The runner balances, cleats in the dirt like a beach bum’s bare feet on a board, arms reaching fore and aft, straining against invisible ropes, frozen in time and place, all potential, matter before energy, before the Big Bang. The pitcher, stock solid still, blinks, twitches, and the runner runs.
Mike Welch is a writing teacher from Albany, NY.
As he lined up each
of The New York Times
upon her dining table
that had arrived each day
while she was bicycling Yars Trail
a swell of happiness rose up
for he found he truly loved her
far better than he managed to
all those years spent yoked together
Shoshauna Shy divides her time between flash fiction and poetry, and often merges the two. See more at PoetryJumpsOfftheShelf.com.
Leaning in the shade of the doorway to the back yard, her back to the grimy floor and a sinkful of dishes, she casually glances at the small saw kerf on top of that rotten limb as she takes one last drag and flicks the butt toward her deadly nightshade.
Stephen Tilden now finds his back yard too shady for gardening.
Editor’s Note: Stephen wrote this story as a response to Tim Boiteau’s April contribution, Widowmaker.
Her voice has been pervasive since your husband’s death. You dress your mother-in-law while she complains that you are starving her, you are after her money, the sea air is cold, the wheelchair is moving too fast. Her final taunt, “You killed my boy,” propels you both over the edge.
Clodagh O Connor lives in Dublin, Ireland and has always loved reading. She is working on becoming a writer, but constantly distracts herself with wet felting, origami, bird watching, cycling, haiku writing, baking, reading and internet rabbit holes.
When you made us recite Ozymandias in class, I grumped. When you made us study the difference between a Petrarchan and a Shakespearean sonnet, I groaned. Now that I’m old I realize I never got to thank you for everything, every word, sentence, and syllable. Your epitaph is so beautiful.
Ed Ridgley hiked to Everest Base Camp in Nepal in 2018, at age 57, also asthmatic, thus completing the number one item on his bucket list since age 10. At 17,500 feet, he wondered if any of those “you can accomplish anything” self-help gurus had ever done anything like this. But base camp was as far as he wanted to go, that was enough. Then again, who knows what enough really means?
Tomorrow will be a good day. Brother’s coming home from the war in England. We are going to meet him at the harbour around eight in the morning. And then I’m having my hula dance recital! I hope I don’t embarrass myself again.
December 7, 1941
Yesterday was forever ago.
Chelsea Allen loves stargazing.
We proclaim that we would do anything for our children. But would we? We’d give our lives, our health, all earthly possessions, take on their pain, maybe even their debt. But would we give our souls? Take on their responsibilities? Steal? Cheat? Lie? Murder? Most of you will never know.
Eileen uses retirement years to think and write about some of life’s perplexing questions.
It’s not possible. Dead for thirty years; I smell her soap. I freeze at my desk, papers scattered around me, paused. As if we listen for her voice. Her words fall over my head as in childhood. She is not gone. “Imagine that!” my grandmother would say. I am, Grandma.
Carmen Farrell is an emerging writer and student at Simon Fraser University in British Columbia. Her work in progress concerns a flawed and worried mother raising a neurodiverse child and the judgments they encounter. Prior to taking up writing, she worked in school systems as a public relations specialist and advocate for students with diverse learning needs. See more at turnofphraseblog.com
There were no trophies, blue ribbons, or medals to pack. She wasn’t an athlete, a cook, or a beauty. Yet spread around her on the basement floor were baby shoes, report cards, old photos, a worn dog collar—all prizes of a life well lived—all marks of a winner.
A prolific writer, Carol Reeves is loving the freedom and challenges of 50 word stories. Her memoir, “All the Little Miracles,” was published last year.
I slide into a kelp sea.
My hair entwines with grass and urchins.
I am their forest. Little things hide in my cupped hands.
Safe from storms and sun,
Wild things find solace as I slip to the bottom.
Free from any anchor, I am now able to finally
Breathe.
Katherine Darlington enjoys writing poetry, and has poetry, articles, and short stories in various publications. See more of her work at www.katherinedarlington.com.