Walking next to him and watching his greying sideburns, my thoughts wandered to the joyous moments with the twins. Chasing the mirage of desires, had I not strayed too far? But his faith had anchored me back to the shore. Forgiven maybe, but will I be able to forgive myself?
R. Hemamalini is an aspiring writer in Turkish, a trained yoga teacher. and a yoga practitioner. See more at hrlockdownmusings.blogspot.com.
I don’t mind the meteor.
I do not mind
The ethereal veil finally broken.
Just once.
And every worry ever uttered,
Put to rest.
All assured.
And the dawn no longer assured…
Dawn. No longer. Assured.
I lie here, Today, the last,
with all questions answered,
forever and always,
Done.
Maximillian studies at UF, writes less than he’d like to, and is trying to fix this.
My parents started our restaurant with family recipes they brought from their home country. Years later, my young daughter began working here with me, just as I had with my parents.
“It’s okay, Dad. It’s time,” my daughter explained through tears, as we locked the doors for the last time.
R.E. Schell works in the biomedical field in California. He enjoys writing and has been published over fifty times in both the biomedical field as well as in fictional genres and poetry. He enjoys photography, literature, and travel. He also volunteers in animal rescue.
A yellow-stained newspaper clipping lands on the floor like a whisper. Forbidden sunlight embraces a crumpled mess that is human; a king tormented by his own opinions and beliefs in the land of the Sour Mind. In order to abdicate the throne, he only has to open his eyes.
Christopher Gannon is a storyteller from Buffalo, NY.
Jean enjoyed doing the dishes. It gave her time to think. With her hands soaked in suds she considered her relationship with Jamie, looking for a sign about how to proceed. And when she pulled the plug and watched the water gurgle down the drain, the answer came to her.
Bill lives in Aberdeen, Scotland. They say that the human body is ninety per cent water. Being Scottish, Bill’s body is actually forty-five per cent the water of life and forty-five per cent deep-fried sausage meat. The other ten per cent is smugness at living in the best country in the world.
The story of the week for August 30 to September 3 is…
The Return by Bob Thurber
Aurora used to be a good girl: did her homework, helped her mum, lit up the Arctic sky with magic.
But at 15, she fell in with a gang of constellations.
They loiter at the harbour, play pranks on the whales, and reave the night sky of its lawful splendour.
Kati likes to write about snow and ice. This story was inspired by two separate trips to Iceland, where she failed to see the Northern Lights.
Once the shop was quiet, she carefully removed the pearls from the glass display and slipped them into her coat pocket. Days later, she called them a gift. They lay heavy on her chest. Even tucked away in velvety lined drawers, the heaviness lingered. In time, they would outweigh everything.
Lisa Marie Lopez resides in northern California, where she enjoys writing in little coffee shops and taking peaceful walks. She’s had stories published in several different journals and venues, including Blink-Ink, From the Depths, and The Ocotillo Review.
Humans blast off, seeking another home. Must have water and air. A glance back: arid river tracks, dry lake beds, ocean floor cracks scar, pock, and crater the rapidly receding orb, burnt red by self-indulgent disregard. No longer survivable. Beautiful blue planet ahead: abundant life-sustaining resources ripe for human ruination.
Lifelong writer Jerrianne Hayslett has lived many places in various countries and left all survivable, to her knowledge. Known to be verbose, she’s now trying for brevity.
Mila awoke screaming.
There were feathers sprouting out of her deformed arms and hands. When she tried to stand, she collapsed on backward-bent legs. By the time her parents reached Mila’s bedroom, screams had devolved into squawks.
Before blowing out yesterday’s birthday candles, she’d thought: I wish I could fly.
Tim Boiteau lives in Michigan, is the author of the dark fantasy novel The Drummer Girl, and a Writers of the Future winner. See more at timboiteau.com.