Roof leaks fried our chandelier, killing our fan.
Rains flooded our lanai.
Ghost ants, millipedes, and palmetto bugs began invading our Florida space.
The spouse duct-taped and I sprayed and prayed.
Surrendering, we packed up our car on March 31
as two frogs hopped across our living room, waving goodbye.
Linda Freedland is an artist and published writer of poetry and short shorts. You can find more of her stories on the Adirondack Center for Writers website. She calls Albany, New York home.
For the longest time she didn’t know what it was, but it was very simply the writing.
The style, the cadence, the rhythms, the pace.
The psychological connection with the reader.
One day she met the reader and that reader was herself.
The hypercritical, intolerant, easily distracted, easily bored version.
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.
Ever since the bump to six-letter words, Kate’s average greatly increased. Yesterday’s took an unprecedented-for-her six guesses to solve. Phew.
Presently, her doorbell rang.
Two agents introduced themselves. “We need your help with a code.”
“Why me?”
“You were the only one who solved yesterday’s Wordle.”
“I’ll get my coat.”
Dave Myers (he/him) admits that he’s addicted to Wordle and all its derivatives.
Everyone stared at their phones.
Jack dodged someone but bumped into another. He hated phones but—
Coughing and retching caught his ear. Jack turned to see someone convulsing, phone stuck to his face. Blood spewed from his eyes. Then another, and another…
Jack bolted, dialing 911, then realized his mistake.
Joey has a phone. He also has a website at joeytoey.com.au.
I don’t know which haunts more: bombs exploding or the eerie silence that follows. The aftermath… Lives taken. Property destroyed. Devastation complete. Birds no longer grace the skies, their morning songs gone silent. The quiet of nothingness hovers as the dust settles upon the ruins. And rubble makes no sound.
Alyce Clark will continue to pray for peace.
Displaced people exchanging pieces of
their shattered love
with friends and family at the station.
Those left behind
Forge those shards of loss into love of country,
sharpened and breast pocketed
over hearts beating with courage and hate
and told by their blood
to seek the blood
of their oppressor.
Stephen Tilden is retired and giving voice to yet another outrage that we are facing.
Editor: May we all work towards peace so that no blood need be shed, Ukrainian or Russian or otherwise.
Their ships dropped from the clear Winter night like angels, the air as brittle as our so-called civilisation. By Spring we were defeated, but too stubborn to surrender. Summer turned, the Resistance organised itself, and we began to hope. But we would never see the stars the same way again.
Alastair Millar is an archaeologist by training, a translator by trade, and lives in the Czech Republic. His flash fiction can be found through linktr.ee/alastairmillar and he lurks on Twitter at @skriptorium.
The story of the week for March 21 to 25 is…
Mendocino Headlands by A.K. Cotham
“Not viable.”
The doctor’s words seared through her, stole the breath from her lungs.
Granted, the timing sucked, but her fiancé’s visible relief chafed.
Tonight, she curls up in bed alone. Sorrow weaves through her, clinging like vines—grief for a future she had never known she wanted… until now.
G.R. LeBlanc is a haiku poet and fiction writer living in Atlantic Canada, where the winters are long and harsh but the people are warm and kind. Learn more about her at https://sleekbio.com/grleblanc.
Distill from Moret’s unfinished sketches
the melancholy of a seaside town in winter:
Lay of her letters from exile a waterstair,
closed souvenir shops, a broken shutter banging.
Near dark now, in an unsigned corner,
a woman struggles with a torn umbrella,
surrenders with a wordless curse
to the wind.
Mark Reep is an artist and writer. His drawings and photographs have hung in galleries, museums, and juried exhibitions in the US and UK for more than thirty years. His work has appeared in publications including American Art Collector, Endicott Journal, Wetcanvas, Metazen, Prick of the Spindle, Blue Fifth Review, A-Minor, Artgraphica, and Postcard Stories. Mark was founding editor of the limited-run quarterly lit & arts journal Ramshackle Review. He lives and works in New York’s Finger Lakes region.