Before winter, Mom’s garden glowed with lanterns where ladybugs nested but forgot how to leave, curling up like Mom on the kitchen floor after her Christmas stroke.
She would’ve remembered to free them in winter.
We didn’t.
Come spring, a green breeze shakes out dried memories of last year’s joy.
Rachel Burns is a student of creative writing. Her current project is a chapbook comprised of poetry and prose.
The story of the week for March 7 to 11 is…
Luck by Viv Burgess
The range of emotion from the woman’s experience to the reader’s realization is really well executed.
The rocks slip and crumble beneath my feet. A bead of sweat rolls into my eye as I balance.
I use the last of my strength to pull myself up to the peak.
I look around at the world stretched before me and think, “How will I get back down?”
Megan Alexander is a high school English teacher and lives with her fiance in Redwood City, CA where she is just beginning her journey as a writer.
The ink keeps smearing.
Johann, dinner! Kommst du hier! His wife’s voice, sweet notes on spring breeze.
The ink hides in the whorls of his fingertips.
Just one more try. A finer sheet, smooth but dense.
He leans into the crank. There’s an art to the turn of the handle.
Juliet Hubbell teaches English Literature and Humanities at Arapahoe Community College. Her short story “The Owl” won the 2015 Montana State Fiction Award. Rick Bass called the story “mysterious and powerful.” Her work has appeared before in Hektoen International: Journal of Medical Humanities, Workers Write, JAMA: Journal of American Medical Association, ACM: Another Chicago Magazine, Progenitor, and Midwest Quarterly. Her rendition of a medieval Black Forest fairy tale, “Saarbrucken Witch”, won the 2013 British Fantasy Society’s Short Story Contest. She is an active member of both the Lighthouse Writers and Rocky Mountain Fiction Writers and attends writing and publishing conferences annually, including the Association of Writing Professionals conference.
We waited silently in the dark. I stilled myself to the mood so it wouldn’t be broken. The moment of expectation drew close, and tension hung like bar smoke. Others fidgeted, rustled, imagined.
You slipped into the room unannounced.
We sprang from cover. “Surprise!”
You were naked.
It was awkward.
Gordon Lysen resides in Manitoba, Canada, and spends his time between the city of Winnipeg and his true home at Sugar Point on Lake Manitoba. Retired from police work after some 27 years, Gordon co-authored the novel “A Deadly Blend of Souls” with his wife, Lisa. Writing and painting are Gordon’s relaxation methods when retirement becomes too stressful.
The gentleman farmer looks up from his typewriter.
The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog.
Not again.
He stands and walks to his gun cabinet, selecting a .22 rifle. He shoots the varmint before it enters his coop. He returns to his desk and studies the blank paper.
Joseph Sidari writes from Boston. He is waiting for his agented novel, LITTLE GREEN MEN, to be published. He would never shoot a fox. See more at josephsidari.com.
He joined the company as a Junior Clerk in the despatch department and through hard work and natural ability he rose to become the Chairman of the Board, but he never forgot his humble beginnings and always made sure that he sacked any Junior Clerk who showed too much promise.
Michael D. Hill is a Londoner who has lived in Dorset for more than half his life. He enjoys reading, writing and breathing.
The handsome patient grinned. “What’s wrong with me, doc?”
Ignoring her aching feet—and his devastating smile—Maria checked his vitals. Normal. How odd. “Must be a virus. Rest. Drink liquids. You’ll get better.”
“But it’s so strange.” Gently, he touched her arm. “Everything glows.”
Then… she saw it too.
Joanne R. Fritz lives in West Chester, PA and writes poetry and fiction for children and adults. When she wrote this story, she’d been suffering from a mysterious virus that lasted six weeks. Her vitals were normal but she experienced constant vertigo. She wished the virus had been the glowing kind instead.
He was a handsome young man. In the counseling session he spoke of politics, love, plans for college.
I marveled at his many strengths.
Tentatively, he then announced that he’d written the Beatles’ songs.
He wept in painful awareness of the impossibility of false memories, the cruelty of his illness.
Many years ago, as a mental health professional, Alison worked with this young man. His anguish is still fresh in her mind, yet his resiliency prevailed. Alison hopes that this small story will make you stop and reconsider your assumptions about those who have a mental health diagnosis.
“I’m telling you,” my little brother insisted, “Elvis is alive and living here in Kalamazoo!”
I sighed and finished my fries. We’d had this argument a thousand times before. I paid the bill and tipped the elderly waiter.
He took the cash and smiled. “Thank you. Thank you very much.”
Guy is growing facial hair to help conceal his secret identity. This is his ninth 50-Word story.