One side of his syrinx trilled a curse to his family’s murderer. The other warbled his children’s favorite melodies through sobs. His friends comforted him but discouraged his screams: “You’ll die, by predator or exhaustion.” He always replied: “Can’t die. Already dead.”
The humans nearby praised, “Pretty bird. Beautiful song!”
Nature both terrifies and captivates boomer trujillo. Find more of his work at boomert.info.
They met on the sand, slow waltzing to wavesong under a rainbow of stars and deciding love should last beyond forever.
Now he whispers those memories and her smile smooths the wrinkles of their pain.
He catches her last breath with a gossamer lasso and ties it to his heartbeat.
A.J. lives in Australia and wouldn’t mind being reincarnated as a kookaburra. She’s on Twitter at @manicol1.
She’s usually back by sunset. Then I nuzzle her hair and she sighs.
She fills my bowl. As I eat, I contemplate the smells of people and things she encountered during the day. Sometimes she talks about them.
Tonight she’s late, sobbing, smells different too… She’s left her heart behind.
Joey currently does not have a dog or a cat. See more at joeytoey.com.
The moment River’s life ended, brick by brick I built the wall. Covered the searing pain with concrete so no one could see. People passed and acknowledged the smile. The nod. The pleasantries.
Till you saw and lay down beside me, held me, and whispered. Whispered like River used to.
Eileen Brennan McIntyre is a writer from Northern California who loves writing stories that touch the heart.
I didn’t give her my password because it was “I LOVE SUSAN,” and I hadn’t told her yet. She ended the relationship the following morning with a text. She said if I couldn’t trust her, she couldn’t stay.
I responded with the password, but she said it was too late.
Rob O’Hara works with computers all day and words all night. Find out what Rob’s up to at RobOHara.com.
The morning after, I find myself putting chopped tomatoes in my omelette, the same way he did. He had them ready on our first visit and somehow it became our ritual.
I hate tomatoes. But I’m glad I never told him.
I’ll miss Grandpa’s stories. And his tomato omelettes, too.
Melissa Kelly is a poet and short story writer from Long Island, NY. You can see some of her work in WestWard Quarterly Magazine, Plum Tree Tavern, Soft Cartel, Amethyst Review, and Anti-Heroin Chic.
Late into the night, the child returned.
She slowly unclenched her fist.
There, in the palm of her little hand, lay a radiant star.
It was no bigger than when it had hovered in the sky.
But it was brighter now, as luminous as the glow intensifying on the horizon.
Author’s Note: For Sydnee, with love.
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, despite severe vision loss, he continues to write every day. Visit his website at BobThurber.net.
“Those Browns!” said Mom, after Billy’s first visit. “They’re not smart. Short-lived, too.”
Both were true. But when my leg was in a cast, Billy carried me into the school. He blanketed everyone with kindness—warmth personified.
When the cancer got him, age 50, our children and I cried buckets.
Rita Stevens has been a teacher and newspaper writer in west Michigan. She writes every day—three novels and a stack of short stories so far.
“Show, don’t tell,” you told me. “Use action to illustrate your point.”
Of course, you were right. I’d failed to get what I wanted to say across.
“I really do love you,” I said. Then I picked up my socks from the floor and put them in the wash basket.
David Rae wrote this story. See more at davidrae-stories.com.
Clare sits in her car, heater at full blast. She knows she should keep driving but the lights of the house, her home, have her mesmerized.
She looks longingly at her past. The deep snow makes it look as if nothing has changed, the SOLD sign buried beneath a drift.
Candace Kubinec posts her stories at storydribbles.wordpress.com and her poetry at rhymeswithbug.com.