He was lost in thought again. Someone took over his mind, someone with a heart able to enjoy every single moment as if everything was special.
He stared at her and she smiled back happily, unaware of her own uniqueness. That ignorance, he pondered, was also part of her beauty.
José Jaime is from Spain and is studying at university.
I filled sacks with too-snug jeans and sweaters; my closet was finally getting uncluttered.
A fellow donor at the charity shop drivethrough extracted a train set and scooter from her van. I helped her with a dirt bike.
“They grow up so fast,” I commented.
“Tommy had leukemia,” she replied.
tried retiring, but it didn’t work.
I can’t turn my back on you, even though we’re now strangers.
Once you were brave and clever. Your body gave me pleasure, comfort and delight.
Now your limbs tremble. Your mind wanders. The strong man is a lost boy.
In sickness and in health. Until death do us part.
Lucia Saja wrote this story.
Years later, on a strong day, they retrieved the grey shoebox from the back of the closet and arranged the pictures on the living room rug. They smoothed and flattened curls, mended tears with tape. Then they sat silently, back-to-back, lost in memories of the child who never grew up.
Mark Farley writes novels, flash fiction and the occasional poem. See more at mumbletoes.blogspot.com
Smoke was erupting from his engine. One more press of my trigger and his Messerschmitt would be no more.
I had won the fight, but it was the wrong time to deny a family their son for Christmas.
I banked hard right and into the clouds. The fight could wait.
Chris is a Network Manager involved in many aspects of IT. He has a love of writing short stories and technical articles, photography, and playing the guitar. He is from Dudley in the Black Country. He is also a member of The Oldbury Writing Group.
I took Maggie Christmas shopping. We bought clothes for the little girl in our adopt-a-family and a Wonder Woman figure for Maggie.
At bedtime, I asked Maggie about her Wonder Woman toy.
“Please don’t be mad at me, Mommy. I snuck it in with the clothes for that little girl.”
This story was inspired by Meagan’s son Kaden.
The last notes of the organ fade away.
In the old church, shadows dance in the candleglow, echoes of people from times gone by, coming back to me. I feel their presence.
The living drive away the dead as their grandchildren and great grandchildren dispel the moment.
Merry Christmas, Grandma!
Jean lives in Bath in the UK. She likes to use some of her own experiences in her story telling. Merry Christmas!
We gathered in small, always changing groups.
Strangers, family, and friends.
Uncounted words filled the room with copies of the same conversation.
Regrets mingled with the pebbles of ordinary life, to gave rise to our victory cry. Hand-in-hand, we proclaimed, “Life still goes on.”
Thus we denied death his victory.
John Fowler served twenty years in the US Air Force before retiring
and starting a second career in the IT field. He is also a Lay Pastor
serving a small church near his home in Texas. His hobbies include
reading, golfing, writing, and now oil painting.
Despite what he’d been told, Billy Donaldson still believed. They just had to be wrong. Santa was real.
He fell to his bed, weeping into his pillow. Only the action figures on his shelf and his puppy heard the mournful cries.
But the rustling on the roof gave him pause.
David Galassie is a fruitcake enthusiast and a history buff. His blog, chronicling the history and foibles of his old hometown, is at menashabook.blogspot.com
He smiled while his baby was tapping something on his phone. Children are nearly born with it…
He still tried to sustain her, though she moved perfectly herself. He couldn’t get over it.
“I’ve fixed the connection,” his daughter said. “Incidentally, I got a promotion, so I can move out.”
Ksenia is a beginning Russian journalist with a sense of proportion.