We waited until the twittering mums at the school gates dispersed before leaping the fence.
Instead of Geography, the Ferris wheel. Candyfloss for a packed lunch. Faces painted like tigers in place of double Art.
Home, hours late. Still gleeful, until I realised I’d forgotten to wash my whiskers off.
Rachael is a teacher from Scotland.
Wisps of sandalwood fill my nostrils.
Dan told me the smoke would unlock my chakras and balance my soul. I sat across from him. We hummed and chanted, inhaled and exhaled. Apparently I wasn’t loud enough.
I lick my fingers and press them hard against the ember, dousing his memory.
Koji A Dae is an American writer living in Bulgaria with her husband and two children.
In our third hour,
Father left us
to the nurses
while Mother slept.
At home, he played
then fixed it
to the stairwell –
wood on wood,
lacquer on varnish,
Now Mother aligns
the tuning pegs,
wipes away dust,
but every string
is brittle and
Mark Farley was raised in Zimbabwe where he survived two dog maulings, a swarm of killer bees, and being run over by a horse.
When I woke, he stood by our bed, his suit muddy, eyes clouded, skin sickly pale.
“I’m home,” he croaked around his decomposing tongue.
“You shouldn’t be. You’re death walking again, honey.”
“Can I stay?”
Taking his icy hand, I led him from the house, towards the cemetery.
GB is a writer from Tasmania. She prefers grey areas to the clarity of light and dark.
Fighting for country, fighting for principles. Someone’s child, showing determination to sacrifice and make a difference.
Perhaps, long ago, a gardener who loved the colors of fall. Perhaps a devoted parent, raising kind-hearted children. Perhaps a teacher, leading young minds toward wisdom.
Now, known but to God.
The Unknown Soldier.
Sandra Siegienski enjoys writing science fiction/fantasy and young adult fiction. Her focus ranges from novels to six-word story contests.
Sadly, War Veteran Terry Smith (no fixed abode), died last Friday.
Terry was a treasured personality, singing for a dollar outside the Town Hall as he begged for “Bread and Broth.”
Locals will be pleased to hear $20,000 has been allocated from council funds for a statue in his honour.
Jo Withers writes poetry, flash and the occasional novel from her home in South Australia.
Growing up, I looked up to my dad more than anything. So when he said my mom was a goddess in every sense, I was perplexed. She was… matronly. Crow’s feet and freckles.
As I grew older, it never dawned on me.
Until I met a goddess in every sense.
Isaiah Smith has lived in a lot of places, but his favourites are where he’s among friends. Before he was a writer, Isaiah didn’t have a purpose outside of pleasing his friends and family. He wears a two-piece suit while he writes. It’s just business.
During the film festival, Jeanie stopped at a cosmetics booth. A computer monitor displayed her lonely, seventy-year-old widow’s face.
She touched a button. A younger image materialized. The computer had painted her face: eyeliner, lashes, lips.
Jeanie sent the photo to a seniors’ dating site. This would be the year.
Teresa Del Mastro lives on the Danforth in Toronto with Angelo, Michael, Rachel and Willow.
My father called from somewhere.
He needed to sign some important documents and he’d forgotten his name again.
I asked where he was, I asked where he’d been.
I asked if he was alright, if he was wearing shoes and clothes.
He said, Just spell my name for me, son.
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.
Being us is coming home, slipping into PJs, and pressing soft, weary limbs together under grandma-made quilts and old sheets. It’s absence of words while my nose is tucked inside your neck. Then it’s singing “Hallelujah!” with our eyes because we’re home, together, in the tender place of being known.
Alyssa Minaker lives in Africa with her husband.