Grandpa Al radioed coordinates in the Korean War.
He was quiet, loved his Yankees, and sipped O’Doul’s in the summertime.
He had a fake leg and owned a ukulele, too—
a sweet, beautiful instrument boxed up in his basement.
I can see him now.
He’s smiling. Sipping. Strumming and plucking.
Justin Deming lives and teaches in the Hudson Valley region of New York.
He’d nibbled fingertips and the occasional toe, but he awoke Christmas morning to an entire arm dangling over the bed.
Yes! There was a Santa Claus.
But as the monster relished the impending feast, fit for the most discerning palate, little Bobby snorted and rolled over, dashing his Christmas dreams.
Because Alison and every sleeping child knows that only dangling arms and legs are fair game for the monster under the bed.
Pulse. Drumbeat. Baby’s kicks. The guitar screams.
Blankets laid on the lawn. Lights dim.
Music swells in waves. Rhythmic: pushing, shoving, pounding on the ground. A night of screamo. Moshing. An owl swoops silently from the rafters. The bassist strikes a chord.
My baby’s song begins.
Joanna Friedman’s fiction and poetry has appeared in a couple of anthologies and on-line publications. She lives in the San Francisco Bay area with her husband, twin girls, and pug dog, Blue. Follow her on Twitter or her website.
She was scheduled for bilateral mastectomies.
I lifted her gown to listen to her chest, and was startled to read the words she had carefully inked across her breasts:
On the right: The Lord giveth.
On the left: The Lord taketh away.
And across her abdomen: Blessed be the Lord.
Margie Nairn is a retired nurse and emerging writer in Corvallis, Oregon, where she writes memoir, poetry, and silly limericks for her daughter.
The story of the week for December 24 to 28 is…
Season Greetings and Untimely Departures by Bob Thurber
“I need to see you,” he says, phone denting his cheek.
She swallows, hard. That “sucking on a penny” taste.
20 minutes later, he rings her doorbell.
“Your dad is dead,” he says, no warmup.
“Oh thank God. I was afraid you were going to tell me you’re leaving me.”
Anne Gudger is a Portland writer who has been lucky to have words in Real Simple Magazine, The Rumpus, Slippery Elm, and more. In November 2017 Anne won two contests: Hippocampus and New Millennium Writings. She lives with her sweet husband, and their grown kids and kid-in-laws live not far.
His wingless angel protests, “You won’t like it,” but Derrick insists.
In the world in which he’d never been born, his parents haven’t divorced, his wife married Ryan Gosling, and the Beatles are all alive and still together.
“Nothing’s worse without me?” asks Derrick.
“Fruitcake still sucks,” his angel offers.
Tony Jasnowski teaches English at Bellevue University and is sure that we’d all be one step closer to living in Pottersville if 50-Word Stories didn’t exist.
Millions of microbes live symbiotically on every body, but this particular infestation was way out of control. Gaia had tried shaking them off, drowning them with strong showers, even killing them with heat, but through it all they persisted.
Finally, she stopped spinning and watched them float off into space.
Nathan Alling Long’s work has appeared in over 100 publications most recently in Manhattanville Review, Mud Season Review, and The Journal for Compressed Creative Arts. His collection of fifty flash fictions, The Origin of Doubt, was released in Spring 2018 by Press 53.
Surgeons can spend up to twelve hours working in the operating theatre. Strange indeed to call that “theatre.”
Or perhaps it’s merely human nature to adopt a pastime that sounds like glory on the mountaintops when all we ever do is hope that we can make it through the hardship.
Living in a mid-sized town at a hipster shop was nice for Isaiah, but he’s happy to try his hand at working in the big city! But now things are getting tedious. Writing is always a good hand, no matter the game. Though that might not hold up in Texas Hold ‘Em, which Isaiah is practising.
For today’s reunion, Gerald dresses in college jeans with church newsletter photos and clipped obituary in his backpack.
“Uncle Bill, remember me, Gerry? Auntie said you’d moved. I brought some photographs of the family to share with you.
“Your antiques are beautiful. Did Auntie tell you my hobby’s restoring furniture?”
Kim Favors writes from California’s coast.