“You have me,” he said, the promise reflected in his eyes. She believed him.
That was a year ago. He’d lied.
Now she held her screaming newborn in her arms, breasts raw from another failed feeding. “Shhh,” she whispered near his little ear. “I’m here. I will always be here.”
Zurina Saban is a poet and author based in Johannesburg.
I remember what it was like to go to sleep and just luxuriate in it, swimming in the darkness of hours and hours.
Now you’re here, with your whimpers in the night and your chubby hands clutching me as you feed. You smell like warmth, and love has replaced sleep.
Victoria Davies is a freelance music teacher and writer from London, UK. She loves writing her thoughts and feelings about motherhood after the birth of her son in November 2016, an event more life-changing than she ever expected. You can read her blog at muminmakeup.wordpress.com
The old lady nudged the bearded man beside her, and asked, “Do you remember my brother?”
“What?” He replied.
“My brother. Do you remember my brother?”
The old man sighed. “I am your brother! I’ve told you a million times.”
The old woman appeared doubtful. “My brother wasn’t that ugly.”
Eddie & Anna are a father-daughter team that enjoys dreaming up stories and hashing out dialogue. Sometimes they even write them down. Anna’s new to writing, but you can visit her father’s website
Who are these senior citizens who surround me?
I see retirees decked out in bifocals and new teeth, but I remember energetic cheerleaders, state football champs, school newspaper reporters.
As we pass phones to share photos of our kids, grandchildren, and pets, we promise to meet again in 10 years.
Roberta tried retiring, but it didn’t work. See more at RobertaJacobson.com
My grandma has forgotten the word for Mahjongg. She keeps asking to play yoga.
I think about what that might mean.
She’d be teacher. Her poses would have names like desserts: the rugelach, the macaroon. I’d contort myself, wobble, fall. We’d both laugh.
From the closet, I get the tiles.
Brooke Randel is a writer and copywriter in Chicago, IL. Her fiction has been published in Ropes, Two Cities Review, Punchnel’s and Beecher’s Magazine. She’s currently co-writing a memoir with her grandma.
The clock strikes twelve. Glasses clink, the shiny ball drops, cheers all around.
In the midst of the confetti, I stand alone, champagne in hand… waiting.
Waiting for you, my love. Waiting for your kiss to signal another New Year.
My mind knows you’ve gone, but my heart still waits.
Susan Lozano wrote this story.
I sit in the family room wearing a hat, surrounded by memories.
Dad was a collector. It started small, with pencils.
One day he came home with beer cans. A new collection was born.
I think he loved his hat collection best.
He died last year, leaving me his treasures.
Candace Kubinec wrote this story.
I saw her in French class and knew I had to have her heart.
I pictured it: big, lovely, and full of life, the perfect one for me.
I wined and dined her and when the time came, she offered it. I accepted.
I had her heart. It was delicious.
Chelsea Roberts is a writer from Trinidad and Tobago. When she isn’t laying on a sandy beach, she can be found writing essays and micro fiction at pastpaperanswers.com
“You excited?” He smiled.
Her heart raced.
The doctor squeezed out the cold, clear goo.
She felt the wand wiggle around.
His smile hollowed.
She waited for the sound.
Another doctor came.
Minutes ticked by.
But the second heartbeat couldn’t be found.
Juliann Morris is an avid reader, writer, and tiny house dweller graduating from the University of Hawaii at Hilo this semester with a double Bachelor’s degree in English and Communication and a Creative Writing Certificate. She writes both fiction and nonfiction and bases most of her stories on her life experiences.
With ketchup trickling from her broad grin, his daughter looks like a cheerful, diminutive vampire.
The food is too fast, the street is too crowded, the fireworks are too loud. She is loving every single minute, and her mother will be furious.
Both of these things give him deep satisfaction.
Tamsin wishes she wasn’t too cowardly for fireworks and broad grins.