She held him, squeezed him, his musk comforting but making the decision impossible. She couldn’t believe it had come to this.
The doorbell rang.
No! she lamented. Taxi’s early.
She kissed Mr. Bear, placed him on the top shelf of her closet.
You’ll always be my guy. But it’s time.
A graduate of York University, Stephen Ground now lives in his head, scraping by peddling floors and sometimes unsolicited advice. Find his work in The Esthetic Apostle, Sky Island Journal, Flash Fiction Magazine, The Sunlight Press, and elsewhere.
“I’m going to be an entomologist,” Isabelle says. Her dress doesn’t have a pocket, or she’d have brought one of her pets. Her hands feel empty.
“Sounds great, sweetheart,” her mother says, arranging her hair on her shoulders and ushering her toward the stage. “This time, smile for the judges.”
For a year or so we lived in Boulder. One day by chance we drove by Jonbenet Ramsey’s house. It still haunts me.
How about a sandwich? Her words were casual enough, but her voice made me feel she was more in need of company than food.
Only twelve, but too serious, sad, and worried.
I told her, Soon you’ll blossom into a fine young lady. Obviously she wanted much quicker than soon.
Jim Freeze is seventy-two years old, retired and widowed. He was happily married for fifty-four years and has two grown sons. He began writing in early 2012 to have something to do. His short stories have been featured in several publications including Brilliant Flash Fiction, Calliope Magazine, The Original Writer, and Literally Stories.
An afternoon ritual: park bench, birdseed.
Wistful glances at spirited youngsters and peacock-proud parents swapping milestone stories, recipes, gossip.
She used to bring her kids here to zipline, chase ducks, and pick pungent, sticky-stemmed dandelion posies.
Her life carried in her satchel, she disappears into twilight to join other Invisibles.
Melanie Cranenburgh wrote this story.
When I was young, I wished I could ride my bike around the block, coasting downhill all the way.
Since I got my degree in physics I know that’s impossible.
I now wish that the integral of the gradient of the gravitational potential around a closed loop could be negative.
Harry Demarest received a BA in physics from Reed College in 1969, and a PhD in planetary and space physics from UCLA in 1975.
The tide of approaching adulthood pulled them from my shore. Strolling slowly where I once set a brisk pace, picking up random shells, desperate for some word, all I get is static. Then a familiar voice, almost forgotten, asks why I expect they’ll return when I never did.
Lee DeAmali keeps the porch light on.
I’m 67. I’ve decided it’s time to grow up.
I’ll no longer use my imagination
Run out into a rainstorm
Go skinny dipping
Laugh and sing songs with my friends
Build sand castles, play in the creek, or write stories.
Hmm… Maybe I’m not ready. Perhaps when I turn 68.
Paul Hock is an author, illustrator, and storyteller. See more of his writing at paulhock.com.
She was a girl. Big smile, lots of friends, big demands, bigger expectations.
She went to see the world to find herself. She had to fight to keep that smile big, make new friends, reduce her needs and realise that dreams are not always real.
She is a woman now.
Alidiane is an English language student in Dublin, Ireland. Originally, she’s from Brazil.
Child of mine you are so fine
Now a Mother of two
I still look at you
As that little girl
Who changed my world
I thank you
Mother of mine
You are so fine
You at one hundred
I at seventy
Still share plenty
I thank you
Mary has written poetry since age ten and continues to do so. She is also writing short stories and enjoys being a member of a writing group.
Ted was tired of waiting. He was a man of little patience.
All her life he’d waited while she did her hair, looked for her other shoe, or changed her dress (again).
“Oh, Dad,” she’d scold.
Now he waits to walk her down the aisle. He’s willing to wait forever.
Candace Kubinec posts her stories at storydribbles.wordpress.com and her poetry at rhymeswithbug.com.