In a tree
And scrape a knee
To find myself bleeding
All over the place
But somehow the next amazing day
It heals completely
I look back at the big deal I made
Wishing that mistakes could go away
Like the one I made
Just the other day
Lillian, an 11-year-old-kid, really wishes that life could be perfect where no one made any mistakes.
Fifty years, my love, fifty years ago. We barely knew our outer selves, but joined at inner core.
From stolen moments in the fields, we followed separate paths.
The years grew long my love, with bodies wrinkled and grey. Now space and time have disappeared, sweet love evolved to more.
Eileen is a grandma twelve times over, who, now retired, has switched from writing as part of her employment for others to writing along her own creative path. She has a poem recently published in Mothers of Angels 2.
Her self awareness came with a price. The more she mused over her existence, and what it means to exist, the less sense everything made.
What was I before? And what’s to become of me after?
Fear and sorrow immediately followed the realization that any moment could be her last.
Pontius Paiva often ponders the meaning of life. Until he finds the answer he can be found at pontiuspaiva.com.
Giggly, smiling, innocent seductress peering out from the pages of school yearbooks. One foot on the hockey field, one in the library. The world spread out before her.
Years, babies, miscarriages, surgeries, illnesses, and life. My Mom. All grown up.
If only I had known the girl of the giggles.
Eileen Mardres is a retired teacher / social worker and sometimes writer of manuals and English test questions. She is now writing her way through her senior years with micro-fiction, poetry, and memoirs of life adventures.
The girl stood when Death walked in. Her coat was on, her bag was packed, and despite her tears, she wore a look of determination.
Death shook his head, understanding mingling with regret.
“Girl, wait until you’re older,” he said gently, and dodged around her to take her father’s hand.
Maria attends college in the midwest, and is becoming a proficient juggler of class, club, and those silly customs we call adulthood.
Death heard the newborn’s cry and began his inevitable journey.
Sometimes he can save them early, but too often the path is arduous and slow. He weeps when he reaches them in old age: by then they have suffered a life too long, in all its illusion and false hope.
Tom O’Brien is an Irishman living in London. He’s been published in numerous places across the web and has been anthologised in Blood & Bourbon, Blink-Ink, DEFY! and twice in the Uncommon print collections. He’s on Twitter at @tomwrote and his website is tomobrien.co.uk.
He hadn’t planned it,
at least not consciously.
They were twins, after all,
each incomplete without the other.
He could not be a failure
without his brother’s disproportionate success.
It was a wild night of shared mayhem,
to the perfect finale:
matching death dates.
Twins to the end.
Jackie reads 50-Word Stories and writes religiously. She has never submitted her work, save to this site.
A silent man still sat at the mahogany bar, hours after ordering a single drink, still staring at his scotch glass, yet to take a single sip.
His eyes were cold and sober. “I’m done,” he muttered to himself. “I’ve had my last drink.”
And then he left.
Ketevan is a Georgian university student who is currently pursuing a degree in Computer Science. She writes in her free time and aspires to one day publish a book.
Sani and I stood in a hotel parking lot once and watched two children who were standing silently, holding each other’s hands and looking at the ground, while their parents fought.
That night we promised each other we’d always talk gently.
Those were hopeful days, before we knew the world.
Owen Yager is a senior at Carleton College. His work has recently appeared or is upcoming in multiple publications, including Flash Fiction Magazine.
A bite on my hand woke me from my nap on the mouldy sofa. “We talked about this,” I said.
The spider slung one eye toward me. “Were you using it?”
It wasn’t my point, but he was right. Terry had a way of cutting through my BS.
Andrew Walo doesn’t really know what else to do. He might as well tell stories.