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.
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.
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.
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.
The story of the week for March 11 to 15 is…
The Monument by Ron Scully
Blue jeans, orange T, a sweater knitted in diamonds, and oh for earrings, not gold hoops, but pretty silver studs like Elsa’s, or crystal, like Lynn’s; and a mood ring. That would be her look today.
Lisa cast her eyes over the garments spread out on the bed. Nothing matched.
Farriz Mashudi is a former lawyer, journalist, and blogger, turned writer of fiction and CNF. Born in Malaysia, she’s lived all over the place and currently resides in the Middle East.
Running my fingers through her auburn locks, I whisper tender words into the stillness. Ever since an accident months ago, she has been immobile and trapped in silence.
I help with her makeup, applying warm colors to restore her former vitality. However, nothing I find will work with her decomposition.
J.A. Allison is a writer and music producer living on the fringe of American society.