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.
Things I’ve done for money: collected cans for cash, sold chocolate, shoveled sidewalks after a snowstorm. Once I built an amusement park in the backyard and sold tickets. That was the summer Mom quit chemo.
I told jokes for a penny. She bought a hundred, and listened from her bed.
Jane Hertenstein wrote this story.
I felt her shake me, but settled further into slumber.
I heard the shrill of the alarm, screeching like a siren.
I felt the fog grow thicker, although someone shouted, “Clear!”
I heard the paddles crackle, felt the jolt on my chest, but couldn’t wrestle weariness.
Just five minutes more…
Jo Withers sleeps with one eye open. Her middle-grade sci-fi adventure will be published in April 2018.
I’ve thought of you so very often these past thirty years or more. In my head, I still hear your gentle tone and I feel the touch of your warm embrace.
Good memories last a lifetime. I’m coming to see you soon.
You never let me down.
You won’t now.
Jean lives in a village near Bath in the UK. She refuses to believe this is all there is.
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.