I went to sit next to an actor who I thought was my friend. He told me that my seat was already taken. Then someone got up and did an impromptu dance about a piece of string.
I walked down to the beach, snuck to my car, and drove home.
Art Scribbler lives in Portland, Oregon. He works in a grocery store. When he’s not working, he likes to write, read, listen to jazz, and watch old movies on TV. He also likes drinking coffee and scribbling posts on his blog called The Morning Scribble.
My mother’s rough hands fold turn-ups on my jeans, pins clamped between her teeth. I bind my feet to the floor, desperate to climb trees. Mum likes jeans – they’re easier, she says, than peeling off and washing muddy dresses. As she stands, scissors held low, the door swings behind me.
Bonnie is a British writer whose flash fiction has appeared in several literary magazines including most recently Ellipsis Zine and Tiny Molecules. She shares a house in Greater Manchester, UK, with an unpredictable number of humans; grows disobedient vegetables; and walks in the hills near home. Bonnie also travels alarming distances to see loved ones in Aotearoa/New Zealand. See more at bonniemeekums.weebly.com
I’m the ghost drifting in yesterday’s misfortune. Mother was murdered, Christmas, years before, before I was a woman, a drunk. I swallow whiskey, pills, hold snapshots, blare music, drowning in sorrow until you appear in a dream, delivering the words, “Release it, Mama’s dancing in the wind, floating amongst stars.”
Angela Carlton lives outside Atlanta with her husband and two
daughters. Her fiction has been published in EWR, Every Day Fiction, Pedestal Magazine, Long Story Short, 6S, High Noon and Friday Flash Fiction among others. Her story “Swallowed” was nominated for the Pushcart Prize in 2023.
His Childhood was scared out of him, run off by the lash. But now, on this silent night in a less than jolly world, perhaps the greatest gift: from the twinkling lights on the tree, the family’s stockings, the crackling fire, he realizes he is still a child at heart.
Robert Ludemann is happy and retired, and that is the long and short of it.
Working beneath the eave, sheltered from the falling snow,
with a string of brightly colored bulbs
I spelled out my Yuletide proclamation
and was warmed by the message and the glow
“Noel” was what I spelled while under the eave,
but alas, passersby on the street wondered, “Who was Leon?”
Gene Newman was a USAF cryptologist during the Korean War and is a retired engineer and journalist, including stringing for the N.Y. Times and being a crossword puzzle creator for the New York Times and USA Today.
The story of the week for December 18 to 22 is…
Breakout by Deborah Tapper
Scarves, mittens, candy canes,
Choirs singing sweet refrains;
Cocoa, cookies, mistletoe,
Laughter by the fire’s glow.
Random kindness, generous cheer
Infuse the hearts of all held dear;
Loved ones present, others missed,
Presents checked off Santa’s list.
May childlike wonder never leave our sight,
To all a peaceful blessed night.
Lisa Chambers is a Texas girl carrying forward the great love her Dad held for Christmas.
Sending out holiday cards gets easier each year. More names are crossed out as friends and family appear in obituaries.
I write short notes to those who are on the list no more to thank for the beautiful memories that bind us.
The notes grace the wall and my heart.
K.G. Song enjoys crafting short stories and micro-fiction in his retirement.
I walked into the plant store looking for seeds.
“They’re on sale,” the clerk told me, handing me an envelope. “Nobody wants them.”
I looked at the picture of an unfamiliar plant, with the caption, “Please, take care of me.”
Now I proudly own a lot of lush, unfamiliar bushes.
Marcelo Medone (1961, Buenos Aires, Argentina) is a Pushcart Prize nominee fiction writer, poet, essayist, playwright, and screenwriter. He received numerous awards and was published in multiple languages in more than 50 countries, including Canada. He currently lives in Montevideo, Uruguay. See more on Facebook and Instagram.
To Marie, Christmas meant the sweet smell of pine, smiling parents, and presents tied with a bow.
This year, she toured a fragrant tree farm. She wrapped herself a small gift. Then she collapsed in front of their snow-capped stone, accepting she’d only celebrate two-thirds of Christmas from now on.
Ian Li writes speculative fiction and poetry from Toronto. Formerly an economist and consultant, he also loves spreadsheets, statistical curiosities, and brain teasers. Find his writing at Radon Journal, Flame Tree Press, and 365 Tomorrows, as well as at ian-li.com.