and he spends much of that time listening to audio books. The rest of the time is spent dreaming of stories to write and he spends the weekends writing them. His stories have been published by Jouth Webzine, Kzine, Alien Dimensions, Theme of Absence, Devolution Z, and Fantasia Divinity Magazine. Find more on his blog.
Squatting, thighs slightly burning, perched on your toes, hands in front of your shoulders, you place your head on the ground. Knees digging into your triceps, you tentatively lift one foot, then the other. Your left knee slips, so you try again, then again, until, one year later, you arrive.
Jess is a former scientist who maintains computational model code for current scientists. She occasionally gets the urge to write something other than lines of Python or Fortran.
I am not adventurous with food. Simple meals without spices or sauces suit me. The new cook at the cafeteria gives me a wink and a knowing smile. Others complain the cabbage is boiled to death and the stew is tasteless.
On our passionless dates we share pizza without toppings.
Stuart is a retired teacher from Christchurch, New Zealand. He likes to fire up his taste buds with devilishly spicy foods.
Tongue-tied, trusting, and alone. The word she could change was alone.
Four tours in Iraq. Desert sand drove his thirst for wet kisses and the Texas two-step.
He took her hand. The music began. She believed in love at first sight.
Just like the other women who quenched his thirst.
Kavanaugh’s poetry, prose, and photographs have appeared in Wising Up Press, The Lindenwood Review, The Persimmon Tree, When Women Waken, Light-Journal, and others. Kavanaugh enjoys driving the scenic route between St. Pete, Florida, and the Off Campus Writers Workshop (OCWW) in Winnetka, Illinois, not far from home. When not writing, Kavanaugh fills the time by pondering slices of life or the surf on a beach. See more at kavanaughwrites.com or twitter.com/off_themap.
The search party had given up hope of finding any survivors of the crash. The island reeked of death and the heat was intolerable.
The only survivor had been following them for days, hunger gnawing at his belly. He attacked them that night.
Three weeks later, another search party arrived.
When not writing short fiction, Daniel teaches English in Poland.
See more at facebook.com/ponglish1.