The story of the week for March 18 to 22 is…
Sólarkaffi by Râna Campbell
MATT BANASH: Ghost Orientations
Our love took sick in Louisville with a whimper. Died in Knoxville without a sound. Its ghost wanders in the mountains of East Tennessee looking for the Carolina border like a lost cub scout separated from his pack. Ghosts have no sense of direction and can’t hold a compass besides.
Matt was born and raised in NY state and presently lives in Dark Corner, SC.
BILLIE-LEIGH BURNS: Fork in a Dead-end Road
Crossroad demon in a three-piece suit: “Initial the pages and fill in the blanks.”
And I’m supposed to say, “Thanks,” like I have a choice.
Poisoned ink dries on the page, as I sign my life away. Just some more bones to build your throne, another soul under your control.
Billie-Leigh Burns is a writer from Liverpool. Her work has been featured by 50 Word Stories, Funny Pearls, and Mersey Review. She is also a bookkeeper, making her the only writer she knows who owns an ‘I Heart Spreadsheets’ mug.
RALPH BOSSINGHAM: All At Sea
A child knelt, sanding the aft of her toy boat in a shabby yard, dreaming of sailing away—captaincy!
The oceans, however, proved cruel: stern beating, scull battering.
Clutching fatigued sandpaper, she drifted towards unknown harbors,
sinking in a wave of years, her callous old hands surrounded by dust, rudderless.
Ralph Bossingham is a Music Therapist, English Teacher, and a compulsive maker of things.
RÂNA CAMPBELL: Sólarkaffi
November brings darkness. The sheep are enclosed. Fishing will be good provided forgiving seas.
Women bide time knitting. The hardy jog in blizzards. The lonely drink.
Northern lights extend the horizon until the sun again conquers the mountaintops.
That day, we host neighbours for coffee and pancakes, savouring our endurance.
Râna is an editor from Montreal who lived in a small town in Iceland for nearly ten years. Her work has been longlisted for the Australian Writers’ Center’s Furious Fiction showcase and shortlisted for the New Writers Flash Fiction Competition. Her first publication credit is forthcoming with the 42 Stories Anthology.
NICK CASTINE: The Marksman
My father was a marksman. He taught me to inhale the morning air before entering the forest, to stand down wind from a pack of deer, to exhale when squeezing the trigger. I wonder what this fawn had been taught about breathing, if these last breaths were in the curriculum.
Nick Castine is a writer based in Northern Massachusetts who has a car that has climbed Mount Washington and is the proud parent of an honor student.
JUDITH DZIERBA: Tea Ceremony
In a teahouse,
a cup of tea—
leaves ground,
bamboos whisk
balance.
In a tearoom,
a cup of tea—
guests invited,
humors mingled
connect.
In a tea shop,
a cup of tea—
comfort brewing,
scents steeping
ambrosially.
From a teapot,
a cup of tea—
poured gently,
sipped slowly
into serenity.
Judith wrote this.
MILLIE MACDONALD: Ticktock
Tick.
Tock.
Tick.
Tock.
The slow barrage echoes down the empty hallway, bouncing off the battered lockers and the scuffed tile floor. Heavy footsteps clank closer; you huddle under a teacher’s desk, hoping, praying.
Metal glints at the doorframe; claws, long and spindly, bite into the soft wood.
Tick.
Tock.
Millie is an aspiring Australian author with far too many finished stories collecting dust on her harddrive, who is finally trying her hand at this whole being published thing.
BOB THURBER: Sanctuary
In my room of books, a tower of hardcovers supports a lamp. Neat short stacks serve as low tables. Even the bookcases are constructed of books supporting books, the volumes compacted pyramid-style. Old dogeared pillowy paperbacks are available to sit upon or kneel upon, depending on your degree of devotion.
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.
KAREN SCHAUBER: Weasels, Skunks, Badgers and Otters
They ate us out of house and home. Martha and the children would arrive in the middle of the night, Frank left behind in a drunken stupor. We would hear the Volkswagen coasting up the driveway, the engine running on empty. And after a couple of weeks, we were too.
Karen Schauber writes flash fiction and curates Vancouver Flash Fiction: an online resource hub for flash fiction writers and enthusiasts. Read her at KarenSchauberCreative.weebly.com.