The day fertilizer was delivered, he showered it down hollering, “Girl, watch our corn grow!” His eyes always checked the skyline for clouds.
Fallow fields all around; only thing growing fast is cancer. Rain healed the crops. Now I wheel Dad into the storms, praying it will heal him too.
Madeleine Kleppinger is a writer with a day job as a scientist in Cedar Rapids, Iowa. She hosts a blog that helps readers discover their greatest story, with weekly posts that range from book reviews to original short stories to lifestyle pieces about adventurous living. Her free time is spent bounding through the wilderness with her American Bulldog, Sonnet.
The baker cuts chunks from the amoeba dough. It’s sticky in his hands, protesting against separation onto the kneading board.
From the display of loaves, shiny like glazed pots, I choose the largest and the assistant swaddles it in tissue. I carry the loaf like a babe in my arms.
Gail Aldwin’s debut novel, The String Games, has been long-listed in The People’s Book Prize. If you’d like to support her to reach the next level, you can vote using this link. Voting is open until 15 October 2019.
Leaves dance with the fall breeze
The sun steals the early frost
The moon waits in the wings
I shiver in respect of nature
I shiver in respect of my age
Eighty years young
I am beyond the age of expectation
for women according to the insurance
companies age calculations
Charlotte McElroy is an 80-year-old retired teacher. She is finally following her dream: writing! Thank you for giving her this opportunity.
In his first spring in a new land, Pietro took a cutting from a peach tree and inserted it into a slit on the branch of a living plum tree. A graft, like himself: an Italian transplanted into the Canadian landscape.
Bound together, two fruits would flourish on one tree.
Teresa Del Mastro sends Tim 50-word stories from Toronto. She creates them in Kerry Hodgson’s basement at her writing group.
He had always dreamed of having a vegetable garden. A place where tomatoes, beans and corn could be kissed by the sun and caressed by the rains.
Meticulously, he weeded and watered, hoed and harvested, until the loudspeaker murdered his tellurian bliss: Inmate B18763… report to the Exercise Yard, immediately!
If killing plants was a crime, Melanie would have been incarcerated for the term of her natural life.
I saw my reflection in a stone wall. Ivy had scaled and draped it long ago. But when the ivy became too heavy and fell away partially, the wall still stood tall. Abandoned, then suppressed, now regaining freedom.
We feel the rising sun’s warmth again. We were not dragged down.
Jason was inspired by the ivy hanging from the brick wall in his patio.
She threw her coat on top of the bed and lay down beside it. She pressed her bulbous fingers against her belly, probing the veins as though they were fat roots. The scent of decay filled her nostrils.
After a while, a snowdrop pushed through the bed to join her.
Joan Gilfillan likes to read so much that she sometimes forgets she can write. One day, she will be a great author, if her memory doesn’t fail her first.
When I was three, I learned how to read.
Today, I learned that, even during something as joyous as a graduation, your mother will still cry.
I have never had a day in my 21 years when I didn’t feel compelled to learn something new. I hope that day never comes.
Brandon King is a volunteer for Leading Edge Magazine, an awesome sci-fi/fantasy publication that will publish and/or edit your short stories, poems, or artwork.