She loves how it envelops her, how she feels free to move gracefully within it, and when no one is watching, she raises her arms out to her sides and spins around. If only she could do that outdoors and be, feel safe!
Her dream is both simple and unattainable.
Shawn Fukuda is a former Spanish, and occasionally Japanese, Court and Legal Interpreter, and now a homemaker.
Across the pool some kid shouts MARCO, another answers POLO. But the deep end beckons. You hold your breath and push off.
The feeling underwater goes below words and comes up the other side. You surface, gasping, a hunger roaring, the high dive looming
with its cannonball lessons of life.
Guy’s work has appeared in many journals including Carve, daCunha, Blue Fifth Review, and Fifty Word Stories. He lives on a houseboat with his wife and two salty cats and walks the planks daily.
Cupped in your hand
the choice is clear,
like glass marked
by a sparrow’s impact.
The heart thrums,
wild and free,
through your fingers.
You gently stroke
its neck unbroken,
and then release:
a body rises
through the sky
like dawn unfolding
No birds were harmed during the writing of this poem.
The sun beat down on the young man as he waited behind a barred gate.
He was nervous; his mother told him not to go, yet he stood here.
A uniformed guard approached the gate,
released an older gentleman.
He hugged his father for the first time in twenty years.
Sean Bui spends a lot of time on the volleyball court with his teammates. He is a lover of pasta yet is always open to try new foods. Sean, along with his friend, enjoys crafting clothing as well as fabric design for their clothing company Undefined.
The Mad Colorist turned the sun green.
Gently, God said, “Change it back.”
“Never. I’m talented, see?”
“Fine. Your choice. You need a bigger canvas. My choice.”
The Mad Colorist fled from an exploding nebula, while God changed the sun back Himself.
“Talented? Ha. Flash in the pan.”
Brenda Anderson wrote this story.
His muscles ached. His bones, too. Years of building railroads did that.
“Got something lined up?” asked the officer.
He merely nodded. The word “innocent” mattered less now.
Minutes later, he got out of his truck where rails gleamed in the sun. A man waved. “So, you’re our new foreman?”
Joey doesn’t like being railroaded, even if it’s nothing to do with jail. He can be found at joeytoey.com
An outdoor shower was an infatuation for Jennifer. She insisted on this feature at the cabin. The idea of showering naked outside was thrilling. It spoke of freedom, and other things missing in her life.
She never did disrobe. But she could.
If Charles kept acting this way, she would.
Bill Diamond is a writer living in Evergreen, Colorado. Recently, several of his initial stories have been published.
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 would rather look at the sky than at a screen. I would rather walk than drive. I would rather drive tree-lined roads than highways. I would rather be alone than at a party. I would rather meet someone one-on-one than try to tell in 50 words who I am.
Jennifer L. Freed was recently irritated by a form that asked too many such questions. She mostly writes poems, sometimes writes short fiction, and always wishes she had more time to write anything at all.
Cemetery boss said, “Check out the old homeless Vets’ activity. The hole dug yesterday’s been disturbed. Make sure the casket’ll fit.” A gravestone was erected: “Herbert Sendall 1932-2017.” Later inscribed: “Also Henry.”
He heard a Vet say, “We put old Henry down. Free of all the hullabaloo.” He saluted sharply.
Tom Sheehan wrote this story.