A single step forward ripples through the queue. I joined it long ago and it’s grown until now the queue is all I can see.
I dream of reaching the front. Where waits…
I never knew. But I can’t give up. I’ve come too far and nowhere near far enough.
Brian Maycock’s stories have appeared most recently on the NoSleep Podcast and Tales from the Breakroom. He’s in Cornwall.
The lovers ascend swiftly, hearts pulsing with each foothold. She always yearned to climb—swing from branches thick with foliage, apple-blossomed in spring. Now they sway, unsteady, on a winter limb. Only then does she remember the problem with descent. Remembers she has never known how to get herself un-treed.
Kelli Short Borges writes from her home in Phoenix, Arizona, where her family has lived for six generations. Her stories have won contests and been nominated for multiple awards. She is currently working on her first novel. You can connect with her at Kellishortborges.com.
She had high hopes.
Prince Charming was unavoidably detained.
The glass slipper would eventually fit.
Her castle was somewhere, waiting, high on a hill.
Day after day, she read the story.
Day after day, she waited.
Disguised as an imperfect but glorious life, her happily ever after passed her by.
Susan Gale Wickes is a writer from Indiana. She enjoys writing short stories and greeting card verses and the joy of cartoon captioning.
The story of the week for March 18 to 22 is…
Sólarkaffi by Râna Campbell
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.