What’s the word? A syllable sits on the tip of my tongue.
A machine beeps erratically. Voices. Shouting.
“Stay,” he begs, tears streaming down an unshaven face. But his touch is alien: bereft of warmth.
The machine pauses. Sudden silence. Overpowering.
“Numb,” I whisper, as darkness falls.
Cadence Rage is a songwriter, animal rights activist, and caffeine-addicted weaver of speculative fiction. Currently working on her science-fantasy series, she also writes poetry and flash fiction at cadencerage.wordpress.com
If she had known,
she might have answered her telephone,
let the dog out one more time,
refilled his bowl.
She would’ve worn a newer nightgown.
As it was,
she was just so
tired, so bone-heavy
She turned on the television,
crawled beneath her comforter, took
Jennifer L. Freed writes mostly poetry, and occasionally some micro fiction. Other work can be seen at jfreed.weebly.com.
Death did not come easy to Julian Baxter. Then again, neither did life.
For three long days he lay prostrate on a cold tile floor, reliving precious memories and praying to a God he wasn’t sure he believed in for peace, a full bottle of painkillers just beyond his reach.
Whether reading or writing, Donna finds micro fiction to be the perfect answer to her short attention span.
i feel better now they give me pills and not hook me to the clicky box.
Im going to a differnt place so i must be getting better.
almost evryone looks happy around me. i will miss them.
even the mean nite nurse sed hes glad im going to hosspess.
Kevin Ivan Smith is helping move a laboratory by day and recovering from it by night.
I’ve taken a sudden interest in my unread copy of Emily Dickenson’s Complete Poems. Part Four: Time and Eternity, specifically.
Reading is uncomfortable. The beeping of machines; the itchy bedding; the chemical-scented air. Yet I still turn the pages, IV in my arm, knowing that eternity is awaiting me, too.
Jane Danforth is a high school senior who would rather be writing fiction than college essays.
“Death comes for us all little one, and I’m so tired. I can’t keep running away anymore.”
His tiny fingers slid in between my own, tears dripping from his nose onto the back of his hand in rhythm with the heart monitor.
“Dad, can’t you keep running a little longer?”
Alex is a student at the University of Victoria. He divides his day into two parts: the hours when he has something to write about, and the hours where he has nothing left to say.
“Autumn’s a beautiful season,” Angela said, admiring the warm colors.
“It reminds me of death,” Jonathan wheezed.
“Not surprising. Everything makes you think of death.”
“That’s because I’m dying. How can you be so callous?”
Not callous. Just pragmatic, Angela thought, stroking the divorce papers, now moot, in her pocket.
Michael Seese has published three books, not to mention a lot of short stories, flash fiction, and poetry. He currently is shilling his latest work, a long short story / short novella titled Rebecca’s Fall From… Other than that, he spends his spare time rasslin’ with three young’uns. Visit MichaelSeese.com or follow @MSeeseTweets to laugh with him or at him.
I look down and see the Earth, my home. It is so beautiful and perfect. Seas I will never sail. Mountains I will never climb.
The air becomes thin. Tears fall from my eyes as it gets smaller and smaller. Condensation blocks my view.
With my last breath, I curse.
Nzinga Andrews is somewhere in Birmingham, UK wondering why she hasn’t moved to somewhere hot and exotic. She loves all things writing.
At twelve you expect nothing wonderful to come of a death. You close your door to contemplate him—all of us—going, and sob.
A knock startles you. Your aunt.
She lays a book on your bureau. “She thought a lot about death.” She leaves you alone with Emily Dickinson.
Several of Pamela Hobart Carter
‘s plays have made it to Seattle stages. She also writes short books in easy English for adults.
We rolled up our trousers and walked barefoot. Dad was cheerful, almost jolly. He laughed repeatedly between long, knee-gripping coughing fits. He was 59; I was 27.
It took me years to understand that it wasn’t a real laugh so much as a genuine imitation of a dying man’s chuckle.
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”. Visit BobThurber.net.