The thrumming of the oud’s strings warmed his chest as he sat outside the garden wall and played a doulab.
If it was willed that she was gone, it was also willed that the sun still rose, to the song of birds, and that he could smell good, strong coffee.
Farley Wright is the anonymous author of numerous critically overlooked unwritten works. His eponymous anthology ‘Unknown’ is currently out of print on e-devices but readily available on vellum scrolls or clay tablets.
Sterling silver, tall candles, white linens, flowers. The texts flooded in: Sorry, Grandma, have to be with the in-laws… Flight canceled… I have a cold… Sending flowers!… Maybe next year. So, dinner for one, from the freezer section. Turkey, potatoes, gravy, green beans. Pumpkin pie. All worthy of prayerful thanks.
Marilyn McFarlane is a travel writer and the author of Sacred Stories: Wisdom From World Religions. She writes poetry and fiction, enjoys the 50-word form, and occasionally explores memoir. She lives in Oregon, where there is a lot of scope for the imagination.
The story of the week for November 22 to 26 is…
The Sun Also Drifts by Sam Hall
Charlotte didn’t know this would be their last conversation.
When she said goodbye, her grandpa had one request: “Be Good.”
She gave a warm hug and left the hospital room with puddled eyes.
He would be gone when she returned from camp, but his words would stay with her forever.
Kate Beasley wrote this story.
Leaves have always intrigued me. They come and go, leaving transparent signs of their departure. First, you see sides of them you never knew. Next, they become a disturbance, lifeless on the ground. Then they’re gone.
People are like leaves. I wish I saw the signs when you were here.
Courtney H. wrote this story.
Warm air brings new beginnings; tree blossoms bloom with adolescent excitement for summer love. The day is spent in nervous anticipation of our first date, and when darkness comes I slink out my window and step outside, endless possibilities ahead. Our hands link in the darkness. My heart flutters. “Hi.”
S wrote this story.
It happens every year like clockwork – green goes to gold and eventually to brittle brown, decay becomes beautiful and the tickle in the back of the throat is unbearable; it is then and there and all at once that longings to pause are met with those insatiable pleas to accelerate.
Thad DeVassie is a multi-genre writer and painter from the outskirts of Columbus, Ohio. His collection, SPLENDID IRRATIONALITIES, was awarded the 2020 James Tate International Poetry Prize. His microchap YEAR OF STATIC contains micro prose with eleven original paintings. Find him online at @thaddevassie.
Jake remained bullish on AI until—planning for guests at an overseas lodge and unable to remember conversion formulae—he asked Siriexa, “What, in Celsius, is the ideal temperature for humans?” and was told eighty degrees was perfect for low and slow cooking that would have meat falling right off the bone.
Graham Robert Scott’s micro-stories have appeared in The Arcanist, Blink-Ink, The Drabble, and others.
Outside their window the sun was rising. It rose so high that soon it was just a distant speck, the faintest star in the sky, and then it disappeared entirely. Outside their window the world grew dark and turned to ice. With nothing more to see, they closed the curtains.
Sam Hall is a young writer from England.
You brought toilet paper
cradled in your arms like a prize piglet
like a rare book or antique,
proof of your friendship and generosity
in a time when people lost their senses
and quarreled over paper products,
emptied store shelves for a hundred miles
fighting over provisions.
Armageddon had arrived.
Joan I. Goodman wrote this story.