Nobody tells you how much parenting you’ll do on stairs. (And, me, scared of heights.) From tying shoelaces, to exploring Souter Lighthouse, to throwing socks at one another.
Now I sit on the stairs outside your room, waiting for the WhatsApp message that’ll say you’re not coming over this weekend.
James Whitman writes from Sunderland. There are twenty-six stairs in his home, and he has parented on every single one of them.
My daughter’s face no longer reminds me of the little girl who ran to hug me every night. The bedtime stories I told her have been forgotten. Her world is full of complexity, and mine is missing something. She crosses the stage and walks the aisle, further away from me.
Colby Wrasse has worn many different hats in his life. None of them fit very well, but he has faked it well enough to get by alright. Through these years writing in some form has flitted in and out of his life, coming to rest just long enough to catch a glimpse.
“Only what I can put in my backpack.”
They ask for their Lego.
I hang a bag from each handle bar… Throws my balance off a little, but I can manage.
I can only make a few more trips before I have to make dinner.
Thank goodness it’s not far.
Michelle Dinnick really enjoys writing micro-fiction, often inspired by personal experience. Sometimes she writes longer pieces as well. She has been published in the Globe and Mail, and Chicken Soup for the Soul; and won several writing and poetry awards. You can find her online at: fiftywordstories.com, commuterlit.com, and femininecollective.com.
We visited you today. I think she’s too young to understand. She asked me if you turned into a stone.
“Kind of,” I said.
“Why a gray stone?” she asked. “Why not blue or orange or purplegreen?”
I shrugged.
She thought you should have at least dressed up a little.
Sam van der Lugt is a writer and anthropologist based in Rotterdam, the Netherlands. He’s working on some short stories and a PhD thesis. Sometimes, he wonders what to do with all of this existence.
I fought the night. Chose cold screens and exhaustion.
But now the dawn cries “Daddy” through the static. What new joy can we uncork today? We scream and laugh and stick out our tongues. Find new ways to pause time.
Another day will never come. We’ll live this one forever.
Joe Pearson is a British fiction writer living in Paris with an interest in human responses to crises — whether personal, social, or environmental. His work often deals with themes of climate change, mental health, masculinity and fatherhood.
He buckles her into her car seat. “Be right back,” he says.
Leaving the door open, he returns the cart to a nearby stall.
He turns and sees a strange woman talking to her. He shouts, and she quickly walks away. He runs back.
“I can’t tell you,” she says.
Seth Rosenman is currently writing a list of different ways to say “I told you so.” His poems and short fiction have appeared in 50-Word Stories, Microfiction Monday Magazine, The Bookends Review, and elsewhere. His blog goes by infiniteseth.blogspot.com.
Your husband takes a DNA test after his father dies. Your father-in-law was a traveling salesman who really got around; maybe there’s siblings.
You test as moral support, secretly hoping a girl with a moon face, the pinkest skin, a girl you’ve held just once, is looking for you, too.
Georgene Smith Goodin’s work has appeared in numerous publications, and has won the “Mash Stories” flash fiction competition. She lives in Los Angeles with her husband, the cartoonist Robert Goodin, and their four children. Follow her on Bluesky at @gsmithgoodin.bsky.social.
He adored phones so much, he wished he could become one. Wanted a squircle-shaped body; gleaming, touch-sensitive skin. Wanted to be able to update and slip into pockets, to be held and gazed upon for endless hours every day. Maybe if he broke his mother’s, he could take its place.
Tim Boiteau is an award-winning writer living in Michigan with his family. He is the author of three novels, most recently The Nilwere (Grendel Press, 2024). See more at timboiteau.wordpress.com
She tugs on my sleeve eagerly: “Play with me daddy, please?”
I glance down at her and smile, my beautiful daughter… So hopeful.
I turn back to my computer screens, the telescope’s hum drowning her whispers, the plight of an astronomer searching for intelligent life, somewhere in the infinite void.
Ernesto Sanchez is a Mexican-American speculative fiction writer specializing in hard science fiction that explores the intersection of technology, humanity, and the future. With a graduate background in information technology and project management, he brings technical depth and real-world insight to his imaginative storytelling. Originally from Los Angeles, Ernesto now lives with his wife and daughter in Washington State.
The kerchief was stiff with salt, sweat, and machine oil. She pressed it to her face.
It was him, alright. Not much of a dad. Always working, drinking, fighting, womanizing. Never home.
He couldn’t make her bedtime, but could always make her laugh.
She breathed him in one last time.
Paul D’Arcy tells stories. All real. Most brief. You can read more at pauldrc.com.