At the wedding reception two middle aged women, the mothers of the bride and groom, are dancing together and alone. The vocalist is attempting Orbison’s Pretty Woman. One mother is wearing a fascinator, the feather above her head beating time to another tune.
The bride and groom are arguing again.
John Young lives in St Andrews. He likes spooky stuff and the boundary areas been “normal” and “odd” experiences.
Some things happen
before we understand
what they are
We are an army of generals
in official denial
“It won’t affect us!”
A cough is released
droplets connect
and converge into waves.
The news becomes
a tragic chronicle
of fallen names
On my street
houses shuttered tight
as darkness falls.
Eliza Mimski writes poems while sheltered in place in San Francisco.
She smiled sweetly, her fingers brushing mine, and my breath caught, heart swelled.
But the smile was mere politeness, the contact accidental as she held the door open and I moved to take it. She didn’t know who I was, didn’t know I loved her, would never, ever know.
“…Thanks.”
Maria is inspired by everyday events, and odd coincidences. She’s excited for the time she’s able to high-five people again.
The story of the week for May 25 to 29 is…
First Blossom by Casey Laine
and
Stop looking at your phone, waiting for the dead to call by Bob Thurber
This is not a bar. This is not a place
to linger. People come and go
rather quickly. Usually
they’re in a hurry. Occasionally,
one might require
a moment to recalibrate,
to adjust to sudden loss,
the vanishing of someone
very dear, very special.
Before resettling into
stabilized day-to-day sorrow.
Bob Thurber is the author of six books. Regarded as a master of Flash and Micro Fiction, his work has appeared in Esquire and other magazines, been anthologized 60 times, received a long list of awards, and been utilized in schools and colleges throughout the world. He resides in Massachusetts. Visit his website at BobThurber.net.
Shocking pain. Light burns through my eyelids. My muscles seize. The air around me crashes and crackles, buzzes and zaps. My skin tingles; my body releases.
Then all is soft, silent darkness. I try my hand. It clenches.
I hear a triumphant shout next to me: “It’s alive! It’s alive!”
Jessica Hoard is a writer of over 25 years. She received her MA in Creative Writing from the University of Memphis. She has appeared on stage and screen and has published her photography. Her writing has been published in magazines and literary journals including Breath & Shadow, Pear Noir!, Karamu, The Society of Classical Poets Journal, and Short, Fast, and Deadly among others. She is mother to three cat children and in her spare time likes to go camping in her vintage Shasta camper, Rosie.
“April ’68, I was cooking in a dive in Dubuque.
“The boss put up a sign: “Closed in Memory”. We all sat in the back, cursing, crying, hugging each other. Someone found a bottle, rum, to make the coffee go down better. He paid us regular for that day, too.”
Tony Press tries to pay attention. Sometimes. His collection CROSSING THE LINES (Big Table) can be found; indeed, he has several copies ready for mailing.
It was 1918. Grandpa loved his 9 grandchildren, but the Flu was deadly, so whenever a grandchild approached, he held up his hand, and shouted, “Hey!”
His grandkids still loved him, but they never hugged.
They started calling him “Heypappy”, and that’s how it was for his remaining 25 years.
Harry Demarest wrote this true story about his great grandfather, Franklin Conklin.
I let the tears fall. Years in that house… So many memories. Pictures that hung on the wall my entire life. Gone. Emptied out; packed up; now just boxes. Granddad’s gone. Grandma’s in a nursing home. Just an address now.
Still this place holds me, locked deep within my soul.
Alyce Clark is adjusting to sheltering in place, practicing social distancing when shopping for essentials… and truly missing her grandmother.
My grandpa talks about the good ol’ days, a time when kids chewed dirt and roller skated. I decide to try both.
The dirt tastes funny. The skating sores my back.
Grandpa humps over. I expect a scold but receive a pat on the shoulder. Welcome to the club, scout.
Eric Persaud is an Indo-Guyanese American living in New York City. His other works of fiction can be found in Flash Fiction Magazine and 101 words.