When she died, she left behind her stunning wardrobe, rows of hangers full of brand-new, high-quality clothes, silk scarves, designer handbags and shoes, most still with the tag on.
Most of the exquisite pieces had been hanging there for years, still unworn, being saved for later, for a special occasion.
Caroline Couderc is a multilingual writer and translator living in Switzerland and the UK. She has degrees in French Literature, Linguistics, and Cultural Anthropology. Her work has been published or is forthcoming in Boston Literary Magazine, War, Literature and the Arts, Shotgun Honey, The Airgonaut, The Antigonish Review, and more. You can find her online at beautyisasleepingcat.com.
The big man strokes his white beard. “It’s been a hard season…”
“Seen the new requests?!” shouts one elf. “Epidemics, tanks, false flags… And we’re hungry.”
“I’ve brought in a consultant.”
A black, hooded robe enters, holding a tray. “All will be delivered this Christmas. For now, enjoy reindeer steaks.”
Joey thinks it is never too early to plan for the coming Christmas.
Their mud hut was shaded by thick plantain and banana trees.
It was still raining heavily. There were no mosquitoes so the windows were open; free air-conditioning.
She slept soundly on her bamboo mattress.
The town crier’s talking drum was muffled, so she didn’t hear she was the new widow.
Una Nina Nine plays life with her husband and family in Nigeria but is yet to meet “that” prince.
Lost most of my teeth and sight. Not rambunctious like I was.
She still loved me, unconditionally. She looked at me as if I was still a pup. “You take love with you from one world to the next,” she once told me.
Never thought that I’d outlive her.
Jody loves to write fiction. She is inspired by her old hound dog, who puts a smile on her face every day with his silly antics.
The ground was so hard they could not dig a grave.
“We could wait until spring,” said Jack, his toes frozen.
“Or take her someplace warmer,” said Julia, her breath frosted.
Father smiled. “Or we could build a fire.”
The children looked at each other. “Father knows best,” said Julia.
Paul Negri has twice won the gold medal for fiction in the William Faulkner-William Wisdom Writing Competition. His work has appeared in Vestal Review, The Penn Review, PIf Magazine, Penny Shorts, and many other publications. He lives and writes in Clifton, New Jersey.
What makes me feel really sad is not that I am a sick old man and every part of my body is aching. Nor is it the thought that I am going to die sooner than one may hope.
It is my son’s assurance that his youth will last forever.
Victor is a Russian that could be thought of as a literary anglophile.
Barely discernible in the gloom, he lay with twisted limbs, his eyes wide, staring. His mouth hung open. Silent. Still. Lifeless.
In contrast was the frantic rush of bluebottles.
Playing the part of a corpse was not a top acting role. He just happened to be rather good at it.
Jean lives in Bath in the UK. She likes to write the occasional fifty word story. As she gets older, they get more occasional.
That is a photo of my girlfriend; it was the last good day she had before she died.
She doesn’t look sick, but she was. That wasn’t going to stop her doing what she wanted to do. She had spirit.
How do you get used to losing someone like that?
Susan Cornford is a retired public servant living in Perth, Western Australia. She has pieces published or forthcoming in 50-Word Stories, Akashic Books, Antipodean Science Fiction, CarpeArte Journal, Fewer Than 500, Ghost Parachute, Medusa’s Laugh, Speculative 66, Subtle Fiction, Switchblade, The Fable Online, The Gambler, and The Vignette Review. She considers herself an emerging flash writer.
Lieutenant Harold Demarest stands on the bridge, watching a kamikaze roar towards him.
Below, Gunner Frank McClelland fires the 40mm cannon and hits the suicide plane.
It veers downward, exploding into the ship.
Demarest is alive, a flimsy clipboard shielding his head. Below, Frank McClelland and seventeen others are dead.
Frank McClelland was awarded the Silver Star Posthumously. Harry
Demarest wrote this story about his father, Harold Demarest, who attended
many reunions with his shipmates until his death at age 96.
They met on the sand, slow waltzing to wavesong under a rainbow of stars and deciding love should last beyond forever.
Now he whispers those memories and her smile smooths the wrinkles of their pain.
He catches her last breath with a gossamer lasso and ties it to his heartbeat.
A.J. lives in Australia and wouldn’t mind being reincarnated as a kookaburra. She’s on Twitter at @manicol1.