“My case is simple, you shall see:
don’t listen to or heed his plea,
In jail he should remain our guest.
The prosecution now will rest.”
“The deed, if done, was in the past,
which disappears, and really fast,
so judge and jury please admit
you’re not clairvoyants; hence, acquit.”
Don Nigroni is a retired labor economist and volunteer Weed Warrior at the Heinz National Wildlife Refuge.
After a year of retirement spent plopped on the couch bingeing on-demand TV and enjoying the freedom from corporate deadlines that filled sleepless nights with worry, I’m thinking I better start setting my own deadlines and get my butt moving or else the inevitable deadline will arrive sooner than later.
Charles Gray is retired and living in Austin, Texas. He enjoys playing chess and writing.
They haven’t been here for a long time. And yet nothing has really changed.
The chairs are still hard and uncomfortable; the tea is still lukewarm and surprisingly bitter.
But the magic…
The magic is still there.
And hand in hand, eye to eye, they lose twenty years just gazing.
Rachel Canwell is a teacher, writer and blogger. She is working on her WIP and falling rapidly in love with Flash Fiction.
“Once upon a time” may often be no more than that,
when “love’s first kiss” is love’s last kiss,
your “ever-after,” hit or miss;
the one who was your welcome mat
now bleeds you like a kneading cat.
Banality replaces bliss,
an undertow to the abyss,
like Casey’s last at-bat.
Ken Gosse prefers writing short, rhyming, humorous poetry. First published in First Literary Review–East in November 2016, he is also in The Offbeat, Pure Slush, Parody, Home Planet News Online, and other publications. Raised in the Chicago suburbs, now retired, he and his wife have lived with their dogs and cats in Mesa, AZ, over twenty years.
Jukebox plays The Eagles. I nurse Amaretto Sours. One drawn-out sip, another. I absorb dim lights, make up stories. I’m a writer, pianist, actor. I join people in losing at pool, laugh over lost shots, forget bills, stacks of tests, and somnolent students. Laugh until dull stars lead me home.
Yash Seyedbagheri is a graduate of Colorado State University’s MFA program in fiction. His stories, “Soon,” “How To Be A Good Episcopalian,” and “Tales From A Communion Line,” were nominated for Pushcarts. Yash’s work has been published in The Journal of Compressed Creative Arts, Write City Magazine, and Ariel Chart, among others.
“Thank you, Darling, that’s just exactly what I needed,” he said without even looking up, too busy shoveling the meal’s few delectable remnants into his drooling face; too insensitive and neglectful to provide the eye contact every great chef both craves and deserves.
“You’re welcome,” she replied, mentally debating antidotes.
Ron. Lavalette lives on Vermont’s Canadian border. His poetry, flash fiction, and creative nonfiction has been very widely published in both print and pixel forms. His first chapbook, Fallen Away (Finishing Line Press), is now available at all standard outlets. A reasonable sample of his published works can be found at EGGS OVER TOKYO.
The story of the week for June 28 to July 2 is…
Eight Blocks From Here to Home by Jim Latham
The picnic was everything they’d hoped for.
The table, beautifully set, sparkled in the afternoon sun.
Heavenly aromas wafted on the summer breeze.
They anxiously gathered around in anticipation of the upcoming feast.
Betty brought potato salad.
Bill made his famous meatloaf.
Sadly for them, Mildred brought a fly swatter.
Susan Gale Wickes lives in Indiana. She enjoys writing short stories, cartoon captioning contests, and the occasional picnic.
She’s late. Taking the last empty chair, facing the painting of the cemetery, Emily tries to avoid looking at it. Her eyes are drawn to the crumbling tombstones. Shapes rise, like exhaust from underground boilers.
The Ancestors join them. They call to her. She has no choice but to respond.
Candace Kubinec posts her stories at storydribbles.wordpress.com and her poetry at rhymeswithbug.com.
I watched as a winged angel sailed out into the moonlit sky. I stood there speechless and motionless, one hand still strapped to the bed.
I do not know who brought a coverlet and draped it around my nakedness. No one spoke for a very long time.
She is gone.
David is not sure what love is, but he is always trying to catch it.