The weather report says low air quality. On the east side of the mountain, we bicker about the mundane: what’s for dinner, who’ll take out the garbage, why the Internet stopped working. We learn too late that the wind shifted, that the cell towers and more are in the way.
Larina Warnock is an educator in Oregon where she lives with her husband, three dogs, and a turtle older than she is.
I have a thistle suspended in a paperweight—forever frozen in its perfect beauty. It will never feel the wind lift it from its stem, scatter its seeds. Is it protected or imprisoned? Has its beauty eclipsed the wonder of fulfillment? Does it reflect, as I do, on the unknown?
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. She often writes about the privilege and vicissitudes of aging.
The story of the week for July 3 to 7 is…
Shadow Dreams by Bob Thurber
The majestic oak where Dad used to play, a monument to the past.
The tree where I scraped knees, fashioned dreams, and enjoyed summer breezes whistling through branches.
“Mom, look at me!” my son shouts gleefully from above.
This tree welcomes us home, now that my Father no longer can.
Lisa Chambers is a Texas girl grateful for roots that run deep.
“There; true North.” He said the stars were compasses, but his Abyssus, a compass of the heart, never needed them. Together, they’d delivered fish, chased storms, saved lost souls.
He paused, exhaled, gaze lost at sea—like Abyssus.
On they sailed, passing unassumingly through a world too directionless to notice.
Emma Peng is a recent high school graduate who loves exploring worlds through writing her stories and wildlife blog.
On his deathbed, my father’s request that I wear my uniform to his funeral was as close as he’d ever come to saying he was proud of me. As the morphine drip increases and his lucidity fades, my last chance to hear him say he loves me also slips away.
Bud Pharo is a permanently disabled veteran who has recently taken up writing short stories and flash fiction to assist in his recovery. He lives in New Jersey.
Frigid November winds shrivel played-out community gardens. The 70-year-old poet sits alone in the 94-year old condo, grieves his father’s ninety-first birthday. Troupes of hybrid SUVs traverse invisible 12,000-year-old glacial moraines. Ripples of multi-colored leaves carpet 100 year-old bricked street intersections.
Frank C. Modica is a retired teacher who taught children with special needs for over 34 years. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in Dust Poetry, New Square, Sheila-Na-Gig, and Lit Shark. Frank’s first chapbook, “What We Harvest,” nominated for an Eric Hoffer book award, was published in the fall of 2021 by Kelsay Books. His second chapbook, “Old Friends,” was published this past December by Cyberwit Press.
I fall through a hole in the page to a savannah where flea-sized giraffes roam. Adele announces, “Spaghetti’s ready.” Stomach rumbling, Adele grumbling, I return, giraffe in tow, sew the page closed. Table’s unstable. Nothing a matchbook can’t solve. I rise. Spaghetti steam drifts towards a hole in the ceiling.
Guy is the author of Translated From The Original, one-inch punch fiction (Nomadic Press), and five other collections. He’s hooked on cats, coffee, & Cocoa Krispies, but can quit anytime.
On moonless nights, when darkness unfolds, becoming every shadow’s blanket, the boys dream of shadows sleeping serenely, cuddled in night’s softness. Whenever a shadow snarls or snores, the night muffles the sound into something less disturbing. While the boys dream of shadows, the shadows dream of dancing beneath crisscrossing spotlights.
Bob Thurber is the author of six books. Regarded as a master of Flash and Micro Fiction, his work has appeared in Esquire and other magazines, been anthologized 60 times, received a long list of awards, and been utilized in schools and colleges throughout the world. He resides in Massachusetts. Visit his website at BobThurber.net.
First you see the cap of bright purple hair, then dark supporting tresses. Together they frame a beatific smile and lowered eyes. The very image of serenity and beauty, masking the horrendous, courageous journey through abuse and fear that birthed this strong young woman, this girl with the purple hair.
Eileen is writing her way through retirement and grandparenthood.