At the running trail’s straightaway, I knew I could make my legs pistons, sprint like I was 25, but suddenly Goose-Poop Alley loomed, 100 yards of goopy green and brown sidewalk smudges. I leaped, twisted, quick-minced, and lunged, the ballet dancer I’d never been but was now—magnificently!–at 74.
Paul Lamar lives with his husband, Mark, in Albany, NY, not far from three grown children and two swell grandkids.
She smiles at the young woman in the photo: bottle-blonde, bright-eyed. Her hair always drew compliments. It was freeing, being 22, radiant, at the start of everything. Her fingers comb through current locks; tinsel strands that wink. She smiles again. Gentlemen may prefer blondes, but nothing shines brighter than silver.
Ann Kathryn Kelly lives and writes in New Hampshire’s Seacoast region. Her essays have appeared in a number of literary journals, found on her website at www.annkkelly.com.
Mrs Kaminski hugs the purple, sequinned cushion she’s just had to buy back from the charity shop. Her interfering bus driver daughter had donated it.
She spots the 52 on its way down North Road.
In the middle of the zebra crossing she lies down, cushion positioned under her head.
Tricia is a high priestess of micro-fiction.
Every day after school, we go to the park.
Every day, the man on the bench admires the acers in the Japanese gardens.
Every day, he smiles and asks my daughter how she is.
But today he isn’t here. She whispers that maybe this is his first day in Heaven.
Henry appreciates nature, and spending time in the park admiring the trees seems like a pretty good way to use your time.
February 9th, her birthday: deep in Winter’s bitter swell. Sledging with friends, then home to Mum’s hot chocolate and hugs.
Now grandchildren tiptoe to her door with homemade cake, footsteps wary over unforgiving frost. She pulls them indoors, warms small hands in hers.
Over seventy birthdays, she’s never felt cold.
Jo Withers writes short fiction from her home in South Australia where February is anything but cold.
The ghost chases me
Down my corridors
My past future and reality
I walk carefully
To look back
I infuse positive thoughts
Walk next to me
My hearts desire
An altered past
But must live
In this calamity
Old age brings desires.
Legs straight, toes pointed, epicenter straddle split. Stand tall, back tree solid, arms regal, fingers pretty, chin queen high.
Grandkids whoop and holler and beg, more more! Curtsy regrets; hip pops on the low bend. Smile. Massage silent. Babies wheel the yard, breathless with dynamic pliable hips, mute with youth.
Sheree Shatsky writes short fiction believing much can be conveyed with a few wild words. Her work has been published in a variety of journals including The Dead Mule School of Southern Literature, Bending Genres, New Flash Fiction Review, KYSO Flash and The Conium Review with work forthcoming at Fictive Dream and Saw Palm: Florida Literature and Art. She is twice-nominated for Best Microfiction 2020 by Fictive Dream and MoonPark Review. Read more of her work at shereeshatsky.com. She tweets at @talktomememe.
Officially he turns twenty next birthday.
“Not old enough to buy champagne”
Carefully removing his fading birth certificate from a plastic envelope he read:
“DOB: February 29, 1940”
Mom waited until after midnight because “He was special.”
He was her only child; she was right.
Eighty years ago.
John B. Sinclair is a much-travelled Scot who has now returned to Scotland, where he enjoys freelance writing on a variety of subjects.
She speaks to her grown son as he feigns interest. His eyes glaze over; his liquid, anxious movements announce his hurry to leave. His visits are perfunctory.
I know he left long ago.
I journal missed conversations; when I’m gone, he’ll read.
I hope he’ll discontinue ignoring those still here.
Jaye is a visual artist. She has written poetry for years and is trying her hand at micro and flash fiction.
Recalling the smiles of my youth
I see the greenery, opulence, white pillars, and cars
As fires, fragileness, and feigned freedom
Mistaken for a world of bliss
Now I flip through fertile flames
Molded tablecloths, fancy watches, and fired clay;
The only keepsakes
That outlasted God’s dark test of time
Annie Lyall Slaughter wrote this story.