SHAWNTA S BARNES: Ice

Artistic, Submissions, Top Stories, Touching, , , , ,

Ran into school carefree and excited to learn. Exited school; discovered Papi was gone.

They watched us. They knew where he would be. Once he drove around the corner from my school, they took him into custody.

I was so happy to go into school that I didn’t wave goodbye.

Shawnta S. Barnes is a literacy coach in Indianapolis Public Schools, an adjunct instructor at IUPUI School of Education and a 2016-2017 Teach Plus Teaching Policy Fellow. Links to her publications can be found at educatorbarnes.com/publications.

JOEY TO: Death in the Air

Amusing, Submissions, , , ,

Amy checked her seatbelt. Seats were filling… yet, more passengers still boarded.

“Hope I don’t get kicked off,” she muttered.

“I won’t do that.”

Amy turned her head. A lanky guy in a black, hooded robe towered over her.

“I’ve been running my transportation business for ages. I never overbook.”

Joey doesn’t like it when his bookings aren’t respected. You can visit him at joeytoey.com at anytime. No need to book.

JEAN LLOYD: The Girl

Artistic, Submissions, Touching, , , ,

In the shallows of the gently lapping waves, the girl, dress tucked in knickers, had played.

The sun, low in the sky, casts an orange glow.

Shops long closed. Curlews, in flight, send out their cry.

A mother comes out to call her daughter home.

There’s no one to hear.

Jean lives in Bath in the UK and loves reading 50-word stories. She has a go whenever she gets the time.

WANDA PHILLIPS: Follow Along

Artistic, Submissions, , ,

“Walk with me,” she said. He glanced over his shoulder. She shrugged and walked away. He shifted, as if to follow, but rocked back with reluctance.

She didn’t pause, didn’t glance back.

When she’d turned the corner, he decided. He hurried, hungry and urgent. He pursued her.

“Mom!” he cried.

Wanda Jane is as Canadian as the Shield, and as resilient. She was born in Nova Scotia, back in the day, and has lived in four of the ten provinces. She intends to visit the North. Wanda writes for many of the reasons you can think of and some you probably wouldn’t. Words are the guitar strings, the tubes of oil paints, and the perfume of life. She experiments with genres, structure, and style. A day-to-day acquaintance with Wanda would reveal a woman who spends a lot of time listening, struggles with the obstacles of living, and drinks deeply of the companionship she shares with her several friends.

JENNIFER HAMBRICK: Mansplanation

Amusing, Submissions, , ,

He finished speaking, and Eve just stood there for a moment blinking at him. Then her lips curved into a wide smile and her shoulders began to shake. And the laughter came leaking out, first in spurts, then in fits, as she turned and staggered away, mirthfully munching an apple.

A Pushcart Prize nominee, Jennifer Hambrick was a winner in the 2017 international Golden Triangle Haiku Contest (Washington, D.C.) and received the Merit Award in the 2017 Montenegrin International Haiku Competition (English).  Her debut chapbook of free verse poems, Unscathed (NightBallet Press), was nominated for the Ohioana Book Award, she won the Ohio Poetry Association’s 2013 Ides of March contest, and she has received many other recognitions for her work, which has been published in Santa Clara Review, Third Wednesday, Mad River Review, Pudding Magazine, River River, Muddy River Poetry Review, 50-Word Stories, the major Japanese newspapers The Asahi Shimbun (The Morning Sun) and The Mainichi (The Daily News), Modern Haiku, Frogpond, World Haiku Review, The Heron’s Nest, Acorn, Cattails, Presence, Bones, Haiku Canada Review, Moongarlic, bottle rockets, Shamrock, Wild Plum, Ershik, Ribbons, Eucalypt, Contemporary Haibun Online, Haibun Today, and in dozens of other journals worldwide, in English and in translation.  Jennifer Hambrick is founder and editor of the International Women’s Haiku Festival.  A classical musician and public radio broadcaster and web producer, Jennifer lives in Columbus, Ohio, USA.  Her blog, Inner Voices, is at jenniferhambrick.com.

ROB WALTON: Metamorphosis

Amusing, Artistic, Odd, Submissions, ,

I started turning into a tree three days ago. Then stopped. It’s unseemly having only two branches and barely any leaves. But so many knots.

Mum shook her head and tutted. Dad patted me on the trunk, then checked his palm for splinters. Ever-practical Joanna showed the saw’s sharp teeth.

Rob Walton is a writer, performer and teacher from Scunthorpe, England. He now lives with his family in North Shields, from where he travels to perform in schools and libraries. Poems, short stories and flash fictions for children and adults have appeared in various magazines and anthologies. He collated the text for the New Hartley Memorial Pathway and collaborates with sculptor Russ Coleman. He won the UK’s National Flash Fiction Day micro-fiction competition 2015. He sometimes tweets @anicelad and his oddness can be found at linesofdesire.co.uk.

STEPHANIE PRESS: The Reply

Artistic, Submissions, , ,

That walk, a simple turn around the block at day’s end. Birds chirping, warm breeze blowing, trees softly stirring. Still not quite summer.

And I’m just trying to talk to you.

Then sounds are swallowed up; the world goes still. We are in a bubble.

Stillness that’s Holy.

You answered.

Stephanie Press love stories as an exploration of identity, the vision of what is to come, and understanding where we’ve been.

JONATHAN HOUSTON: Fifty-Word Story Blues

Amusing, Submissions, , ,

Only fifty words?

Yes, fifty.

That doesn’t seem like very much.

It isn’t, but that’s all we have.

Alright, let me think.

You have twenty-three words left.

You mean we already started?

I’m afraid so.

Well, why didn’t you tell me?

Sorry.

Darn it! Okay, here goes: my story begins-

Jonathan Houston is a freelance writer who loves the great outdoors, films about redemption, and the occasional rack of ribs. But not necessarily in that order.

MARGARET McGOVERNE: Uncle Clifford

Artistic, Submissions, Top Stories, , , ,

Uncle Clifford dealt scrap.

Valentino in overalls, his hair slicked with axle grease. Boot polish moustachioed, ladies swooned.

“Yaargh!” he bellowed, swaggering to the pub.

One night, he disturbed burglars.

At his wake, I slicked soot beneath his innocent nose.

“Yaargh,” I whispered.

Mourners tutted, scandalized.

But only the men.

Margaret McGoverne has recently published her first novella, while being distracted by short stories, flash fiction and her blog about all things writing.