I know the future. You imagine yourself on your motorcycle with your scarf fluttering behind, a middle finger to the naysayers who believe the doctors.
But I know the future. You decided to repair that wooden chest with the rusty nails. You weren’t careful. One scratch and I was in.
Sarah Samson is a consultant, writer and corporate responsibility professional living in Portland, Oregon.
My terminal patient’s only hope is a kidney transplant.
His estranged adult daughter returns after her mother’s death and agrees to be tested as a potential donor.
The test results cry, “Incompatible match.”
There is no proper way to tell either of them that she is not his biological daughter.
James Menges is a writer and photographer. He is a member of the Dramatists Guild of America.
Mom shuffles to the car, back stooped, frustrating tremors slowing her progress.
Walker, bed rail, shower seat, suitcase, and a box rattling with pills are packed for her visit.
She struggles to fasten her seatbelt, so I help.
“Thanks… Getting old isn’t for wimps, you know.”
I smile, feeling blessed.
Tawnia is an elementary teacher in Ontario who started writing a few years ago. You can find her on Twitter @TawniaCourage.
Scanning the discarded Scratch-Off tickets on the ground, I wonder what their transitory owners had coveted. A hulking new SUV with the Limited Leather Package? A garish new McMansion with ten bedrooms and a 110-inch TV? A new life?
Then I carefully check that all the scratch-offs were, indeed, scratched-off.
Robert Markovich spent a lifetime in what is charitably referred to as service journalism, writing and editing stories about everything from cars to toilets, most recently at Consumer Reports. He is happily and gratefully retired.
The paper cranes are folded from receipts for doctors, buses and climate magazines, from my five year old’s drawings of our family, prescriptions for her meds, sweet wrappers and cigarette packets, and hang now to be counted, over her hospital bed, one more for every day since she didn’t die.
Rosaleen Lynch, an Irish community worker and writer in the East End of London, pursues stories whether conversational, literary or performed and believes in the power of words to make the world a better place.
Sitting on the grassy hill,
the day goes by slow.
Then night falls.
I reached for stars in the sky,
wanting troubles to
end and die.
Only at night can the soul
and body and mind
take a rest.
So, I pray that in its splendor,
the night is long.
Vivian Leung lives in Scottsdale, Arizona and has always held a love for music and writing. One of her goals in life is to land a career in healthcare. There are few things that are more rewarding to her than helping others.
I hurried to the restaurant, my heart full of hope.
Will she smile at me today? I wondered. Ask me how my day was? Comment on my haircut?
She was sitting in the corner, reading. She didn’t look at me.
“You’re late,” she said as she turned a page. “Again.”
Eszter Molnar is a former teacher who lives by the windswept British seaside with her partner and two children. She has been published in one of the UK’s biggest subscription magazines for children. By day, she cleans up after preschoolers, by night she writes picture books and Middle Grade fiction.
When the lion emerged from the quarantine, he sidled up next to the lamb.
They had lunch together.
This happened before its time, contrary to Messianic prognostications.
Some say it was a hoax.
Some say it was a miracle.
Some say the vaccine.
Hard to know the truth these days.
Linda Vigen Phillips’ poems have appeared in The Texas Review, California Quarterly, NC Poetry Society Award Winning Poems 2001, Wellspring, Main Street Rag, Independence Boulevard, and The Whole Idea. She has published two young adult novels in verse: Crazy and Behind These Hands. She lives in Charlotte, NC.
“I will make this bad week good,”
she says with the tenacity of a teenager
clinging to the lie of a broken curfew—
the tire flat; the phone dead.
Hunting and pecking key after key,
certain each stroke will not just create
a new world,
but wash away the old.
Cathrine Goldstein writes a whole lot of gritty, real-feeling “stuff.” Most of it takes place in NYC. She also eats boat loads of chocolate pretty much every day. To find out more about her bestselling novels, award-winning plays, and other writings including articles, short stories, and poetry, please visit CathrineGoldstein.com
Her look was summery; the weather was not. She stood shivering in her flower-speckled sundress, staring upward as the heavens opened, and torrents descended. Colourful ribbons in her hair were soon plastered against her scalp.
The forecast promised hot and sunny, but during the pandemic, nothing unfolded as it should.
Alan Kemister is the pen name of a retired scientist experimenting with more fictitious writing. He’s currently working on a climate change novel. Get the gory details at alankemisterauthor.wordpress.com