You explained her as a wild, last craze
In a desperate, lost Lothario haze
And I dismissed her as a mid-life phase
But the heart clots when a partner strays
So you’ll find for our remaining days
I will spite you in a thousand ways
Like “forgetting” to buy mayonnaise.
Jo Withers would like to reassure everyone that she remains very happily married with a plentiful supply of condiments. You can follow Jo on Twitter.
“Remember,” she said to her client, “just because you can’t think of anything new to write this moment doesn’t mean the world is going to end.”
The poet agreed and wished his agent a good night as she walked to the garden gate.
She didn’t make it.
No one did.
Harris Coverley wrote this story.
The dog barked, too late. She stumbled to the kitchen, dropped her towel over the puddle. He nosed his bowl into its folds.
She returned to the couch.
The interview was in an hour, but she was naked, too raw.
He followed, whimpering.
“Shhh,” she said.
They were both hungry.
Kiran Kaur Saini’s work has appeared in Glimmer Train, Pleiades, and elsewhere. See more at kirankaursaini.com
Bob was dreaming that he couldn’t sleep but didn’t know he was dreaming, and so, on waking, he imagined he was exhausted yet he wasn’t really awake.
When the beast came, he didn’t know if he’d sunk into its dream or it into his.
When he woke, the beast followed.
Patrick Mc Loughlin is an English Language Teacher in Ireland and dabbles in writing. He also dabbles in painting and music and some day hopes to do more than dabble. He lives in the west of Ireland, where it’s hard to concentrate.
Dear Editor,
Thanks for your cursory note referring to my multiple submissions as “it.”
I would reply more personally, but the volume of rejections received does not permit.
I have carefully considerd every word of your canned response.
Incidentally, two of the pieces have already been published elsewhere.
Sincerely,
Author
Phil Huffy wrote this story.
I barked and barked… and the sun came up.
Morning.
His coffee, my biscuit.
Toast and a treat.
He’ll read the newspaper,
I’ll dream of slow, inattentive cats.
When he reaches down to ruffle my fur,
his hand feels like the afternoon sun.
This must be what they call Thanksgiving.
Paul Bluestein is a physician by profession (OB-GYN), a self-taught musician (guitar and keys), and a devoted Bridge and Scrabble player (yes, ZAX is a word). He is also a writer of poetry whenever the Muse unexpectedly calls him and rings insistently until he answers (even if he doesn’t want to talk with her just then).
A middle-aged man and woman sit in movie theater seats with broken hinges. Distortions of an animated film flicker in the reflection of their eyes, accompanied by the laughter of children ringing in their ears.
The woman clutches a tattered teddy bear to her chest. The man squeezes her hand.
Taylor Stuckey is an English major at Shippensburg University in Pennsylvania. She started dabbling in writing short fiction less than a year ago, and hasn’t stopped since. This is her first published sotry.
The story of the week for June 25 to 29 is…
Side Effects of Radiation Therapy by Bob Thurber
Late in life, she traded piano for painting. It was so refreshing. She’d only ever played keys when she’d had a husband to join onstage.
They’d joke about it when he appeared to her. She tried painting him in his present form, but she could never get the eyes right.
Lucas Kwong wrote this story.
Cupped in your hand
breath quivering
the choice is clear,
like glass marked
by a sparrow’s impact.
The heart thrums,
wild and free,
through your fingers.
You gently stroke
tawny feathers,
its neck unbroken,
and then release:
a body rises
through the sky
like dawn unfolding
morning glories.
No birds were harmed during the writing of this poem.