The boy finished reading his favourite book. It was a western novel with a sheriff and bandits, and he loved everything about it.
He looked at his coat with a yellow star on it. “Now I’m the sheriff!” he thought proudly. “Tomorrow, I’ll show it to my classmates.”
Adam is a 19 year old student. He’s living near Prague in the Czech republic.
I kiss my daughter; she twists away. “No,” she says.
“Don’t you hate that?” Margie sighs. “We do enough. We deserve kisses.”
I remember uncomfortable playground embraces. Unwanted subway pawing. Nights reluctantly spent.
“No,” I say. The word is whiskey. Dark, strong, medicinal. I smile and watch the girls play.
Ashley Scott lives with her family in the Pacific Northwest. She loves writing that packs a lot into a little. You can find her short stories and flash fiction in online literary publications, including On the Premises.
She pulls the Depends down and helps the shaking frame settle on the raised toilet.
Gently, she rubs a hand, skin like crumpled tissue paper. That hand once cared for her. Things change.
The report is folded in her purse, but she decides right then: family is more than blood.
Carol Scheina writes and edits as a freelancer. In free moments, she dreams up stories while trying to keep the cat from jumping on the keyboard and messing everything up. You can find some of her writing at carolscheina.wordpress.com.
It happened occasionally, stray balls, wayward kites, but today was relentless.
Baubles in her birdbath, puddings thrown into petunias, tinsel in her tulips.
Angrily, she marched next door, demanded an explanation.
Guiltily, her neighbour’s boy confessed to everyone: “I hoped she’d come. She’s alone on Christmas Day. Can she stay?”
Jo Withers writes short stories and poetry from her home in South Australia. She wishes everybody a safe and happy holiday season.
Dad makes every shot. Nothing fazes him, not the windmill blades, the narrow bridge, the ripped carpet on Hole 7.
“They should fix that,” he notes, then drains the tricky putt.
My own ball rims out. Again. I curse it.
“Relax,” Dad tells me, as if he ever could have.
Jim Anderson is a retired college lecturer who lives in Michigan where he reads a lot and writes a little. More of his micro-fiction can be found at JimTheWriter.net.
Rough and sharp, her voice is filled with demons. She hides beneath her tongue, a monster dancing before you. Angry and alert, her life is emergency. She rails and hurls insults – of course it’s all your fault.
You hold on tight and pray you’ll make it through her teenage years.
Eliza Mimski, a retired teacher, lives and writes in San Francisco, California. See more at elizamimski.wordpress.com.
“When will I see mommy?” Clare would ask everyday.
“Before you head to bed, honey” Auntie would reply.
Those words echoed in her ear as her eyes pleaded to be closed.
This time,her mother made it. Just before the monitor flat-lined.
Melancholy spread as Clare finally slept with a smile.
This poem was selected as the runner up of the Commaful.com 50WS Contest! Read the original post here.
Giggly, smiling, innocent seductress peering out from the pages of school yearbooks. One foot on the hockey field, one in the library. The world spread out before her.
Years, babies, miscarriages, surgeries, illnesses, and life. My Mom. All grown up.
If only I had known the girl of the giggles.
Eileen Mardres is a retired teacher / social worker and sometimes writer of manuals and English test questions. She is now writing her way through her senior years with micro-fiction, poetry, and memoirs of life adventures.
An awkward, stilted embrace. A clumsy patting of the back. A final sticky handshake.
I stood and watched him depart into the throngs of people, then boarded.
I sat at the window smiling, thoughts centered on the complimentary drink. My pre-flight numbness faded, enabling me to savour his unspoken love.
Raymond has pieces published in 101 words and 101 fiction. He lives in Ireland.
He had so many abilities to bestow, my dad. He could tie shoes, tell time, build tables, fix carburetors, throw, catch, hit. But for all his superhuman powers, he contained almost nothing else, and he withheld most of it.
And stoicism, I’ve since learned, is far less heroic than advertised.
Robert Hoekman Jr. is a writer and editor, and part of the Litmus Collective. His nonfiction work has been featured by Fast Company, WIRED, Huckberry, and many others.