Sailor’s arms beneath tobacco-scented cardigans. Milky eyes like moonlit skies, staring as though I was the finest thing on Earth.
But when he wore the hat, for memorials or military functions, he became a ghost.
I wondered what that hat had seen, to make him quiver like a frightened child.
Jo Withers writes micros, flash, and poetry from her home in South Australia. Recent work has featured or is forthcoming in Molotov Cocktail, Ellipsis Zine, Spelk, Bath Flash Anthology, and Milk Candy Review.
We used to talk for hours about films and art, but now you just deliver monologues about your boring job, your arthritic toe, and the awful weather.
I’m shocked by how quickly you changed closeness into carefully manipulated distance.
Now you’ve unfriended me. I only wish I’d got there first.
Juliet is an adult education tutor, crafter, and conservation volunteer based in Edinburgh, UK. She blogs at craftygreenpoet.blogspot.com and tweets at @craftygreenpoet.
I am middle aged when you mention
that as a child at Christmastime
you were chased around your neighborhood
by big blond boys shouting
I’ve known you all my life,
yet you are distant land,
and few years remain for me to touch that soil.
Jennifer usually writes poetry, occasionally writes short fiction. See more at her website.
For the Babies
Ten of us ate and ate, then ate some more. The bill was more than reasonable, considering the impeccable service, excellence and variety of food. The neat thing about dining at the inn was the nostalgic feeling of being at grandma’s house before the war. Stuffed, content, yawning with happiness.
Over the years Bob Thurber’s work has received a long list of awards and prizes. His most recent book is a collection of brief stories titled “Nothing But Trouble.” His first novel, “Paperboy: A Dysfunctional Novel,” was recently rereleased. Visit BobThurber.net.
Editor’s Note: Let’s all hope and pray for peace, not only in our own homes but in those places on the news that can seem so far removed.
“Hey, we are gonna be forever. Okay?” the text read.
“Forever and a day more” was the reply.
Then they met for the first time. Or rather, their eyes did.
No sign of recognition, let alone love.
Relationships, they agreed, should best be left to the confines of virtual reality.
Sukanya Ghosh writes stories, stories about pain, because she has felt her portion of it and she intends to bleed it out through the tip of her pen.
She travels to the moon in lipstick and a dress and meets someone who asks her hand in marriage.
She declines, though. I’m sorry. But you live on the moon.
Now she stares at midnight lake reflections, in heels and perfume, hoping to meet somebody half as great as him.
Christopher James lives, works and writes in Indonesia.