My heart still pounds when I think of her.
The screaming. The hitting. The abandoning.
She lays here in front of me and my heart still pounds.
But now she’s old, weak, fragile.
The hospital machines beep as she breathes.
Her heart pounds slower and slower.
And I forgive her.
Keyla Campbell is a writer who lives in Rhode Island.
Her husband appears in the kitchen doorway, clutching his lover’s sweatshirt. Sorry. For him, the word comes from grit, polished by hardship. Sorry. For days, she’d waited to hear it, drinking whisky, adrift–and now? Suddenly on shore, she hurls the word out to sea, watching as it floats away.
Jennifer Mills Kerr runs A World in a Line, an organization that connect poets from around the world through virtual workshops. Her poetry is forthcoming in One Art and the Eunoia Review. Connect with Jennifer at JenniferMillsKerr.com.
I had a little truth and reconciliation session with myself the other morning. I did the voices of all my accusers. Their testimony was totally devastating. In my own voice, all I could say, over and over, was, “I never knew you felt that way,” as the accusations piled on.
Called “one of the innovators of the short short story” by Publishers Weekly, Peter Cherches has published short prose in scores of magazines, anthologies and websites, including Harper’s, Fence, Bomb, Semiotext(e), and Fiction International. His most recent book is Things, a collection of short prose and poetry from Bamboo Dart Press.
Sixty years with Alice, through good times and bad. She forgave me for the brief affair I had five decades ago, when I thought I was bored; now it’s the one thing she remembers through the dementia. I bury the shame as I care for her, tears in my eyes.
Alastair Millar is an archaeologist by training and translator by trade, living in the Czech Republic. His flash fiction can be found through linktr.ee/alastairmillar and he lurks on Twitter at @skriptorium as well as on Mastodon.
As he cut away drywall, Sawzall vibrating his bruised hand, he thought about how to make amends.
The hole patched, smoothed, and painted, he could finally breathe.
Unfortunately, according to her, the color didn’t quite match. It seems this damage is not something $37 at the hardware store can repair.
Dave Myers (he/him) lives and teaches in Bend, Oregon.
They have been painstakingly cataloged, each with date stamps remembered vividly, ready to roll up on your shores like muscle memory, like grudge-holding tides that never forget. When you’re willing to let it go—all of it—to make amends, to say your goodbyes, let it not be too late.
Thad DeVassie is a lifelong Ohioan who writes and paints from the outskirts of Columbus. His recent work has appeared in Unbroken, Spelk, Lunate, and Ghost City Review, among others. He is a winner of the 2020 James Tate International Poetry Prize for his manuscript SPLENDID IRRATIONALITIES. His chapbook, THIS SIDE OF UTOPIA, will arrive in 2021 from Cervena Barva Press. Find more of his work @thaddevassie.
It’s not
that I’m doing this
on purpose.
I promise.
I want to be free
of this nightmare
no more weights tied
around my mind.
I’m sorry that
sometimes
I get it wrong.
I’m trying.
And I’m sorry
that I say I’m sorry
more than I say
I love you.
Rebecca Milton is an author from Kent, England who is currently working with editors to prepare her debut novel for self-publication. She has recently been featured as a poet in Snapdragon Journal.
Mr. Tomlin hesitated. Despite their dispute, how could he not give his next-door neighbour a bag of apples when other neighbours received theirs?
He stepped onto the porch, rang the doorbell.
“Want some apples? Bumper crop this year.” He cringed.
The neighbour paused, then said, “Much obliged. You like tomatoes?”
Krystyna writes poetry, fiction, and creative nonfiction. Her published works can be found online, in magazines and anthologies.
I’ve never been one for salvation. And being baptized in a sink in some god-forsaken prison seemed a bit desperate.
The pastor, though, was certain. He had written an essay and sent a check. Now, his paper cross could save us sinners. He would forgive what the dead never could.
J. Ian Manczur wrote this story.
“So…”
“I messed up.”
“I know you did.”
“Will you forgive me?”
“I don’t know. Probably.”
“What do you mean, ‘probably’?”
“I just haven’t decided yet, I guess.”
“Honestly, I’m not sure how to respond to that.”
“Here’s an idea: fix things first, then ask again afterwards.”
Tough
Love
Christmas
Can you see the word picture?
This story was based on the prompt “messed up” on TypeTrigger.