The story of the week for January 31 to February 4 is…
Not Yet by Rebecca Cuthbert
KEN GRANT: Something More
Standing tall in a sea of angry faces, refusing to be cowed, the woman maintains a dignity that reflects her heritage. She is a princess, but none around her can possibly understand. Some speak of equality, of being treated as if she was white, but she dreams of something more.
Ken Grant is a freelance writer living in Santa Ana, California. He has one published novel, So Great a Salvation. His stories have appeared in Left Hand Publishers, Jitter Press, and Alien Dimensions.
MELISSA WILLIAMS: An Account of the Missing
At the departure gate,
the boys hugged you goodbye,
their eyes dry,
the way innocence clings to possibility.
You told me you felt broken,
needed to find yourself,
stop confusing
white powder with devotion,
alcohol with wanting.
Seasons have passed,
fallen leaves,
then snow,
your words preserved in the soil.
Melissa Williams has a Master of Arts in Creative and Critical Writing from the University of Gloucestershire and recently completed a mentorship under author David Bergen at the Humber School for Writers. Her fiction has appeared or is forthcoming in Voices, 42 Stories and Academy of Heart and Mind. Prior to becoming disabled, her second home was at Torstar’s community newspaper division where she led an advertising sales team and built life-long friendships. She lives near the beach, in Toronto, with her two sons and their Siamese cat.
JOHN H. DROMEY: The Same Old Daily Grind
Intimidated by computers and other mechanical devices powered by electricity, Barnaby decided to write his Great American Novel in longhand.
Unfortunately, before he wrote a single word, Barney discovered sharpening pencils was an excellent delaying tactic.
Now, knee-deep in sawdust, he has a new excuse for not writing: tennis elbow.
John H. Dromey has stories published hither and yon, as well as some places in between.
NISHA PATEL: Little Shards of Glass
Each tiny little shard of glass glinted beautifully on her dark marble worktop as the evening sunlight faded. Her grandmother’s heirloom was truly destroyed. She looked at her paltry hands. The shaking was getting worse. Over the last few weeks remnants of little accidents around the house were building up.
Nisha Patel is a mum, accountant, and chocolate addict. She caught the writing bug over ten years ago while on maternity leave and now squeezes it in between parenting and accounting.
BRIAN MAYCOCK: Waiting
He stands by the entrance, dreaming. Smouldering.
He started coming here twenty years ago, when the film studio was up and coming. Like him.
He took a job at the diner nearby. Just till he was spotted.
His break over, he goes back to work. Undiscovered, for one more day.
Brian Maycock’s stories have recently appeared in Trembling with Fear, Paragraph Planet and 101 Words. He lives in Glasgow.
REBECCA CUTHBERT: Not Yet
Where the creek bends is as good a place as any, pills in your pocket, short note signed. Cold in January, lonely too, but that feels right. Until you notice those bare stalks are forsythia, dried seed heads—rudbeckia? Ironweed? And you think you can wait, like them, for spring.
Rebecca Cuthbert writes fiction, nonfiction, and poetry. See more at rebeccacuthbert.com.
ALMA ARIAZ: She Is Like The Moon To Me
She is like the moon to me.
Unattainable, admired from afar,
Enchanting in her beauty.
Seldom shows,
But when she does,
She has my heart captive.
She surpasses me,
In every way, in everything,
But I’m not jealous, why would I be?
When she is like the moon to me.
Alma Ariaz is originally from Boston, and now resides in Canada with her cat and dog.
FRANCESCA LEADER: Snow Day
She flicks the hot cocoa bag with her finger, priming it the way the nurse used to prime her hospital IV bag, wondering, had she never come home again, how her children would’ve warmed themselves after an hour in the snow, or if anyone would’ve taken them sledding at all.
Francesca Leader wrote this story.
RILEY MONTAG: To Be Played At Maximum Volume
Fingertips over record grooves, mapping out textures of notes, committing to sense memory the teeth of guitars, or the fire-flicker of vibrato. We imagine the faint smell of cigarettes on his breath and sing along in an overwarm bedroom, wondering if he looks down and could like what he hears.
Riley Montag is at any given moment under caffeinated and over distracted. Find them on Twitter at twitter.com/rileyamontag.