A river runs close by.
Sometimes, we go together. I paddle at the edges while you swim deftly forward. You covet its spiralling depths, embracing the undulating void as you leave the land behind.
You emerge dripping, almost drowned, but re-submerge before you’re dry.
My heart sinks as you plummet.
Jo Withers writes poetry and short stories from her home in South Australia. You can follow Jo on Twitter.
“Darling, we’re out of vodka.”
Those were the last words he’d want to hear.
She met him at the door, arms outstretched to take his coat and hat, playing her role perfectly.
“I’m going to the club,” he snarled. No kiss.
“I know,” she whispered to the closed door, smiling.
Jill Kiesow writes fiction and poetry, and has had two short stories published in the Matador Review and one due soon in Ariel Chart. She has worked and written for the Animal Protection Institute, was a guest author in the Sacramento News & Review, and has an English Writing degree. She is a long-time vegan and animal advocate, has worked at a shelter, and is an occasional foster provider. Jill is an at-home mom in rural Wisconsin with her husband, toddler, several rescued cats, and recently adopted shelter dog.
My counselor told me “You can beat this, but you need to keep attending our sessions.”
My mother said to me, “you’re going to die if you keep this up.”
As I leave the liquor store, I hear the door chime ringing behind me. Did an angel get its wings?
Amy Elizabeth wrote this story.
I never called them stupid for marrying. That wasn’t in my speech. I was drunk but I remember exactly what I said before somebody yanked the microphone away. I said he was a couple rides short of a carnival and that her sewing machine had obviously run out of thread.
Over the years Bob Thurber’s work has received a long list of awards and prizes. His most recent book is a collection of brief stories titled “Nothing But Trouble”. Visit BobThurber.net.
“Men are only after one thing,” says the prostitute.
“Yeah,” the barman replies, “alcohol.”
“OK, two things,” she sneers as the bell rings for last orders.
“Another pint!” shouts the vicar and frowns at the prostitute. “These streets aren’t safe.”
Once the bar has closed I follow her.
Steve Lucas lives in Cardiff, UK, and works for the Arts Council of Wales.
“What is this colorless swill? Offensively bland tonic; completely odorless. I’ve had my eye on you. I know you despise me. What are you playing at, giving me this vile, mundane concoction? I demand answers! Is it arsenic? Are you trying to poison me, sir?”
“Go home, Sam. You’re drunk!”
Anita Roberts Soupir lives in rural North Dakota. She is a freelance writer and owner of the cooking blog theunabashedkitchenwench.blogspot.com. She is also a member of Scribophile.com and CritiqueCircle.com. Her latest project, Don’t Trifle With Me, is the first in a series of 6 books called The Dessert Club.
She was the hopscotch champion of the world.
Every nine-year-old girl wanted to be her. Every eight-year-old boy thought she was dumb, which meant they thought she was really cool but couldn’t admit it to their friends. Every chalk company wanted her name on their products.