I woke long before dawn, shards of moonlight breaking through the faded curtains.
The hotel hadn’t changed much.
Now, twenty years later, I could still see him stretched out on the bed, with that mischievous, just-married look in his eyes.
I touched the urn on the nightstand. “Happy anniversary, dear.”
Susan Gale Wickes is from Indiana. In addition to writing poetry and short stories, she enjoys penning aphorisms and epigrams.
After the hospital, the bookstore café beckons. The geezers have already gathered. Although they still do not offer him a seat at their tables, when he comes in this time, limping, they shoot him a longer glance than usual, which seems, he imagines, to confirm the likelihood of imminent inclusion.
Ron. Lavalette has been widely published in both print and pixel forms. His first chapbook, Fallen Away, is now available from Finishing Line Press, and a reasonable sample of his work can be found at EGGS OVER TOKYO.
Before, gold earrings complemented her brown hair and eyes,
Enhancing her orange and beige shirts.
She chose fuchsia eyeglass frames to complete the color palette.
Now, she buys silver earrings to match her grey hair,
And purple and blue sweaters,
But her glasses will forever draw attention to her eyes.
Miriam Stein is a social worker, writer, and the author of Make Your Voice Matter With Lawmakers: No Experience Necessary. See more at makeyourvoicematter.com.
I never had company until I got sick. Then people started showing up. Wondering how I was doing. How I was feeling. They were so sorry. On and on.
I had been alone for years. I liked it. I didn’t mind.
Why couldn’t they see me before I got sick?
Jody loves the mystery of the human mind and what makes a person tick. Sometimes she wishes that she didn’t know.
Frigid weather was not a factor when we were young. We welcomed the challenge. It was raw, but so were we. The jostle of crowded streets and hiss of the library’s radiators frustrated the arctic air during Christmas season in the big city.
The bundles of memory warm us now.
Eddie Roth writes from St. Louis.
My hands are sore. One good finger; the rest are in pain.
I swing my legs out of bed. My knees hardly work. Creak. Moan. Crack.
Once I get moving, the joints will be okay.
My latest target is in Italy.
One good finger. That’s all it takes.
Henry lives in Somerset in the UK, which is at the moment still part of the European Union. He eats a lot of toast.
Lost most of my teeth and sight. Not rambunctious like I was.
She still loved me, unconditionally. She looked at me as if I was still a pup. “You take love with you from one world to the next,” she once told me.
Never thought that I’d outlive her.
Jody loves to write fiction. She is inspired by her old hound dog, who puts a smile on her face every day with his silly antics.
Forty years of life swell between us since graduation day.
Yet here we are, time melted away in sunny blue Homecoming skies.
Pure spirit lurking in football memories
and tangible attraction amidst the Rah and Rah.
Back home, to the future, soft remnants remain, glowing…
Please don’t go.
Judi MacKenzie is a writer who recently attended a reunion.
During the film festival, Jeanie stopped at a cosmetics booth. A computer monitor displayed her lonely, seventy-year-old widow’s face.
She touched a button. A younger image materialized. The computer had painted her face: eyeliner, lashes, lips.
Jeanie sent the photo to a seniors’ dating site. This would be the year.
Teresa Del Mastro lives on the Danforth in Toronto with Angelo, Michael, Rachel and Willow.
My father called from somewhere.
He needed to sign some important documents and he’d forgotten his name again.
I asked where he was, I asked where he’d been.
I asked if he was alright, if he was wearing shoes and clothes.
He said, Just spell my name for me, son.
Bob Thurber is the author of “Paperboy: A Dysfunctional Novel” and two collections of stories. A celebrated master of Flash and Micro Fiction, his work has appeared in 60 anthologies, received dozens of awards, and been used in schools and colleges throughout the world. He resides in Massachusetts where, though legally blind, he continues to write every day. Visit his website at BobThurber.net.