Grandpa’s favourite story’s about the pandemic, when everyone stayed inside to stay safe. People sang for strangers and painted with their kids. Those who were able ran errands, called old friends, learnt neighbours’ names. Terrifying times, but amazing, Grandpa says.
He’s obviously exaggerating. Surely people did these things before that?
Anna Sanderson writes about the world as she sees it (with the odd twist and turn). You can follow her story on Twitter at @annasanderson86.
You cry in a voice that is not your own, act like dead weight, call me horrible names. But sometimes you look me in the eye and smile. Sometimes you remember. I brush your beautiful hair and think, That’s alright my love, I’m also not who I used to be.
Julian Dores lives in Brussels, Belgium. He enjoys writing fiction and taking candid photographs of everyday life on the street. You can read more of his work on his website.
Every year,
After the autumnal fogs of Mars
Have made me melancholy,
And the moon’s tranquil seas
Have melted my bitterness,
I sail to Earth
And stroll beside the snapping salty oceans,
To my cryogenic grave,
Drop petals onto empty casket,
And mourn humanity
And days when life was simple.
Jo Withers writes short fiction from her home in South Australia. Recent work has appeared in Retreat West, Milk Candy Review, Ellipsis Zine, and Best Microfictions 2020.
The story of the week for April 20 to 24 is…
Beneath This Braided Mess of Meaning by Bob Thurber
A little ringing in my ear. If I listen to it, it sings louder, over, under, and through the little holes of my ear. There’s a tiny TV playing a tinny song. A little choir in my ear, with one-note songs. They sing on, on, on, maybe until I’m gone.
Will Loop is currently homeless and enjoys spending time at his local library.
“Your box of sunshine is here,” the cheerful delivery man said after ringing the bell.
I watched him skip down the steps, ever mindful of social distancing.
Since the pandemic, almost everything suddenly became available for home delivery.
Almost.
My delivery of friends and family is still on back order.
Susan Gale Wickes is from Indiana. She looks forward to a return to normalcy.
Unsurprisingly, you’re the main character, fully responsible for the plot, constantly calculating and determining the storyline. Without you there is no direction, no structure, no foundation. You’re the weaver twisting shadowy emotions into ribbon cables, looping lengths methodically around drip lines connected to open wounds. Face it. You’re the hero.
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.
A warm summer’s evening:
A light breeze.
Green trees,
with an orange sunset.
And where:
The birds chirped.
The cat purred.
The dog barked.
The parents yelled—
and the baby cried:
Being cradled gently and carried away
by an elderly woman,
with a somber face and badge on her hip.
Pratt Institute attendee, Connor Williams started learning to write about what mattered after fleeing Brooklyn in the wake of Covid-19.
I rowed the boat whose motion made me feel like a god
seated on a water-throne.
I steered fate with a pair of rods,
breathing equanimity
into treetops,
in an animistic temple
where beauty is worshiped
and though we exchanged few words,
the conversation
was between my eyes
and water-drops.
Susie Gharib is a graduate of the University of Strathclyde with a Ph.D. on the work of D.H. Lawrence. Her poetry and fiction have appeared in multiple venues including Down in the Dirt, Three Drops from a Cauldron, Impspired Magazine, The Opiate, Mad Swirl, Leaves of Ink, The Poetry Village, A New Ulster, Adelaide Literary Magazine, The Ink Pantry, the Pennsylvania Literary Journal, the Penwood Review, and Crossways.
She was alone in the wilderness of the coronavirus. Telecommuting to work, texting friends, waving to neighbors from a distance.
She took a long drive. At a quiet intersection, she stopped briefly at the red light, then accelerated.
The police car behind her turned on its siren.
Finally, a conversation.
C.G. Thompson’s stories most recently have appeared in FlashBack Fiction, Brilliant Flash Fiction, and Flash Frontier. In December, one of her stories was read in Hong Kong. Her work has also previously appeared in 50-Word Stories.