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.
“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.