Elbowing open the back door, he shouted his daily love letter to his wife: “Cuppa tea?”
A brazen wind from the garden stole his words away. He glanced around to mime instead, but found no audience.
The kettle whistled urgently.
He turned back inside, shrugging. “She’ll be in soon enough.”
Lucy lives in England and tries to write and read as much as life allows. Sometimes she wishes the wind would blow her away, too.
The turtle came by our boat again today, poking his big head up, observing me with wise but sad eyes.
I wish I could comprehend his need to communicate with me. Perhaps he saw what happened, why Sam disappeared in the wee hours in the skiff, taking only his sextant.
Mary spends winters living on a 35-foot sailboat in Florida and summers in Ontario. A wanderer by fate, she embraces photography, writing, acting, and fitness coaching as opportunities present themselves.
Marian’s self-driving vehicle came home without her. Her smartphone was in the driver’s seat, but it wasn’t talking. The passenger seat was empty. The trunk was filled with farewell presents for her family and friends.
Her final text: I’m going in search of Judge Crater, B. Craven, and Amelia Earhart.
John H. Dromey has had short fiction published in Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine, Betty Fedora, Crimson Streets, and elsewhere.
John Mill went up the hill on a snowy morning. Up he walked till he reached the top where the black monolith stood still.
John Mill could not believe his eyes. The elders had once walked the land.
Neither his mind nor his body shall tell. His hat maybe will.
Arnaud Moussart teaches English in a French University. He cannot read long books anymore. He writes songs for a rock band, LadyH, and short articles dealing with science fiction and the real world.
She had loved him. He said he loved her, and she trusted him.
But a week before the wedding, he ran off with her little sister.
There was a note. And everybody believed it, until the day the pipe broke in the basement and the plumber went down to investigate.
Harry Demarest has retired after careers encompassing scientific
research, teaching at a university, software development, web
application development, and voter database compilation and
distribution. He is now spending his time with his grandchildren and
writing memoirs and short stories.
After my sister disappeared, Father brought me behind the house to see a wet circle of mushrooms. “A fairy ring,” he said, hoarsely. “They take little girls to dance with.”
There were policemen inside. They bored me.
I asked if I could dance, too, but Father wouldn’t meet my eyes.
Courtney Hamel lives with many cats in Toronto, Ontario.