Quiet house. Blink.
Crib in the nursery. Blink.
Changing nappies and late-night feeds. Blink.
First steps. Blink.
First words. Blink.
First birthday. Blink.
Second. Blink.
Third. Blink.
Fourth. Blink.
Preschool. Blink.
Playdates and birthday parties. Blink.
Red checked pinafore, black leather shoes. Blink.
First day of school. Blink.
Quiet house.
Phil W. Bayles is a father who wishes the tempus would stop fugiting so much.
A woman and child lose one another under fluorescent bulbs. Scouring aisles, the mother trumpets alarm. Alone. Halved. Cleaved by her sudden emptiness. The child curls to a fiddlehead in the cave of an endcap. He hears his mother’s voice, but he’s a fern and not a lost boy anymore.
Mureall Hebert lives near Seattle, WA. Her writing has appeared in trampset, Hobart, Citron Review, matchbook, and elsewhere. Find her online at www.mureallhebert.com and @mureallhebert.bsky.social
He takes a personal day. Third Wednesday of every month.
Drives three hours each way. Gets forty minutes in a booth.
The man across from him has his hands, his eyes, his sense of humor.
Has fifteen years left on his sentence.
Has never explained why he did it.
Still.
Paul D’Arcy tells stories. All real. Most brief. You can read more at pauldrc.com.
The window is giving me nice morning sunlight. I’m trying to enjoy some solitude and tranquility, while you bustle about, oblivious. The chilled room was quite awful enough, but the water and warmer nights will not force me into anything. I will bloom when the mood strikes, and not before.
After decades of nattering on about moving abroad, Ed Walker finally retired and bought a house in Catalunya, Spain. His work can be found in 50-Word Stories, The Arcanist, Blink-Ink and elsewhere.
Changing lanes (maintain your speed) past the Costco where we’d buy the diapers. Tricky exit (use your blinker) approaching his kindergarten. I look to make sure he’s checking his mirrors and see a stubbled teenager.
I count the years that disappeared. He counts the days until he can drive away.
Robb Lanum is a failed screenwriter in Los Angeles who fell in love with the short form.
For the first time in 15 years, I couldn’t find your place.
I parked where I always park, but the whole area looked unfamiliar. Valentine roses in hand, I walked around for 11 minutes before giving up.
I should’ve asked at the office but couldn’t admit to losing you twice.
Nancy Stephan is a writer and poet living in Atlanta, GA. She won Georgia Author of the Year (GAYA) for her memoir, The Truth About Butterflies, and spends much of her time reading and writing poetry. See more at nancystephan.com.
You pushed me high on swings at five, mother, so I could FLY.
Sometimes, I’d jump on merry-go-rounds, spinning-spinning, giggling, catching breath, before I was in your grasp.
After cancer took you, I found my way back, swinging, spinning, at nineteen, you, a faint whisper in the breeze, wearing clouds.
Angela Carlton’s fiction has been published in Every Writer, Everyday Fiction, 6S, 50 Word Stories, Spillwords Press, and Paragraph Planet. In 2018, her story “The Roommates,” was made into a short film. In 2023, her story “Swallowed,” was nominated for the Pushcart Prize. See more at Angela Carlton Stories & Art on Facebook.
My daughter loves swinging. She can ride it for hours. I wondered what she found so captivating about it. One night, after putting her to bed, I sat on the swing behind our house. Nothing happened. The difference, I realized, is she has a pair of hands behind her, pushing.
Si Chen is an oceanographer by training and a fiction writer by instinct. He is working on a collection of short stories.
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.