“She’s got the sight,” Mama hisses, makes a forking gesture with arthritic fingers.
“Don’t talk rubbish, woman.” Papa’s whiskers tickle my ear. I feel safe curled in his lap, until I see him make the forking sign himself, down the side of the armchair where he thinks I won’t see.
Rebecca Fraser is an Australian writer whose short stories, flash fiction, and poems have appeared in various anthologies, magazines, and journals since 2007. She holds a Masters of Arts in Creative Writing, and her fiction showcases her fondness for all things darkly speculative. To provide her muse with life’s essentials, Rebecca supplements by copy and content writing, however her true passion lies in storytelling. See more at rebeccafraser.wordpress.com
The flat green line. The monitor said… dead.
Years after her heart stopped, mine remains shattered but “healthy.”
I’ve tried to reassemble. I think good thoughts, fond memories. Piece by piece its coming back together. My shattered heart. I thought I felt it today. Alas… it is made of stone.
Lou Romero wanders around the New Mexico desert in his old truck, looking for signs. The signs usually tell him, “Why not stop here and eat a burrito?”
to close the distance
and reach out
and accepting you,
just as you are.
I hold on
and tell you
to leave without me,
Munira Sayyid recently realized her passion for writing. She urges you to try as well.
I think about his freckles sometimes.
One under his eye, two on his cheek, and twenty-six on the bridge of his nose. I get hung up on the three on his lips. They were my freckles. I claimed them every day.
They’re still there. But they have a new owner.
Carly Huss lives with her boyfriend and dog in Lewisville, Texas.
If I hadn’t woken up late. If the guy hadn’t spilled his coffee. If I hadn’t had to go back and change. If I hadn’t missed my train. If life wasn’t so unpredictable…
I wouldn’t have met you. You wouldn’t have noticed me. We would never have fallen in love.
Bella Ren is an English student from Brazil. She loves writing and reading English short stories and poetry.
It was her first blind date.
“Sit at the table near the window,” he’d said. “Wear yellow.”
Now, at the table near the window, she waited. Their eyes met briefly as he passed. She anticipated the cold rush of air, but the door never opened. She still felt the chill.
Susan Gale Wickes wrote this story. She rarely window shops and never wears yellow.
He placed his hands on the ceramic bowl where last she had placed hers. He brought it to his lips and kissed the rim as she used to before slurping whatever tepid liquid remained, and then set it beside the urn in the china cabinet.
He smiled meekly.
Francisco Tutella teaches English literature, composition, and elementary Italian in northeast Pennsylvania. He is trying to learn Japanese and wants to teach English overseas. His work has appeared in 50-Word Stories and Wilkes magazine. He has an M.F.A. in Creative Writing from Wilkes University.
At 80, Gramp was unsteady on his feet. He didn’t want his nurse’s help, but waited ‘til she was gone, then stumbled to the bathroom.
He fell and broke his hip.
He died in the hospital two weeks later.
They say he died from pneumonia.
I say it was embarrassment.
Harry Demarest has had twenty of his 50-word stories and a few longer pieces published. This is a true story which happened to Harry’s grandfather in 1966.
Her blue eyes looked down into his brown ones. His brown hand grabbed her peach finger.
They were complete opposites, but that didn’t matter to either of them. Perfect matches weren’t based on color: eyes, skin, hair. This was a perfect match.
“Welcome home,” said the foster mom.
Melanie Gabbard is a mother of four: one biological, three adopted from foster care. She won a short story competition with Writer’s Digest and wrote a short screenplay that was adapted for film.
A beautiful flower, blooming for a season; radiant colour, my soul lifted. All things are fleeting, the fragile more so. Your short season over, you left us, transformed back into the loam, nourishing the earth as your love once nurtured me. Goodbye my daughter. Your time short; your existence profound.
Bill lives in Aberdeen Scotland. He tried to be good once. It didn’t take.