We had so many wonderful plans for the future, and now he and they are gone.
People say, “Move on. The past is gone; you have your future.”
My future was supposed to be with him.
The future is in one second.
The future is now.
I am scared.
Go.
Susan is a Curriculum Developer at a mortgage company. She is widowed with two grown daughters and two stepsons, and four awesome grandchildren, two boys and two girls.
“That’s the girl I’m going to marry,” he said, pointing down the hall. His friends dared him to approach, ask her simply for a date.
“You’re cute, but I already have a dog,” said she, in reply to his awkward entreaty.
Right he was. The two were married forty-seven years.
Anita Reynolds is a writer and artist, wife and mom in the rural reaches of Tennessee. Her work is inspired by the strangeness of life, from the mundane to the magical.
She carries
ten limestones
to the ocean,
each wrapped
in vine leaves,
and throws one
every minute,
counting the
seconds
between.
Today
it takes
seven
before he
crawls
from the water –
slimy,
salty,
steaming
in the sun.
His arms
are green
with algae
but all she needs
is his kiss.
Mark Farley writes novels, flash fiction and the occasional poem.
The first word I understood was “tired.” Always etched on mom’s face; she spoke in sighs. Dad’s language was disappointment. My brothers and I were taught it was us against the world, and our home constantly reminded us that we’d never know any different.
With hungry hearts, we grew silent.
Munira Sayyid has two siblings. Only one of which is a brother. Her parents think she talks too much sometimes.
The story of the week for May 15 to 19 is…
My Father, in Worcester, Massachusetts by Jennifer L. Freed
Every night on a crag a half-day’s climb above the foothills, a crooked little man dances by a campfire, whispering “Guess my name,” and the echo carries across fields and valleys, streaming into the dreams of children, who grow to believe they’ll someday be able to spin straw into gold.
Over the years Bob Thurber’s work has received a long list of awards and prizes. His most recent book is a collection of brief stories titled “Nothing But Trouble.” His first novel, “Paperboy: A Dysfunctional Novel,” was recently rereleased. Visit BobThurber.net.
Unkept promises drift away in the breeze, the stench of exhaust lingering in the parking lot. His red mustang fades into the horizon. Here, he left his girl, watching from the payphone station.
4-8-5…
She stops dialing. Instead, she limps onto the curb, gives the next driver a thumbs up.
Kiersten Wood, from Massachusetts, is a dedicated writer who loves horror movies, dancing, and spending her summers in the City.
I am middle aged when you mention
in passing
that as a child at Christmastime
you were chased around your neighborhood
by big blond boys shouting
Christ Killer!
Kike!
I’ve known you all my life,
yet you are distant land,
and few years remain for me to touch that soil.
Jennifer usually writes poetry, occasionally writes short fiction. See more at her website.
Jack forgot his hat. His gloves. His coat, too. Down the street to where he thought Betty was. She wasn’t. Across the park, if it was a park. Grass anyway. Big empty blue sky. Tired. Sat down on a bench.
So stone cold. Jack wanted to go home. Forgot where.
Paul Negri has twice won the Gold Medal for fiction in the William Faulkner-William Wisdom Writing Competition. His work has appeared in The Vestal Review, Bartleby Snopes, Piff Magazine, Jellyfish Review and other publications. He lives and writes in Clifton, New Jersey.
A breeze scuttles through the jostling limbs of the coppiced chestnuts, and they clatter like masts in a marina.
In my imagination, when the hill is stripped bare, these trees will be crafted into green-winged ships, thrusting proudly towards the broad horizon.
In reality, I know they’ll become fence posts.
Tamsin keeps finding herself writing about trees – but then, literally, we can’t live without them.