The lady who creates the fabric of time-space lives around the corner from me. She’s always there on her porch, knitting, scowling and smoking Tiparillos. You work so hard, I say, and she grimaces “I have to…” but nothing more. Today, she was gone, and so was the moon.
Robert Ludemann is quietly retired and barely making a peep.
Inside the soup kitchen, foggy windows dripped. A blend of simmering soup, old damp clothing and unwashed souls wafted throughout. She came in with a gigantic, open golf umbrella. With two shakes and snowflakes cascading around her, she smiled, tossed her head and shyly asked, “Does my hair look alright?”
Cari Main wrote this story.
My Mother’s Day card read: IloveyousooooomuchmummyyourthebestbestbestandyoumakemehappeesloveloveloveexraloveBeeee!
I smiled, then frowned and got to work.
I drilled my daughter daily on word spacing and punctuation.
I instructed her on the capitalization of proper nouns.
I cautioned against repetition and hyperbole.
The next year:
“Dear Mother, Enjoy Mother’s Day. Sincerely, Beatrice.”
Success!
Mother to two teens, Joanna Norland feels nostalgic for the early years of creative spelling and free form punctuation. She is a playwright and writing coach based in East Sussex, UK and blogs about combining writing and parenting at mumswrite.com.
The story of the week for December 2 to 6 is…
Moving Day by Cheryl Snell
Nostalgia ain’t what it used to be. Misremembered incidents from way back when, some of which—through frequent retellings—have been hyperbolically embellished beyond all reliable recognition for anyone who wasn’t actually there at the time. Entertainment value? Priceless.
These days, smart-alecky fact-checkers with smart phones spoil all the fun.
John H. Dromey has micro-fiction, flash fiction, and short stories published in over 220 venues.
Once, during a thunderstorm, the boys huddled in an old stone church, snacking on communion wafers and slurping grape juice. Whenever a boy spoke about the storm his words were drowned out by the humming of the others. No matter which words were spoken the boys’ hearts buzzed like honeybees.
Bob Thurber is the author of six books. Regarded as a master of Flash and Micro Fiction, his work has appeared in Esquire and other magazines, been anthologized 60 times, received a long list of awards, and been utilized in schools and colleges throughout the world. He resides in Massachusetts. Visit his website at BobThurber.net.
They ask why I insist on playing Santa, and not an elf, at the mall.
It’s not just pay; there’s something great about being on top. Being a leader people gravitate towards.
Plus, no one can fire Santa.
Elves get fired and abused.
I know that all too well.
Yash Seyedbagheri is a graduate of Colorado State University’s MFA fiction program. His stories, “Soon,” “How To Be A Good Episcopalian,” “Tales From A Communion Line,” and “Community Time,” have been nominated for Pushcart Prizes. His work has been published in SmokeLong Quarterly, The Journal of Compressed Creative Arts, and Ariel Chart, among others.
Winged shadow blues the snow. Arrows in, drops a key into the window box. Brings you gifts, this crow─ green ribbon, pink pebbles. Remembers your kindness from when he was a chick.
Does he know you’re leaving? Fasten his key to your chain in case one of you gets lost.
Cheryl Snell is fluent in subtext.
It wasn’t the way we thought it would be.
There should have been fanfare,
cake,
balloons,
laughter,
endless pats on the back,
shouts of “Happy retirement!”
Instead,
there was downsizing,
quiet looks,
hushed remarks,
the packing away of desk contents into boxes,
a sudden, newfound awareness.
They’d moved our cheese.
Susan Gale Wickes is a writer from Indiana. She enjoys writing short stories and greeting card verses and the joy of cartoon captioning.
I’ve noticed that on many days
my muses, in their varied ways,
amuse themselves at my expense
and leave me in a hapless daze.
To compensate, I make them wait
and while I do, I contemplate—
when I unfaze in future days,
might they catch up a bit too late?
Ken Gosse usually writes whimsical, rhymed verse. First published in First Literary Review–East in November 2016, later in Pure Slush, Home Planet News, Lothlorien Poetry Journal, Spillwords, and many others. Raised in Chicago suburbs, now retired, he and his wife live in Mesa, AZ, with rescue dogs and cats.