It was nearly the best moment of my entire life.
I was sitting in the sun,
drinking a wonderful cocktail,
and suddenly the most handsome man
looked me directly in the eyes
and gently said,
you are sitting on my towel.
And you are drinking my wonderful cocktail.”
Leydi Cuesta wrote this story.
“Before we go our separate ways…”
“I just wanted to say…”
“That it’s been great knowing you…”
“I wouldn’t have been able to pull this off…”
They’re still running as they say their goodbyes, the thwup-thwup-thwup of the helicopters growing louder.
I. E. Kneverday is a writer of fiction. His first book, The Woburn Chronicles: A Trio of Supernatural Tales Set in New England’s Most Mysterious City, is available now. You can read more of Kneverday’s microfiction on Medium.
The first time and last time: New Orleans, moving through the August heat, sweating off the day. She dripped into a dark street where a voice beckoned, smiled, and pushed her off the wagon into high night flight descent.
Sleeping in the car, wrapped in his leather jacket, she shivered.
Doug Hoekstra is a working wordsmith. His short stories, essays, and poems have appeared in numerous literary journals through the U.S. Hoekstra has two book-length collections to his name: The Tenth Inning (2015) and Bothering the Coffee Drinkers (2007 – winner of an Independent Publisher Award Bronze Medal for Fiction). He lives in the Music City with his son Jude. Hoekstra is also a singer-songwriter troubadour who has released eight “critically acclaimed” albums of original material on labels on both sides of the pond, touring throughout the U.S. and Europe performing at bookstores, coffeehouses, clubs, libraries, pubs, festivals, radio stations, and castles, solo and with combos in tow. Highlights include Nashville Music Award and Independent Music Award nominations, lots of Top 10 lists, and many groovy times. As the pundits used to say, “a lot of people write songs, Hoekstra writes five-minute worlds” (Wired Magazine). See more at doughoekstra.wordpress.com.
Lights are strung helter-skelter around the building’s rooftop garden.
When lit, it could be an outdoor bar in Mexico. I imagine a Mariachi quartet, plump men with thick mustaches and black sombreros embroidered with silver threads.
It’s a nice thought when the typical music is police sirens and jet engines.
Matthew Weigelt finds the best characters in McDonald’s, so he writes and eavesdrops, eavesdrops and writes, with a dollar-size sweet tea. He then goes to the gym. Someday he’ll need to find characters elsewhere. He has a YA novel, The Mysterious Matt Barnes, due out in March. See more at ReadBetweenThePages.com.
She contemplated the fork. She’d seen the golden path a thousand times; the dark path, never before.
Ahead of her, the growl of a predator she didn’t know.
Behind her, the cry of a predator she did. “Baby, don’t be this way.”
She turned onto the dark path, and ran.
Claire Bartlett lives in Copenhagen, where she writes from her enchanted forest apartment.
A hot wind beats against the coffee shop window where I stare at a foam smiley face. The Fires are coming. Recently evacuated, alone, and unsure of the future, I found solace, with many others, in a steamy cup of caffeine.
Admiring great Mother Nature, I sip as I cry.
Hayley has been an amateur writer her whole life. She has a degree in English and spends most of her free time diving into the realms of her imagination. Her stories touch the hearts of her friends and family. She lives in Southern California where wildfires are currently raging. She looks forward to many more years of creating memorable stories.
According to Wikipedia, werewolves possess an excellent sense of smell, which enables them to locate and pursue their victims. If they can’t smell me, then I’ll be safe.
As the howls grew closer, Jerry climbed inside the plastic storage container and sealed the lid, feeling quite proud of his plan.
In addition to writing, Sarah K Krenicki enjoys warm socks, soft blankets, and hot cocoa.
She came for the gaping sky and arctic terns. But winter is slowly encasing the huts, the interminable statistics, the bickering. And the birds have gone.
Shedding her coat and boots to lighten the load, she steps into the snow, migrating south.
Despite only being 51˚ N, Tamsin is also dreading winter.
At the high tide line, where the waves don’t reach,
Where the wind tangles my hair.
Salt crystals on my lips, sand between my toes,
and the golden sunset on my skin.
It’s strange they said I was lost at sea
When here I am
On the beach.
Jennifer M. Smith is a long-distance offshore sailor and a pretty good swimmer, too.
I am standing on wet ground outside my childhood home, under mid-morning tropical sun. The air smells of earth and newly banished rain. Adults speak indoors; their everyday worries are abstract, distant.
I wake up to a snowy Chicago morning, work on a weekend, and infant needing to be fed.
Priya Balasubramanian is a writer and physician. She’s written a novel, and no longer wakes up to snow.