A bonus day with my granddaughter
Doing whatever occurs to her moment to moment
Her shameless giggling
Her quick-silver mind
Her soft-as-dough hugs
Her pillowy hand
Her huger-than-life heart
Her limitless imagination
Her endless potential
I’m the luckiest girl alive to tread this giddy path long ago and now… again.
Carol Tymann writes, reads, walks, and plays in upstate New York.
The story of the week for July 17 to 21 is…
The Healer by Beatrice Rao
and
I watch the bones sink to the bottom by J.C. Pillard
My disbelief in God has kept me alive this long.
Long enough to be set in stone, to be despaired
and unconvinced. Long enough to still taste you
on my lips. When sunlight fades, I catch glimpses
of the girl you were; mouthing private devotions
and absolution for all creation.
Alex lives in Minneapolis.
Papa truly surprised me, said it all in his native Sicilian. Never once flinched or flushed.
“Egg waits, many sperm swim madly, battle for a single triumph. Ignition. Growth. Our beautiful Stella arrives.”
My papa, a poet. You would think such intimate conversation would have been with ma. Not so.
Deborah lives and writes in northwestern Montana. She is busy creating very short pieces in between assembling scenes for a forthcoming short story.
A coyote with an injured leg is abandoned by his pack and makes his home on my university campus. Students keep our distance; heed warnings not to feed him. It would make no difference at all to his loneliness – but no one in the world is as revered, as beloved.
Amrita V. Nair is a writer and researcher. Her poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in Okay Donkey, Yuzu Press, and elsewhere, and was included in the Bloomsbury Anthology of Great Indian Poems. Follow her on Twitter at @amritanairv.
Wine and beer
Friends and sand
Your neck
Your lips
Perfect moonlight
A dunk in the lake
Your warm body
I’m entangled
Even today
But we drifted away
Forty years later
I’m tempted to look for you
But the time is gone
I wonder
If you ever
Think of me
Patrick Yu is retired and from time to time likes to share 50 words.
Her fingers have started to pluck at the bedsheets, the night-nurse says. There’s time; get some rest.
Next morning, she tells me Mama seemed to be reaching out to someone, tracing lines in the air.
When I lay down beside her and took her hand, it had finished the story.
E. C. Traganas is a published novelist and poet from New York City and a Juilliard-trained concert pianist and composer by profession.
Her face lit up the room, diluting the sunlight spilling through the hospital windows. Her yawn sent endorphins straight to my brain. When I held her tiny hand, life suddenly had meaning. So delicate.
The first time she uttered my name, my heart melted: “Daddy.”
That feeling never got old.
Melissa is a Chinese-Canadian writer. Follow her on Twitter / Instagram at @melisfluous or find her at linktr.ee/MelissaRen.
Even at three you have his back, with your arm around his shoulder. Your chubby little fingers enfold him with love, selfless and caring. When he cries you give him the toy, sad to see him upset. Will he learn from you, or will he always expect such empathy?
Eleanor Young is a mother of four, retired health visitor, and grandmother of two, who loves writing.
The lake beside my house is full of bones. People come here to forget, tipping old bodies into the water.
Memories don’t vanish with skin and muscle, though. They wrap around the bones, like fishing line, visible in the right light. On clear mornings, I see them littering the bottom.
J.C. Pillard is a writer and editor living in Colorado. Her work has been published in Metaphorosis Magazine, Abyss & Apex, Penumbric, and elsewhere. When not writing, J.C. can be found gardening and knitting far too many sweaters. Find more of her work at www.jcpillard.com.