She’d kept her books in the fridge, Risa discovered when her mother died. Where most stored milk, her mother put Woolf. She found Stein in the salad draw.
Risa took them home and went one better, placing them side by side in her freezer.
The pages gradually turned to Frost.
Mariah is a writer and reviewer living in London. She writes short fiction and has a particular love for translated literature and strange tales.
First, it feels like the flu. Your easygoing stomach rebels. Your head is a balloon flying skyward. A ribbon of sweat pops up above your lip. Your quiet steady heartbeat hiccups, stalls, double-times to catch up. Then, he cocks his head and looks at you.
You exhale. Everything is fine.
Susan Sagarin is a retired editor and aspiring YouTuber. Visit her site at inspirationonafternoonlane.com
You carry the water, excited to be doing it for yourself. You rush, and water spills over the top, exuberantly, and you have to wait, impatiently, while I mop it up.
I carry your life in my hands, carefully, so that none of it spills.
Fiona McKay is an opera-loving recovering lawyer who is working on a novel in Dublin, Ireland.
Every bake was for the likes, given photoshoots worthy of a Milan catwalk. Glistening crumbs and chocolate oozing. Filters glinting. Heart-eye emojis marveled at how #incredible they looked – she looked.
Every bake remained untasted. She never took any photos of the plump little sparrows who lingered on her garden fence.
Martha Lane wrote this story.
The story of the week for March 22 to 26 is…
How to Comfort a Mountain by Felicia Sanzari Chernesky
Release your mind,
Unhinge your heart,
Unburden your soul.
Be free.
Trust.
The world careens and spins,
Yet you remain
Sure footed and still.
A massive star blazes above,
Yet you are not burned,
Only kissed by its warmth.
So bask in it,
Drink it all in.
Every single moment.
Missy Lynne wrote this poem.
I breathe the scent of his favourite jumper; musky, masculine, missing. I feel safe, as though the good days never ended and my heart wasn’t shattered.
Wearing it means glorious pretence; an outward sign of grief which none will question.
It doesn’t say, “I was the one who killed him.”
Esther Byrne is a writer from Yorkshire, U.K. She writes flash fiction and stories, and is currently working on her first novel. You can see more of Esther’s writing at estherbyrne.com.
He said, “Don’t jump!”
She pulled him, too. Into life.
By her side, he trekked high mountains, hot air ballooned into clouds, rode horses, surfed dangerously large waves, and saw salmon-gold sunrises and sunsets from every continent.
When she died, he lived on. (Twice as hard, for both their sakes.)
Susmita Ramani lives in the San Francisco Bay Area with her husband and two children. She’s a lifelong writer, and passionate about mindfulness and the environment. She’s published essays for various blogs, and is working on a collection of short stories. Follow Susmita on Twitter at susmitabythebay.
Beth smiled and flirted and said my name in a breathy, sexy sort of way.
When we were neighbours. When I had a home.
Now, she’s silent and scurries away when she sees me on the street.
I may no longer have an address, but I still have a name.
When P.L. Elkins is not reading, writing, or working, she’s enjoying family time with the men in her life.
When she’s young she dreams of gingerbread castles. Floating on a sea of candyfloss and racing down liquorice slides. Today her fantasies are no longer shaped by sugary treats. Asleep, she dreams of a place with lower bills. Getting that promotion. A good mortgage.
Happiness, and the occasional chocolate éclair.
Gloria Gozi is a Library Assistant and writer from London. She has written for various magazines including Glasgow based Mycelia.