“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.
Weapon loaded, I exit the elevator, striding past the reception.
Weeks of building trust, flirting, stalking. The habits of my prey learned. A lioness with her rhinoceros in sight. Armoured in innocence and Gucci, I hand it over.
“Brought you lunch, babe.”
Peanuts in a sandwich; who could have guessed?
L. S. Muller is a Swiss Swedish tea drinker, who reads too many books, loves canines and writes fantasy and horror.
She grappled with the creature – bulky, clawed – for only a matter of minutes before its eyes lit up with recognition. It turned and softly padded away. She watched it recede as the sun crept through the blind then got up to check it had gone. She spoke the mantra victoriously.
Veronica Barnsley’s writing has been published in Brittle Star and Like the Wind. She’s enjoying having a go at microfiction.
The suit was too tight.
There was no air, his mouth dry like sandpaper.
The press looked at him like he had done something wrong, taking pictures and writing notes for headlines he could not respond to.
But he knew that when he got there, he wouldn’t have to care.
Dominic Bond has tried to write poetry among other things and have been published online on and in print in Driftwood Press, Poetry Birmingham and Kallisto Gaia magazines.
The first blossom
On my winter squash
Is female.
Lacking a male,
She will fade,
Unfertilized,
By evening,
And her fruit will fail.
Still, she opens in beauty
Under the sun
And offers her grace
And optimism
To the day.
So too may we all;
And that is quite enough.
Casey Laine comes from a long line of talkative women. She works as Fantasy Editor at Cosmic Roots and Eldritch Shores, and publishes an annual anthology of fiction and poetry for her writing group, Writers Assembled. In her spare time, she chases butterflies with her camera. Find her at Facebook, Cosmic Roots and Eldritch Shores, and Amazon.
The story of the week for May 18 to 22 is…
Start Over by Daniel Clark
Three years had passed since the virus lockdown, and she ached to go outside.
Every morning she put on her shoes, only to turn back at the doorstep.
Still not safe, she thought, though the media said otherwise. What if she walked into a deep cough or an explosive sneeze?
Debbi Antebi (@debbisland) lives in London, UK, with her husband and books.