Some veterinarians keep no pets at home, bakers bake nothing in their home kitchens, plumbers let leaks drip. That’s how it was for 72-year-old Elliott, an architect.
After he died, his wife discovered a blueprint for a pottery studio in his desk drawer: Sophie’s Pot Den. Start Date: Current Year.
Kay Rae Chomic is a novelist (A Tight Grip) and writer of flash. She lives in Seattle dodging raindrops, and is a Motown fan forever.
The story of the week for May 24 to 28 is…
Stone Romance by Sunset
A, B, C, D. Test subjects.
Under dark we whispered the names of our parents, our sisters, our brothers. We vowed not to forget them. Not to forget ourselves.
The Experimenters did weird things to us. We behaved. To them, we were toys.
To ourselves: Autumn, Briar, Calla, Dawn. Girls.
Ginny Feng lives in Tennessee, where she writes short stories and reads fantasy and learns lots.
He doesn’t take his eyes off his book.
I’m with an umbrella on a bench. I’ve been waiting for him to look at me; I don’t have time. They’re throwing the old statues away.
Whenever the stone boy finishes his book, tell him a stone girl was waiting for him.
Sunset wrote this story.
“It would be scary on your own, this tunnel.”
“Yeah, glad we can go together. Makes it almost normal.”
“I know, like we’re going for a walk. Take my hand, till we reach the light.”
“Didn’t think it’d be like this, did you?”
“No. I wish we could tell everyone.”
Clare is an enthusiastic reader and writer of historical fiction, a doting grandmother, volunteer ESOL teacher, gardener, and knitter.
On the way to the crematorium a large beer truck inserts itself between the hearse and the cortege, then, despite signals to overtake, tenaciously holds its position. In the moments of sad gladness, down the line of following cars, the laughter ripples. “Harry would have appreciated that,” they all agree.
John Young is an old chap grappling with themes of limits and longings. He lives in St Andrews Scotland.
“Monsters have green eyes,” she said, working feverishly with a crayon. “You can tell he’s a boy monster,” she said.
“Really?” I said. “What about girl monsters?”
“Girls are too good to be monsters.”
Suddenly I had no idea if I had been a good father or a terrible one.
Jim Woessner is a visual artist and writer from California. He has an MFA from Bennington. Publishing credits include Unbroken Journal, The Sea Letter, Adelaide Magazine, Potato Soup Journal, Ariel Chart, Peeking Cat, Critical Read, and others.
He sits on the park bench, remembering her.
Not long ago, she was by his side.
If you stare long enough, you can see the boy he used to be.
He smiles at me and I at him.
His, an unspoken invitation; mine, a polite offering.
I quicken my pace.
Deirdre Smith (B.A., B.Ed., M.Ed.) has dabbled in writing for as long as she can remember. She has recently started back to work as a teacher and Guidance Counsellor after a decade of being a stay-at-home mom to her three young children. She resides in St. John’s, Newfoundland.
After fourteen months of working from home, my company asked us to come back to the office.
I told my coworkers I’d missed working with them in person. I told my manager I’d missed collaborating face-to-face.
But the truth is, the only thing I really missed was free donut Fridays.
Dara Naraghi has written comics and graphic novels of all types, from self-published zines to New York Times best sellers. You can visit him at daranaraghi.com.
The road stretched like ribbon draped over the desert.
Forward or back or death.
The phone beeped again. Either “Low battery” or “where are you?”
Didn’t matter. She tossed it into the dust.
The last handcuff to the grid.
She sped into the hot distance, ready to become a stranger.
Ian Buzard lives in Glasgow. Obsessed with movies from a young age, he started out as a screenwriter and has recently been fascinated by flash fiction.