He supported the marches, rallies, and protests from the safety of his armchair, nodding his assent.
When a friend said “those people,” he realized silence was dangerous.
He waded into the next parade, amid the colorful throng, his two-word sign held high. Many agreed that they, too, were “Hopelessly Human.”
B. C. Nance is a writer who still can’t give up his day job. The title is part of a quotation by Elie Wiesel 1928-2016. Hopelessly Human is a song by Kansas.
She was scheduled for bilateral mastectomies.
I lifted her gown to listen to her chest, and was startled to read the words she had carefully inked across her breasts:
On the right: The Lord giveth.
On the left: The Lord taketh away.
And across her abdomen: Blessed be the Lord.
Margie Nairn is a retired nurse and emerging writer in Corvallis, Oregon, where she writes memoir, poetry, and silly limericks for her daughter.
He lunches, daily, on the same graveyard bench. Sees, daily, the same woman, with careful steps and reverent gestures, lay origami flowers before neighboring headstones. Wonders, today, what she’ll make of a laughing boy and girl, tossing Frisbees among angels and crosses. Warms when she smiles and sits to watch.
Graham Robert Scott teaches writing at a university in north Texas. His stories have appeared in Barrelhouse Online, Nature, and 50-Word Stories. See more at hemicyon.wordpress.com.
Life is great. Health, mobility, liberty.
Then, an inadvertent moment. A slip and twisting tumble. The crash is sharp; the crack loud. Such a quick and simple thing.
But the scorching pain: deep, crippling, and endless.
Operations and rehab do little. Each move brings agony and depression.
Life is hell.
Bill Diamond writes in the Colorado Mountains. See more at bdiamondwriting.com
During the film festival, Jeanie stopped at a cosmetics booth. A computer monitor displayed her lonely, seventy-year-old widow’s face.
She touched a button. A younger image materialized. The computer had painted her face: eyeliner, lashes, lips.
Jeanie sent the photo to a seniors’ dating site. This would be the year.
Teresa Del Mastro lives on the Danforth in Toronto with Angelo, Michael, Rachel and Willow.
He found them everywhere. On concrete, after they’d tinked and whirled circuitously. Gleaming dully amidst weeds and moldering detritus. Plucked from jars and dishes, under and around the blinking fog lights of nametagged suspicion.
He took them to his hovel, until he’d saved enough to escape this godforsaken place forever.
Kim Hawkins is lucky to be a stay-at-home father. He loves literature, writing, playing guitar and singing, and collecting nutcrackers. Also hats. Go Cubs.
What makes me feel really sad is not that I am a sick old man and every part of my body is aching. Nor is it the thought that I am going to die sooner than one may hope.
It is my son’s assurance that his youth will last forever.
Victor is a Russian that could be thought of as a literary anglophile.
When Heinrich did not die at the apex of his actuarial bell curve, he felt intense relief; blessed. He loved his world as he never had; he felt the breeze as he sat on his deck overlooking the mountains; he squeezed the hand of his spouse
for one sublime second.
T.A. Young’s short story “Stooped” was published in The First Line magazine, summer issue 2017. His poetry appears in the October 2018 issue of Anti-Heroin Chic. You can find his literary reviews on his Instagram page, #thelitreview. He lives and works in New York City.
The steel wheels of the approaching train
screech at me to jump.
This is it!
I move towards the platform’s edge
and surrender to the approaching light.
A man’s voice calls from behind
Is that the train to Amsterdam?
I turn around, and I behold
my brown-eyed destiny.
Susan J. Nassuna is a Ugandan born writer and coach. She lives in the Netherlands, and when not working on her novel and a collection of short stories she guides others in using writing and storytelling as powerful tools for healing and growth. See more at writingforwellnessworkshops.com.
Tracing my fingers on my wrists felt wrong, the deliberate bareness.
“Vulnerability shouldn’t be visible,” said my mother, tossing me a cover-up sweater before school. She believed in the power of layers.
If she only looked closer there wouldn’t be these deeper cuts; there wouldn’t be any more wandering eyes.
Elif Baysak was born and raised in Izmir, Turkey. She moved to NYC to pursue her Bachelor’s degree and passion in the arts. Her engagements in the arts include theatre-making and playwriting, and she recently progressed into writing fiction. Her take on an honest piece is to work with impulses and feelings regarding human experiences. She focuses on the value of psychology in the arts, regarding subconscious and identity struggles, what it means to be human in our own bodies. Her artistic voice is a product of past or present, personal or universal events. Her passion for travelling allows her to experience the world in various ways and make observations, which provides her with the creative urge to write.