“Sorry we didn’t come back earlier.”
July warmth, salt, sunshine- flooding into the car that parks in the seam of pavement and beach. Birds laughing distant. Sunscreen uncapping, close. Sand’s likely too hot to walk on barefoot.
“Better late than never, huh?” she says.
The urn beside her says nothing.
Riley Montag is a Colorado-based trickster that’s usually up to Trouble, but not generally up to No Good. Follow Riley at @RileyAMontag.
Frank used to hold shells to his ear so that he could hear the sea. But there are no shells here.
He’s not sure why Mom likes this place. There’s no beach. No swimming. No nothing.
If Mom keeps smiling though, Frank thinks he won’t really mind about the shells.
Ben lives in Dallas where he is viewed with tolerant amusement by his wife and two small boys. He has just started writing micro fiction and hopes to get better at it.
Her toes were covered with sand, like little appetizers. The nails painted blue; ever the rebel, she.
A wave hushed in, foaming. “I’m leaving you,” she said calmly. “I’m tired of all your crap.”
Another wave slid up the beach, washed the sand off her feet, washed her guilt away.
Gregory Von Dare is a writer and dramatist specializing in crime and speculative fiction, often with a humorous or ironic twist. He attended Chicago City College and the University of Illinois. While living in Los Angeles, he worked for Universal Studios, Disney, and Sony Pictures as a talent manager and developer. He studied writing with Edgar winner John Morgan Wilson. Recently, his short stories were featured on the Soft Cartel and Horror Tree websites. Greg is an Affiliate Member of Mystery Writers of America. He lives outside Chicago where certain people will never find him.
It was nearly the best moment of my entire life.
I was sitting in the sun,
drinking a wonderful cocktail,
and suddenly the most handsome man
looked me directly in the eyes
and gently said,
“Excuse me,
you are sitting on my towel.
And you are drinking my wonderful cocktail.”
Leydi Cuesta wrote this story.
He knew, often before she did, what was needed. His casual remark midweek, her nodded assent. Saturday morning: lunches packed, headed toward the rising sun and the smell of salt.
Now, when she stands alone by the edge of the sea, she thanks him even though he is not there.
Ellen Sinclair is from Belfast, Maine. She is a retired teacher, counselor, widow, mother, and grandmother, a lover of words and the sea.
“You will be featured on tomorrow’s front page,” the reporter says, switching on his tape recorder, “so you understand the national significance of this interview…”
“I do.”
“Ready?”
“Yes.”
“As a resident, do you support the beach’s privatization?”
“Nope.”
The reporter switches off the recorder.
“An opening quote!” he grins.
Kate Burnham is a pastry chef and writer who can type eighty words a minute. She lives in Toronto, Ontario, with her cat and too many things. She finds people fascinating and longs for library books, but knows she’ll never return them on time.
When he pulls into the garage, he sees the bucket and sand toys on the backseat. He hides them in the trunk, next to the spare tire.
Then he runs his hands over his suit to remove any final grains of sand. He wouldn’t want the kids to be jealous.
Brittany Michelson loves traveling, hiking new mountains, playing with words, snowboarding, and daydreaming.
“‘Let’s go to the beach,’ you said! ‘Let’s go for a walk on the sand with baby Timmy,’ you said! ‘Let’s dress like giant crabs and pretend to kidnap him and take him to a magical underwater utopia full of laughter and song,’ you said! ‘He’ll enjoy it,’ you said…”