Other tourists move on, but these two loiter in the pharaoh’s magnificent tomb. Selfies aren’t enough: they’re determined to leave a permanent mark. Laughing at ancient curses, about to scratch their initials into 4,000 years of irreplaceable Egyptian history…
When the guide returns, she stamps on two frantic, scuttling cockroaches.
I have screamed so loud, so often, all that is left is a whisper. Still, I speak—I must. Silence too easily swallows me otherwise, turns my voice to memory; memory, which is all that I am. But even robbed, still, and breathless, even felled… I cannot keep from singing.
Natasha Mihell is a writer and artist-at-heart living on Canada’s West Coast. Her writing often explores the reclamation of self-love, hope, and power, amidst systems and circumstances that threaten hearts and minds. Connect with her at natashamihell.com or @natashamihell.
The bus rocks. I catch my sleepy head before it lolls. There is an insistent buzzing from behind, like a bluebottle, if bluebottles were the size of a safari animal. I imagine it taking up the wheelchair space, crouching iridescent and pulpy, vibrating, goggle-eyed. I can’t bring myself to look.
Anoushka Yeoh is a writer from London and a mother of two. She studied Biomedical Sciences, made an ill-advised segue into the Law and now writes about motherhood, neurodiversity and deafness. She is currently studying for an MA in Creative Writing at Birkbeck, University of London.
The story of the week for May 13 to 17 is…
Twelve Weeks by Jez Poyner
Spring: Dare to say hi.
Summer: Tease them about wearing a scarf; actually, you love it, you adore everything about them, they make you fizz with joy and the world shades beautiful and you lose yourself in their emerald eyes and electric touch and heady scent…
Winter: Return the scarf.
Jennifer Busch usually submits things seven seconds before the deadline.
How was I supposed to tell the guy I thought he was dead? Seriously. Heard he died in a car crash. He asked how I was doing. I said I was good. How about you? I asked. Have my ups and downs, he said, eyes rolling back in his head.
Salvatore Difalco wrote this story.
You were three.
Maggie was twelve.
She cocked her head from side to side, planted firmly on her four feet, watching as you chose the dog biscuit and proffered it.
You wagged your index finger at her, ordering her to sit. Then begged.
Still the tail wagged. Still she stood.
Elizabeth Hone wrote this story.
When he sees his wife rousing from her nap he flips the book open and recites the ending again.
She blinks several times, slowly bringing his face and his voice into focus.
Her apple-green eyes look no different now than the first time.
“I love that story,” she says, smiling.
Bob Thurber is the author of six books. Regarded as a master of Flash and Micro Fiction, his work has appeared in Esquire and other magazines, been anthologized 60 times, received a long list of awards, and been utilized in schools and colleges throughout the world. He resides in Massachusetts. Visit his website at BobThurber.net.
So faded, you can barely read it: Teddy – 3 yrs. Moving up the door frame, a child grows: etchings in the wood mark inches gained, frozen moments captured along the chipped paint.
“Movers are here, Mom.” Familiar voice, grown so low. You touch the topmost tally, leaving one last fingerprint.
K. L. Mill is also a voice actor, another profession that revolves around words. Most recently her work has been published by Black Hare Press, Hungry Shadow Press, and Atomic Carnival.
We’re leaving our child in California.
It’s a relief boarding our return flight,
Backs turned from the hotel room,
the hospital ward,
this ruin of a holiday.
Yet as the skyline tilts and expands beyond our window, our hearts ache.
Goodbye, little one.
If only we could have said hello.
Jez Poyner lives in Manchester, UK. He writes on his phone at night, whilst his wife sleeps beside him.