The boy gently accepted the withered violin, taking the neck. And holding the bow, he felt a sizzle, like the hot fence at his uncle’s house.
The violin lifted, fitted under his chin. The bow dragged his arm toward the strings. The pair met again in his arms and sang.
Matthew Weigelt is an author and journalist, a photographer and drone pilot. This story is a follow-up to Tamsin Seymour’s Lost Chords and Unbowed.
In the deadest hour of night, a tangerine-colored torrent arrives.
My girlfriend’s terrified; I drag her half-clothed from the blanket to shield her from the forest’s scathing flames. Wholeheartedly she clings to me, though I know only yesterday her eyes wandered.
Somewhere deep in my pocket, the matchbox shifts restlessly.
EO’s fairly certain that arson isn’t the way to a woman’s heart. It’s probably bacon or something. Unless she’s vegan. Then maybe it’s veggie bacon.
Our red eyes
Entwined
Trust me
Have a glass of wine
I love you…
words without conviction
Your eyes
Trace the floor
The corners
Of our room
My plea fails you
Our relationship fades
Our bond snaps
Nothing is
Holding you
The door closes
Tossed between empty sheets
It’s over
Why part 5?
She came for the gaping sky and arctic terns. But winter is slowly encasing the huts, the interminable statistics, the bickering. And the birds have gone.
Shedding her coat and boots to lighten the load, she steps into the snow, migrating south.
Despite only being 51˚ N, Tamsin is also dreading winter.
The story of the week for November 20 to 24 is…
Last Dance by Chip Houser
Your estate, organized by spoons, sweaters, silver. I’ll finish the fusilli ($1) you planned on eating later. I’ll wear your motorcycle goggles ($10) while washing my new tea cups ($4), then hang a tile, painted with moon, stars, and love for you when I was six ($.50).
All good buys.
This is Alexandra’s tenth fifty-word story. She wishes death could always be preceded by goodbyes.
Alone on a sidewalk, a young girl dances slowly through the silent snowfall. She raises her arms, arcing them together, fingertips touching like beaks kissing. Warm grey flakes settle on her hands. She finishes with a pirouette, waiting for applause, but the world is silent.
Soon, she will start coughing.
Chip Houser’s short fiction has appeared in Daily Science Fiction, New Myths, Every Day Fiction, and elsewhere in print and online. He is a graduate of the Odyssey Writing Workshop and is currently pursuing an MFA in Creative Writing at the University of Missouri-St. Louis.
Muncie Singleton always sent the kids to school with a baked spud and three strips of thick-cut bacon. On their birthdays, Muncie replaced their usual hand-churned butter with store-bought.
When Muncie ran out of bacon, it took all day to restock. But the same errand eliminated one annual shopping trip.
boomer trujillo’s parents never sent him to school with homemade lunches. He’s sure that’s because they loved him. Check out his writing at boomert.info.
Grief, heavy like sticky syrup poured over pancakes, filled the room.
It coated the mourners, making it hard to move. Hard to speak. Hard to breathe.
I hardly knew him, but stopped to offer my condolences.
To hug and be hugged, as we remembered the days of this stranger’s life.
John Fowler served twenty years in the US Air Force before retiring and starting a second career in the IT field. He is also a Lay Pastor serving a small church near his home in Texas. His hobbies include reading, golfing, writing, and now oil painting.
My frog body sprouts into a prince thanks to the kiss. I kneel to lick a mosquito off her wrist.
“Come live in the palace!”
I squat in the royal garden.
The first sign of trouble. “It’s just not working out.”
I hop into the pond. Old habits die hard.
Caleb resides in Arkansas where he plays beach volleyball.