For the Babies
Ten of us ate and ate, then ate some more. The bill was more than reasonable, considering the impeccable service, excellence and variety of food. The neat thing about dining at the inn was the nostalgic feeling of being at grandma’s house before the war. Stuffed, content, yawning with happiness.
Over the years Bob Thurber’s work has received a long list of awards and prizes. His most recent book is a collection of brief stories titled “Nothing But Trouble.” His first novel, “Paperboy: A Dysfunctional Novel,” was recently rereleased. Visit BobThurber.net.
Editor’s Note: Let’s all hope and pray for peace, not only in our own homes but in those places on the news that can seem so far removed.
The story of the week for April 10 to 14 is…
Window Shopper by Susan Gale Wickes
If I hadn’t woken up late. If the guy hadn’t spilled his coffee. If I hadn’t had to go back and change. If I hadn’t missed my train. If life wasn’t so unpredictable…
I wouldn’t have met you. You wouldn’t have noticed me. We would never have fallen in love.
Bella Ren is an English student from Brazil. She loves writing and reading English short stories and poetry.
Grandpa’s pain stops with his heart. Amid brilliant white light and the fury of a whirlwind, he is lifted and flies rejoicing to God.
He wakes joyously. “Lord, I’m saved!”
His angel smiles. “Only just. It’s a miracle you got to hospital in time. We had to send a helicopter.”
Viv Burgess says her inspiration has been absent without leave, and she is not a-mused.
Her tiny fingers, entwined in mine. Soft. Delicate.
Her nod, a whisper, “It’s time.”
A click as the switch is turned off. Then…?
Darkness. No light, no tunnel, no welcome home.
Terror envelops me; tears begin to fall.
Just a fading whisper: “They never would have believed you, anyway, Mommy.”
Anita Reynolds is a writer and artist, wife and mom in the rural reaches of Tennessee. Her work is inspired by the strangeness of life, from the mundane to the magical.
In the canoe, he always took the back to steer, so I was in the front. I couldn’t do anything right; he’d shout at me, Paddle harder! On the left! Left! Feather it!
When we switched to individual kayaks, our relationship improved immensely, moving together, each our own way.
Jackie Ascrizzi live in Montville, Maine, where she spends time observing beavers and cooking Indian food.
She’s going to burn him for the affair.
So she disguises herself and hides in the back corner of the swanky bar where her friend saw them together that one time. And then she takes pictures of them pawing at each other at the bar and tweets them. With tags.
A Pushcart Prize nominee, Jennifer Hambrick was a winner in the 2017 international Golden Haiku Competition (Washington, D.C.) and received the Merit Award in the 2017 Montenegrin International Haiku Competition (English). Her chapbook of free verse poems, Unscathed (NightBallet Press), was nominated for the Ohioana Book Award, and she has received many awards for her work, which has appeared in Santa Clara Review, Third Wednesday, Mad River Review, Muddy River Poetry Review, River River, Modern Haiku, World Haiku Review, The Heron’s Nest, Bones, Sonic Boom, Eucalypt, Haibun Today, the major Japanese newspaper The Asahi Shimbun (The Morning Sun), and in dozens of other journals and anthologies worldwide, in English and in translation. Jennifer Hambrick’s blog, Inner Voices, is at jenniferhambrick.com.
Death came to call, and I quivered on the threshold, until I realized he wasn’t menacing me, just lost and asking for directions, his hood askew, with Mrs. Death sitting in their van, tapping the wheel.
Relieved, I sent them away down an unpopulated road and eventually out of town.
Robbie Gamble identifies primarily as a poet. When not obsessing about image and line breaks, he works as a nurse practitioner caring for homeless people in Boston, Massachusetts.
been going on and on about itself.
Ahab wants out.
Cracking the door,
he is blasted. Crouching,
ears flattened, he retreats.
Sitting Buddha-like now, licking his wounded pride,
he pauses to bring his puffy tail about, and lay it by his side.
Like a monk adjusting his robe.
Matthew lives in Maine.
My two great aunts, Laura and Judy, loved to sidle up to me at weddings, poke me in the ribs and shout, “Don’t worry, you’ll be next … someday.” Then they’d shuffle off, cackling crazily.
They stopped after I did the same thing to them at my Grandma Minnie’s funeral.
Craig W. Steele lives in the lake-effect snow belt of northwestern Pennsylvania where, by day, he’s a university biology professor. He enjoys writing both short fiction and poetry and dreams of becoming a widely-read unknown author.