The girl wiped her face with the red jacket she was wearing. He’d kicked her out and didn’t let her explain why. Through the cab window, she lipped the word please to him.
He sighed and opened the door.
Finally, he’ll listen.
He stuck his hand out. “My jacket please.”
Marc D. Avecilla stares in front of a T.V screen as the rows of coffee cups next to him grow. He’s focusing on trying to beat the famous video game Dark Souls. He’s placed honorable mention for a reflection contest and has been published at Eskimo Pie
1: You smile… Yet, you leave.
61: I still wonder what could’ve been.
93: Bumping into you doesn’t help.
367: Maybe I’ll need another year to get over you. I just suck that way.
394 or 451: You smile. Not sure why.
731: So why’re you even talking to me?
Joey doesn’t always count the days but, somehow, he does remember them. You can find him at joeytoey.com
Their mouths searching for the perfect angle. Their lips a breath apart. Their first kiss a heartbeat away. Finally.
A buzzing noise; cell phone. “Sorry, just need to check this one thing… ‘Hello,'” he says.
She knows something he does not. What he really said was, “Goodbye.” And that’s final.
Lou Romero submerged his toe into the tranquil waters of the art called writing. He discovered a raging, grinning tempest lurking there. It was a good place to search for peace. He takes creative writing classes at the University of New Mexico.
Gentle wind off the Mediterranean
flutters their white tablecloth’s overhang,
softly touching her bare legs.
“It was fun – we had such a great time!”
Jerking her hand free from her lover’s surprised fingers,
she brushes aside her wild windswept hair,
exposing fierce brown eyes,
and cheeks salty with sunlit tears.
Matthew lives in Maine. He wishes everyone freedom and that no one be left behind or imprisoned or tortured or hungry or suffering in any way. May all beings be happy.
This morning, Sam left for good. Sarah’s mascara ran more than usual. Eventually, the gunk dried on her face like tea leaves in a cup. She tried to read the meanings but got frustrated and cried, ruining them.
No future is harder for a psychic to read than her own.
Carli Wright wrote this. She does a lot of stuff: films, music, photos, etc.
His hands nailed to the walls
His feet in cement
His soul behind bars
Two kids entangled
Dreams broken, now nightmares
She drinks tea and smiles
Her next delicious move
Currents cross the room
His silent thoughts whisper
But he still loves her
Patrick Yu aspires to write. He realizes he tends to touch on the darker sides of things. Maybe that will change.
I’d spent enough time at the bar already. My mind was made up. I was the first to say “I love you;” it was only right for me to be the first to say “It’s over.”
I arrived to an empty house, her wedding ring laying coldly on the table.
Ellis says: “I write whatever I can, whenever I can.”
She held the bouquet above the trash; figures he sent flowers, probably something rare. Tropical.
Didn’t matter; it’s over anyway. Guy’s a bore. Freaking entomologist; creepo, always going on about bugs.
Well, it was done.
She glanced down at the bouquet, and felt a sharp sting. Burning sensation.
Dark, sharp, and short – Liz is a writer living in the wilds of Canada with her black cats and her laptop (the wifi’s pretty good in the boonies). She loves themes of loss, love, and change, all with a twist of something else. Her work appears in all the usual places, but most recently on Spelk, Yellow Mama, Near to the Knuckle and Twisted Sister lit mag. You can find her at lizmcadams.wordpress.com
Her limbs ached. Her heart ached, too. Wasn’t time supposed to heal all wounds?
She’d caught him in lie after lie. “I never want to see you again!” she’d screamed.
She looked down at the blue planet below. She’d slept five years in the spacecraft’s hibernation pod.
Maybe she’d over-reacted.
AJ Joseph is a bookaholic, semi-insomniac, unsuccessful recovering javaholic, and most importantly a writer. She occasionally writes on her blog, Words from Sonobe
He gazes at the glass, filled to the brim with whiskey. Too full, she’d say with that laugh of hers. She’d loved whiskey—the burn of it, the promise in it—in a way she’d never loved him.
He lifts it to his lips and tastes her one last time.
Melissa is a writer, teacher, and dog lover in the Middle of Nowhere, Michigan.