Rabbits jump around the green grass, soaking up warmth, delighting you. Daffodils are up; robins have returned. You survey this dazzling day with bright eyes.
Without warning, you retreat into your world. “When will it stop snowing?” you wonder out loud. “It’s so cold!”
The Alzheimer’s again… We miss you.
Deborah Davis is a former equities trader. She lives in Richland, Michigan, and enjoys fellowship and encouragement from her kindred spirits in the Richland Writers’ Circle.
The detective pondered.
“I’ve ruled out the housekeeper, who is on vacation. Every petty thief in London is imprisoned at Her Majesty’s Pleasure. The thought of a mythical furry creature committing the crime is comical but outrageous.
“Which leaves only one suspect.
“Watson, where have you hidden my Easter egg?”
John B Sinclair is a much-travelled Scot who has now returned to Scotland, where he enjoys freelance writing on a variety of subjects.
The clouds rolled away, leaving a pure azure sky.
“Beautiful,” said George as he scanned the lush green fields through the binoculars. “It’s gonna be a lovely day!”
He took in the crisp, fresh air, picked up the handset, and boomed, “All armored units, let’s get Operation Spring Cleaning started!”
Joey wasn’t interested in writing while at school but has been writing on his own in recent years, mostly to amuse himself. He has been published at The Story Shack and Needle In The Hay. He also likes roast cows.
Some said, “He ran off with another woman.” Others suspected she drove him away.
And so the rumours continued, until he was found in a ditch with the soft spring sunlight slowly melting the ice and snow that covered him, after being fatally injured by a hit and run driver.
Connell wrote this in good spirits for those languishing in the warmth of spring as he begins to enjoy the increasingly dark and refreshingly nippy mornings of autumn.
Jim stands before the glass window and reflects upon how much he loves springtime.
Vibrant blooms of reds and purples, accompanied by waves of yellows and greens, vibrate across his field of vision.
He places a mug reading “World’s Best Allergist” upon his desk and asks the receptionist “Who’s first?”
Craig Holzschuh says, “Gesundheit and may the pollen counts be ever in your favor.“
She threw her coat on top of the bed and lay down beside it. She pressed her bulbous fingers against her belly, probing the veins as though they were fat roots. The scent of decay filled her nostrils.
After a while, a snowdrop pushed through the bed to join her.
Joan Gilfillan likes to read so much that she sometimes forgets she can write. One day, she will be a great author, if her memory doesn’t fail her first.
I removed the dust sheet from the harpsichord. I wasn’t expecting this. There was sheet music underneath; old music with old keys.
I dredged my memory for the fingering of, say, B quadruple flat, and pressed.
It was badly out of tune. Or was it supposed to sound like that?
Mike Lynch is an amateur author, father, runner and cyclist. He is 44 and lives in Edinburgh, Scotland.
This was the first spring Ruth had visited the bluebell fields with her four-year-old, Sophie. Her thoughts drifted to her own first visit when she stood on the beautiful carpet of purple and blue.
Sophie ran towards her holding a single flower. “Mummy, it’s wonderful, but this bluebell doesn’t ring!”
John B Sinclair is a much-travelled Scot who has now returned to Scotland, where he enjoys freelance writing on a variety of subjects.
A set of screams had been heard days ago. A police officer went to check the Millers’ house to see if everything was all right.
“Regan,” he said. “Honey, where are your parents?”
“I tried to tell them my doll was bad,” she said. “But she got to them first.
Kelsey D. Garmendia, 23, graduated with a Bachelors Degree in English with a concentration in Creative Writing. Garmendia is featured in Midnight Screaming, Poydras Review, My Unfinished Novel, The Stonesthrow Review, Penduline Press and Embodied Effigies. She has two self-published novels titled Burn Our Houses Down and If I Lose.
A cold, cloudy morning provokes action. Everyone has decided to hug a tree in a frantic effort to keep warm and connected. Yet all the trees are just standing there with arms folded, not wanting to engage.
It’s an awkward dance. Suddenly, rain falls and people flee. Only trees remain.