The last notes of the organ fade away.
In the old church, shadows dance in the candleglow, echoes of people from times gone by, coming back to me. I feel their presence.
The living drive away the dead as their grandchildren and great grandchildren dispel the moment.
Merry Christmas, Grandma!
Jean lives in Bath in the UK. She likes to use some of her own experiences in her story telling. Merry Christmas!
Met Generation Rent in the multi-story carpark yesterday.
They’d parked themselves where the electric cars go, in a circle defending their charging electronics. Their final protection a clothes-line of paid parking-tickets. Unbreachable for just three hours.
I drove by, fuelled by diesel and guilt, and made their sad bunting flutter.
Virginia Marybury loves history (especially hidden, revisionist, steampunk or other alternatives), but is no alt-truther.
She was an old woman spending summers bent over: planting, weeding, harvesting.
I watched from my window as she used her cane to search for beans and cucumbers.
Now I am the old woman, bent over, sowing seeds saved by her.
I harvest a bit of her with each picking.
Candace Kubinec wrote this story.
I am middle aged when you mention
that as a child at Christmastime
you were chased around your neighborhood
by big blond boys shouting
I’ve known you all my life,
yet you are distant land,
and few years remain for me to touch that soil.
Jennifer usually writes poetry, occasionally writes short fiction. See more at her website.
They converge in NorCal every August, scruffy in their outdoor encampments, recharging devices between candy and coffee shops, each waiting for texted directions from secretive connections. They share granola, vague tips, and legends, sizing each other up, moving under the radar, keeping journals to document how the West was lost.
Lee DeAmali resides in the Los Angeles area.