Each day’s first word, mumbled from habit, meant far more than its sleep-addled reply. Hearing each other’s voice was a welcome-back from our overnight travels, though our bodies had remained just inches apart.
She’s gone now, for eternity, but while making my side of the bed I still ask, “Howdjasleep?”
Stephen Tilden is retired and living in Brooklyn.
It hurt when she was taken from us so suddenly; after an unexpected diagnosis, immediate hospitalisation, and just a couple of weeks of furtive visits, she was gone. While her husband and children grieved, I couldn’t even attend the funeral, still the invisible and unknown member of her family.
Alastair Millar is an archaeologist by training and translator by trade, living in the Czech Republic. His flash fiction (and social media handles) can be found through linktr.ee/alastairmillar.
Angus took a deep breath and closed his eyes, fingertips steepled. “I can do this!” A sotto voce mantra. Gowned, gloved, and masked: a green god preparing for another performance. The inner voice whispered, “Careful… watch what you’re doing!” Ever since the day his hand slipped.
He will stop soon.
Mari lives in the UK. She writes flash fiction and the occasional poem. Other pieces have been published in Cafe Lit, Paragraph Planet and 101 Words.
“What’s wrong with Monica?”
“To prevent blustery fall breezes from blowing her hair in every imaginable direction she plastered her tresses with super-sticky gels. Her hair could not be tousled. As a result, when a strong wind moved her hair en masse, her head turned at the same time. Whiplash.”
John H. Dromey has a short story in Sherlock Holmes Mystery Magazine #32.
I know it’s strange, but he keeps a diary and in the five years we’ve lived together it’s intrigued me but I’ve never been tempted to pry.
Until today, and today’s page began: “Jo will read this, know not to answer the door and be safe.”
Then the knock came.
Joanne Bowers lives in England and likes reading and writing microfiction.
Blood from the cross is dripping into the sky and the air smells of wild onions. It is Sunday and inside the church house they’re discussing taking the “united” out of our Methodist name. The stained-glass windows are nearly shattering and the God of sunsets watches from the back row.
Karlie Taylor is a writer and a high school English teacher. Her work is published on various online platforms.
After my son steps onto the school bus, I nod and salute the driver. New guy with a gap-toothed smile.
Walking back to the house, the biting wind scatters a pack of yellow leaves.
Sip coffee at home, scrolling through the news.
War. Earthquake. Escaped Convict.
Calamities with gap-toothed smiles.
Tim Boiteau is a Writers of the Future winner currently based in Michigan. Find more at timboiteau.wordpress.com.
The story of the week for October 30 to November 3 is…
Grandma Was A Child From the Black Forests of Germany by Bob Thurber
I woke up that morning into a world of glass. Ice covered the trees, deciduous and conifer; it covered everything I could see through the thin, now glaze-encased window. Before the sun could throw shards of itself onto this new world, I hesitated, afraid my breath would break it all.
Rina Palumbo is working on a novel and two nonfiction long-form writing projects alongside short fiction, creative nonfiction, and prose poetry. Her work appears in The Hopkins Review, Ghost Parachute, Milk Candy, Bending Genres, Anti-Heroin Chic, Identity Theory, Stonecoast Review, et al.
The trousers lay steam-press flat on the tarmac, one leg hemmed above the knee. Folk skirted around them, curiosity creating sporadic queues. Conversations sparked, through wound-down windows, in roadside groups. Picnics appeared. A marquee.
After wind sky-danced the pants heavenward, people fell silent.
The void pulsated, like a phantom limb.
See more of Linda’s work at lindagriersonirish.wixsite.com/artandfiction/fiction.