She’d sit looking at the perennials starting to bud. Spring was in the air, with the promise of warmer days ahead.
She loved new life springing forth from her planting efforts.
Today the backfilling was done quietly, without hope of life being renewed, as we said goodbye at her graveside.
Connell writes a bit.
Mother wears her sorrow like a wet fur coat. As the days pass, every step she takes weighs her down. Each rancid choice she makes pushes us further apart.
She asks why I stay away from her.
I worry she’ll bequeath the coat to me and I’ll repeat the cycle.
Yong Takahashi won the Chattahoochee Valley Writers National Short Story Contest and the Writer’s Digest’s Write It Your Way Contest. She also was a finalist in The Restless Books Prize for New Immigrant Writing, and runner up in the Gemini Magazine Short Story Contest and Georgia Writers Association Flash Fiction Contest. Some of her works appear in Cactus Heart, Crab Fat Magazine, Emerge Literary Journal, Flash Fiction Magazine, Gemini Magazine, Hamilton Stone Review, Meat For Tea, River & South Review, Rusty Nail Magazine, Spilt Infinitive, and Twisted Vines.
No longer able to live in their home, the elderly couple moved to a long-term care facility.
Possessions gathered during their fifty-eight years together were tossed into a dumpster and hauled away to the landfill.
The house is empty of breath, waiting for a family to bring a new beginning.
This is Debbie’s second 50-word story. She is amazed at how challenging it is to tell a story in so few words. An aspiring writer, Debbie is excited to eventually meet her new neighbours.
John loved Marie, but she loved Jon. To Marie’s sorrow, Jon loved Maria, who did not love anyone. John wooed Marie while she wooed Jon. Meanwhile, Jon secretly wooed Maria. One day, Maria saw John for the first time. She fell madly in love with him and began wooing him.
Vincent Mars posts a 50-word story on his blog on every workday.
I escape the house and run, crying, into the backyard. Examining hand-shaped bruises on my small body, I notice an anthill. Yesterday, I watched these ants a long time. Today is different. Raging, I stomp the anthill flat. Ants scurry in panic and writhe in pain.
It doesn’t help much.
Sam Gem is a writer of flash fiction, short stories, and maybe a novel someday. He resides in upstate New York.