She seized a stick and scrawled “I love you” in the sand.
He chose a boulder and sharpened his chisel.
All afternoon, he scored, hammered and chipped.
He called to her at last to present his reply.
By then, she had skipped away and the tide had erased her words.
Joanna Alexandra Norland’s plays, including Lizzy, Darcy and Jane, and Mothers Have Nine Lives, have been produced on four continents.
Has anyone ever given a fig
about credit due to the Cheshire cat?
Proving gravity, and without breaking a twig,
he knocked down an apple, a well-timed cat pat,
beaning the fellow below writing trig.
“Eureka!” he quoted, but as he yelled “Scat!”
the cat disappeared while adjusting his wig.
Ken Gosse usually writes whimsical, rhymed verse. First published in First Literary Review–East in November 2016, later in Pure Slush, Home Planet News, Lothlorien Poetry Journal, Spillwords, and many others. Raised in Chicago suburbs, now retired, he and his wife live in Mesa, AZ, with rescue dogs and cats.
“Half-sugar, half-water,” says my friend, as tiny forelegs grasp at the eyedropper. I peer at the drinking insect and note its wings, ragged from the neighbour’s mosquito repellent. Later we watch the bee burrowing into its nest of roses, of ripped-up tissues. We listen to its buzzing, sweeter now, sugar-happy.
Colleen Addison completed a PhD in health information and promptly got sick herself. She now lives, writes, and heals on an island near Vancouver. Her work has been in River Teeth, Painted Pebble Lit Mag, and Halfway Down the Stairs.
The story of the week for August 4 to 8 is…
Rough and Tumble by Steven Lemprière
Wexford summers. Cousins. Some removed, others should be.
A bruising stick-and-ball game settles scores.
Red Lemonade, 99s, ice-cream wafers, crisps and slap-up feeds.
Ravenous teams jostle, devouring gritty ham or salmon paste sandwiches. Each liberally seasoned with sharp, salty silica.
At day’s end, sunburnt cousins dream, war-painted with Calamine lotion.
Steven is still picking sand granules from between his teeth years after the long hot summers of childhood holidays spent visiting family in Ireland.
We were fifteen paces west of the boardwalk. The sun threw itself, orange and glowing, against the sea. You left to grab marshmallows.
Today I scooped a handful of sand from the spot. Brought it home and poured it on your side of the bed. Almost believed you were here.
K.C. Selby is a fiction writer living in the Midwest with her husband and too many houseplants. Her short fiction has appeared or is forthcoming in Killer Nashville Magazine, Blink-Ink, several anthologies, and more. She can be found at www.kcselbywriter.com.
After decades of research, rewrites, and rejections, sleepless nights, and crippling self-doubt, my novel releases tomorrow.
As doors unlock, signing pen in hand… a gamma-ray burst—life on Earth, gone.
Behind now-wide-open doors, through which no human will pass, rests my book: The Universe Hates Me.
Mike Keyser hails from Wisconsin, where past and future share a beer. A seeker of alien abduction—and receiver of none—he feeds his off-world appetite through speculative fiction.
“9-1-1, what is your emergency?”
“I’d like to report a missing person.”
“How long has this person been missing, ma’am?”
Huh. That required some mental calculation. “About eight years?”
“Eight years? Why are you reporting this now?”
Time to tell the truth. “Because I don’t want to be lost anymore.”
Robert Carlberg has occasional sleepless nights when he eats too much salad. On those nights he sometimes writes stories. Blame the bleu cheese.
8,110,424,013 people woke up having dreamed the same dream. Visions of socks, a snowstorm, and chicken manure. Finally, our climate crisis had a solution.
All but one person forgot.
Saving the world was within reach, yet the dreamer crossed that snowy rural highway. The whole world felt those headlights burn.
JR Walsh is the Online Editor at The Citron Review. He teaches creative writing at SUNY Oswego. Find his writing on itsjrwalsh.com.
His mother says they’re going on errands. If they go to the bank, he’ll get a lollipop; the store, a toy; the market, chocolate. He knows he can’t say no, but he knows what look to give. “You can go back on your computer when we come home,” she says.
Seth Rosenman lives in the Philadelphia area. He is currently working on becoming better at typing on his phone. His poems and short fiction have appeared in 50-Word Stories, Microfiction Monday Magazine, The Bookends Review, and elsewhere. His blog goes by infiniteseth.blogspot.com.