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.
A Chevrolet Silverado crashed on Route 129. Her soulmate, a turkey vulture, landed by her side. She fed him venison for six years, served on asphalt, cooked by sunshine.
The vulture brought a pebble to comfort her. Out of her dented body, “Brown Eyed Girl” by Van Morrison still sang.
Allison Stalberg is a Fiction MFA student attending Southern New Hampshire University. She has worked in journalism for seven years and has speculative fiction stories published in Outposts of Beyond, Calliope, and Altered Reality magazine. As an asexual neurodivergent woman, she works towards writing stories that inspire rebellion, independent thinking, and radical love. She lives in Chapel Hill, North Carolina, with her husband and cats.
I was resting in the park
when he came over.
Wary of strays,
I tried to shoo him away.
He edged nearer
asking for a rub and then
started showing off.
He galloped on his three legs
Danced with the leaves
I picked up my crutches
And started following him.
Beatrice Rao likes observing the stray dogs in Mumbai and listening to their stories.
The story of the week for July 10 to 14 is…
Let Me Mourn by Chidi Young
Nana had a cure for everything. Arnica for bruises, yarrow for bleeding, comfrey for sprains and broken bones. And she taught me about poisonous plants, what to avoid.
I remember her words as I select fresh leaves and flowers for a salad, broken arm healed but stiff, new bruises aching.
Deborah writes at an old desk surrounded by five hundred pet bugs.
She rescues children, puppies and kittens, sunstruck basil, and five-legged stick insects.
A raggedy beggar at the gate asks for jelly with his peanut butter sandwich.
They loved jelly. Jelly made it bearable. They’re gone. She remains.
She blushes. How could she forget? A glass of cold milk to atone.
Cate Covert hails from sunny Idaho, U.S.A. She has been telling stories since she could talk. Cate has been a Christian pastor and teacher for 25 years, speaking, teaching, and writing bible class curricula. She is a gardener and amateur herbalist, plays guitar and piano, and loves baking bread and making beaded jewelry. Most of all, Cate Covert loves to engage her reading and listening audiences. You can read her frequent inspirational writings, poetry, flash fiction, and humorous stories at Cate Covert on Chadashah.org or her Inspirational essays and Bible studies at Pastora Cate’s Corner on Substack.
The artist places the unfinished portrait on the easel.
“Your decision,” he says.
Esme stares at the flawless features, feels a yearning for this vibrant youth – her face full of expectation.
Yet what is a life lived without the experience shown?
“Paint every line, every blemish, every scar,” she says.
Lesley Bungay wrote this story.
The park is no urban oasis.
There’s five of them waiting at the entrance. Focused.
As they creep closer you can tell they’ve been doing this for a while. They’re hefty. Thug-fat and cocky in their glossy coats.
The squirrels demand their toll, and I forgot to bring my nuts.
Ben lives and teaches in London. He is sad that coffee no longer works the way it used to.