As the leaves turn on campus, the college freshmen gather at Target with the same bright eyes and school t-shirts you had fifteen years ago. They leave with gaudy pumpkin decor—no one has yet convinced them their tastes are stupid. You purchase only the necessities, longing for new beginnings.
Haley DiRenzo is a writer, poet, and practicing attorney specializing in eviction defense. She lives in Colorado with her husband and dog.
A trip to grandma’s once involved baking cookies, licking spoons and cherishing stories about the past.
Today, the trip involves eye-rolling patience while teaching her to use her smartphone.
Wise old granny is suddenly clueless.
Be not fooled. She is teaching her last, best lesson—aging with grace.
Watch carefully.
A prolific writer, Carol Reeves is loving the freedom and challenge of Flash Fiction. Her stories frequently reflect the vicissitudes and blessings of aging and can be found in Flash Fiction Magazine and 50 Word Stories. Carol’s memoir, “All the Little Miracles,” was published in 2022.
They called me today to say she has lost six pounds since last week. Mom has been refusing to eat for a while now. I visited her on Sunday. She looked radiant in her blue sweater, and long pearl necklace, wrapped in a wool blanket. Outside, it was 102 degrees.
Azarin Sadegh is an Iranian-American writer. Her work has appeared in Place Art Magazine, Scoundrel Time, LA Review of Books, and various anthologies.
The band’s packing up. Last call at the bar. The balloons have begun to wilt, the streamers to sag. Fifty-year-old tales of teenage escapades are echoes, refracted by time. We laugh, slap backs, embrace. “See you in five years!” we say with hope while our hearts are haunted by doubt.
Nick Young is a retired award-winning CBS News Correspondent. In addition to 50-Word Stories, his writing has appeared in dozens of reviews, journals and anthologies. His first novel, “Deadline,” was published in the Fall of 2023. He lives outside Chicago.
I look into your eyes and see your time-weathered sixty-seven years in your face. I am twenty-three, vibrant, invincible, and hopeful. To see me, you look inside, at a former self. For me to see you, I look in the mirror. We are one, wondering where all the time went.
Jannie Dziadzio is a retired Intuitive Transformational Coach whose last name is impossible to pronounce.
Transitions. His death shreds my soul, workplace “downsizing” shreds my psyche, quick sale of my children’s childhood home and extensive vegetable garden shreds my heart. On to condo living, plants in pots, popcorn at seven replaces dinner promptly at five, neighbors not known for thirty years. A geranium blooms. Transitions.
Unretiring from the same company three times, two monthly columns running in the Happenings newspaper, blessed enough to live within ‘hollerin’ distance of five children, twenty-one grandchildren, five great grandchildren and three great-great grandchildren keeps Rose’s daylight hours busy, so most writing is done after bedtime. However, her bedtime and the rest of her life has recently changed dramatically, as interpreted in this story.
Everything fit together like clockwork until one piece went missing. The remaining pieces are holding together but things don’t feel quite as tight. Life ticks along until suddenly that sprocket doesn’t show up. My gear expectantly reaches out and, with nothing there to mesh with, spins out into free fall.
In his retirement, Stephen Tilden has become wary of clocks.
My youngest brother, who was there at the time, said it went like this:
On his 90th birthday, Pop said with a lilt in his voice, “Always hoped I’d make it to 90.”
[deep, throaty sigh]
[loooooong pause]
Then he very softly continued, “Hope I don’t make it to 91.”
Trevor’s fiction and non-fiction have appeared in print and digital publications since the 1970s. He’s a mononymous, multiple award-winning, full-time entertainer who likes hyphens. See more at trevorthegamesman.com.
When I was young, todays lasted forever, tomorrows were made of dreams, and yesterdays piled up, forgotten.
Then, todays weren’t long enough, spilling into tomorrows, and yesterdays were mere flashes of success or regret.
But now, todays fly by filled with yesterdays, each tomorrow welcomed as a moment of grace.
A prolific writer, Carol Reeves is loving the freedom and challenge of Flash Fiction. Her stories often reflect the blessings and vicissitudes of aging. She is often published in 50-Word Stories and Flash Fiction Magazine. Her memoir, “All the Little Miracles,” was published in 2022.
The May heatwave sizzles.
In childhood, summer felt endless. Time no longer feels so kind in this so-called golden age.
Wise, dignified? Not me.
I find shade by a tree and remember: life is still what I make it.
And life is good, as the light dances between the leaves.
Brian Maycock was sixty in March. He’s enjoying writing more than ever.