Pulse. Drumbeat. Baby’s kicks. The guitar screams.
Blankets laid on the lawn. Lights dim.
Music swells in waves. Rhythmic: pushing, shoving, pounding on the ground. A night of screamo. Moshing. An owl swoops silently from the rafters. The bassist strikes a chord.
My baby’s song begins.
Joanna Friedman’s fiction and poetry has appeared in a couple of anthologies and on-line publications. She lives in the San Francisco Bay area with her husband, twin girls, and pug dog, Blue. Follow her on Twitter or her website.
After eight long years and twenty-four hours of hard labour, he finally arrived at his destination. Cold, and with no clothes to call his own, he screamed at everyone in the room. His demands were food, warmth, and love.
“Come on, wrap baby up nice and warm,” said the nurse.
Chris is a Network Manager involved in many aspects of IT. He has a love of writing short stories, technical articles, photography and playing the guitar. He is from Dudley in the Black Country. He is also a member of The Oldbury Writing Group.
Pressure squeezes me to the rhythm of her heartbeat.
The warm fluid around me turns metallic and rushes past, pulling. I fight to stay until my body relaxes against smooth, strong walls.
I gasp as the womb releases me. My chest swells then releases the agony.
The silence is gone.
Sherri Ellerman is an Occupational Therapist who spends her free time writing short fiction and poetry. She has had a flash fiction story published in River and South Review, a literary journal. Her article “Five Steps to Consider in Romance Fiction” was published at Write Well, Write to Sell in July 2014. She is the Flash Fiction editor for Liquid Imagination, an online literary magazine.
Memories arise as she gradually awakens from her medical stupor. Behind her closed eyelids, she remembers the ambulance, doctors, and then the rush into C-section surgery.
Did her sweet baby–no wait, babies–make it?
She peeks open her hazel eyes to find two congratulatory balloons. One pink. One blue.
Jewel is a stay at home mother who spends her days chasing after her spunky two year old, and her free time writing and entering contests on sites such as Needle in the Hay.
It would eventually come up after a few dates, the women wanting to know family details.
“You poor thing, so sad your mother died during childbirth.”
“Yes, sad,” I’d reply, and save the sadder story that my father is in jail for blowing her head off in the delivery room.
Jerri Clayton is a freelance writer/editor and also works full time at Southern New Hampshire University as a copywriter and editor of fundraising communications. Jerri received her MFA in nonfiction from Southern New Hampshire University. She is concurrently dabbling in fiction, working on a series of essays about runners, and continues revising her memoir, In the Long Run. Visit her website: JerriClayton.com.
“Ow! Oooooow!! Ouch! Ooh… Aah… Huuuaaaah… OH!! Woooow… Whoa! Aaaah! It burns! Eeeeek! Aaaaargh! Nyyyuuuurrgh… WWWAAAAAAAAUUGHH!! Hoooly mother of painburgersssss… GRROOOOAARGH IT HURTS SO BAAAAD!! No, why, why!?!? Ooow!! Never again! I swear on your grandmother’s grave if you ever even BHAAAAAUGH!!! OW OW OW!!”
“…I said I was sorry.”