Cheryl sits on her porch, waiting. She knows that when she sees the first lightning bug, glowing as it rises from the grass, summer will have truly arrived.
Her paranoid neighbor says they won’t come anymore—climate change.
Cheryl isn’t a believer. She shivers in the cold August night, waiting.
Candace Kubinec posts her stories at storydribbles.wordpress.com and her poetry at rhymeswithbug.com.
He flits between branches, his jaunty, upturned tail bobbing. I’ve seen him before, but never this close, and never singing fit to burst his tiny heart.
His head twitches left and right. Perhaps he’s just scared, but I need to believe it’s because he’s caught a sideways glimpse of spring.
Tamsin can’t sing or flit, but she’s definitely on the lookout for the end of winter.
Gentrification marched its silent footsteps to the oak door of Moore’s Tavern.
Old Man Henry smiled and licked his wrinkled lips. If he couldn’t have it, nobody could. He grabbed the gasoline and lighter.
The starry night seemed brighter to him that night.
The stone chimney was all that remained.
Anthony works with numbers by day, and words by night! Happily married in the heart of Kentucky.
I fell in love rapidly,
with a strong, sweet, chivalrous man.
You adored me then…
before the breakdown.
It took you away. I understand.
I’m not the same so you’re not the same man.
I patiently await your return.
I’ll never give up.
Please! We can fall in love again.
April is a hopeless romantic, even in hard times. Life equals love.
She’d never liked fog; it always seemed smothering and inescapable. Like Life. Like Motherhood.
Today, the cool grey mist wrapped around her felt open and somehow freeing.
Her eyes fell to the stone at her feet and she wondered what she could do now that she’d buried her last child.
Melissa is a writer, teacher, and dog lover in the Middle of Nowhere, Michigan.
The love affair was over. More than twenty incredible years of being there for each other gone in the blink of an eye.
“I guess it was inevitable. We’re different people now.”
Kim put the book back on the shelf and wondered when she would find her next favorite author.
Daniel Slaten writes short stories and poetry in small notebooks and on sticky notes.
Woke up on a different side of the mirror this morning, looking at a child who believed in herself and her dreams. I watched, helpless, as she was introduced to this devils’ haven.
I saw her life fly by, watched her sparkle flicker. Falter. Fade.
I miss being that child.
Gretchen Ivers is not quite sure why all of her stories turn out so morbid.
Once upon a time I had a son, as familiar to me as my own hands.
For years, his sweet face betrayed nothing about his struggles.
One day he left unannounced and upon his return two years later, he was no longer my son.
Please smile. I gained a daughter.
Claire Polders is a Dutch author writing short prose in English. More of her work can be found at clairepolders.com
. She likes it when readers say “hello” to her on Twitter
When my mother fell pregnant, I wished for the baby to die.
My sister’s looming arrival changed us all. I pretended to busy myself with my toys as my parents discussed their problems. Another mouth to feed was too much.
When labour pains kicked in, I’d already packed my bag.
Mark Farley’s nose is to the NaNoWriMo
grindstone. His zombie novella “Grans & Ammo” is available on Amazon.
“You’re home. Dinner’s on the counter. The kids have been a nightmare.”
His eyes move past me, his keys slide across the cold granite. He finds a plate, and walks to his office. The screen’s glow illuminates the man I once knew, now silent.
I close the door.
Delancey Stewart is a fiction writer living in Southern Maryland. When no indulging her imagination, she works for the man as a tech writer and tends two small boys who, her husband assures her, are hers. Find her at http://delanceystewart.wordpress.com.