Upon nearing Autumn’s arrival,
I see Nature’s last hoorah of vivacious manifestation,
A proclamation of her time in youthful fervor
the bassoon’s bellowing croak
amidst a once booming symphony
now all coming to a diminuendo in variance
Like the savory peck of a spry elder
Even still, muffled by prospect.
Lydia is an emerging writer from the Midwest who enjoys long nature walks
The autumn leaves fell in the soft breeze and swirled around Penny’s feet as she trudged down the lane. The world was dying around her, perhaps more so than in years past.
Heart heavy, she chose the biggest acorn, dug a deep hole in the yard, and planted fresh hope.
Lucinda Gunnin is a commercial property manager and author in the western Philadelphia suburbs, looking for hope that 2020 will eventually end.
I know this may be a shock, coming from me. But I regret it.
No, not loving you. LORD knows, that’s the best thing I’ll ever do.
The mistake was letting you fall for me—when I knew you’d be the only one to live with the consequences.
V. C. Slade is a writer and amateur adult in California. She can be found at vcslade.com.
Maple is flirting with me.
I glimpse her at windows as she ducks out of sight, catching only a swirl of scarlet skirts. She leaves little crimson-wrapped gifts outside my door.
I love her. I wish I knew that she loved me… but Miss Sugar Maple never says a word.
Maria speaks for the trees and, of course, those who love them.
She seduces me each September—
warm summer kisses
tasting of frost and smoke;
her voluptuous dance,
flamboyant raiment discarded
piece by piece,
revealing more and more of bewitching nakedness.
But it always ends the same—icy tears each December.
Still, I know I
Tony Jasnowski teaches English at Bellevue University. Can there be any doubt which season is his favorite?
The aged apple tree is barren as days become colder.
The sweet aroma of cider, from remaining windfall fruit, floats on a chilly breeze that ruffles through brittle leaves still clinging to gnarled branches.
I have gleaned all I can, leaving behind a harvest feast for deer who visit nightly.
Candace Kubinec posts her stories at storydribbles.wordpress.com and her poetry at rhymeswithbug.com.
Surprised by chill after weeks of scorchers, she holds her bag of groceries to her chest, purchases for a solitary meal.
Two girls skip by, flaunting autumn exuberance, ignoring homework, ignoring regimen and rigor. She alone grieves sweaty embraces, August smells, dreams expired as moderate temperatures and cooler heads return.
Nancy Ludmerer lives in New York City with her husband Malcolm and cat Sandy, named after the storm he fled (right into Nancy’s arms) and Sandy Koufax. Her story “First Night” appears in Best Small Fictions 2016.
He took her for a drive in the countryside, down a gravel road, past forests of red maples and golden oaks. Fading sunshine cast elongated shadows.
No one spoke.
He stopped the car, got out, and looked into her large, illuminated eyes.
“Still the prettiest coupe I know,” he said.
Krystyna Fedosejevs writes poetry, short stories and Flash Fiction. She has had several poems and flash fiction stories published. She is stationed in Edmonton, Alberta, Canada, although she loves to travel around the world.
God said, “I give you life!”
The Devil said: “I want more than life!”
Then the sin of pride sent the demon
tumbling like crooked dice
down the stairway to heaven.
One question the Devil still asks:
“Did I fall or was I pushed?”
The fight to know consumes him.
Fred Zackel teaches literature at Bowling Green State University in Ohio. He is the author of COCAINE AND BLUE EYES and MURDER IN WAIKIKI, and these and other writings are available on Kindle.
For one summer, we were best of friends. Autumn undid us, something in the changing colours, the changing winds.
We hardly spoke during tenth grade. Then June arrived. I hoped, childishly, that the sunlight would reunite us.
Life may move in cycles, but you never cross the same river twice.