Just wasn’t Christmas ‘til Auntie Arlene got up on the roof—tangled in lights, hollering “Silent Night” in sweet, festive irony. Figured herself the neighborhood tree topper, I guess. All December long, we’d hand her trays of goodies through the attic window like some kind of advent calendar in reverse.
See more from Abbie Doll at bsky.app/profile/abbiedollwrites.bsky.social.
You were our blessing, given when the first leaves changed colour. Autumn, such an appropriate name. As the last leaves fell, and before we could know you, you were snatched away. A single copper leaf held fast, the colour of your hair. Tenderly we took it, pressing it for eternity.
Writer of anything and everything. Microfiction, flash fiction and poetry are favourites. A desire to see her words published is increasing with age! See more at christinenedahl.wordpress.com.
Using a questionable metaphor, the chief prosecutor marveled why go down with the ship if not the captain. Then he reminded me of my allegorical status, a mere sailor.
I explained my rank didn’t matter because I am on the ship, it’s our ship, and there’s simply no other ship.
J. S. O’Keefe is a scientist, trilingual translator and writer. His short stories and poems have been published in Everyday Fiction, Roi Faineant, 101 Words, Spillwords, ScribesMICRO, 50WS, AntipodeanSF, Friday Flash Fiction, Spirit Fire Review, Medium, Paragraph Planet, WENSUM, 6S, Satire, MMM, etc.
Above, an azure layer so thin you can see the blackness of space behind. My eyes slide west across layers of green and yellow to a fire beyond the horizon, so deeply red that I could take comfort in its apparent warmth if the evening air wasn’t so bitingly cold.
Apricity is a favorite word of Stephen’s, especially during this time of year, meaning ‘warmth of the sun in winter.’
Candles burning on the tree, greatest beauty that child could see, but children grow.
Then a mother seeing baby at her breast, what greater beauty could there be?
Until entranced, watching grandchildren leap and dance.
Still, there’s more. Son as grandfather, glowing bright, the greatest beauty a mother could see.
Eileen finds inspiration in her family.
There is a cloud today.
Hangs shimmer silver
above the corner of the convent roof.
Says to me
Look up
Feel the hearts beating.
Tomorrow is Christmas
And the women who every morning hang their white robes out to dry
Will give food away in the lane behind my house.
Dave lives in Sydney, Australia and works across various creative disciplines.
“I want a mug from the plant pot stories contest,” Nick says. “Join me?”
He’s a devil. He knows I’m a gambler.
I haven’t grown plants since I rubbed my eyes after harvesting chili in the flat I’ll probably never return to.
None of us needs another reason to cry.
Elena Shakhnovsky is a Tel Aviv-based writer, currently in the Creative Writing Program at Bar-Ilan University.
Mary knows the night will eat her. She walks the streets, the smog like a marinade.
She hears children laugh, remembers the smell of their hair and feel of their hands.
Outside McDonald’s a man stands awkwardly. She knows him, knows his lack of agility. And the night watches, salivating.
Dominic is looking for employment as well as a way to describe the world around him. He writes poetry among other things and has been published online and in print in Driftwood Press, Poetry Birmingham and Kallisto Gaia magazines. He hopes he has something to say. He’s sure everyone does.
I was disappointed, discouraged and sad to miss out on last weeks Black Friday Bonanza at the Oxford Comma shop. However, my brothers friends mother said theres a closing down sale at Berts Apostrophe Store. Apparently its going into administration, but Im not that bothered; I never go there anyway.
John has recently had stories published in People’s Friend, 101 words, Paragraph Planet, Westword and FFF. He’s the author of ‘Rough Rides’ and ‘Short and Sweet and Sour’. Previous winner of The Times short story competition.
The story of the week for December 16 to 20 is…
My Mother Dreams of Christmas Past by Jennifer L. Freed