Bravely, he sits at the piano, hands going through the motions. He feels every note of his last performance, his swan song.
Nine-thousand nine-hundred and ninety-nine people rise, applaud. One stays seated, head down, emotions too much to bear, crying.
“Dad, I’ll always miss you,” she says under her breath.
David Maher is an aspiring writer trying to gain the confidence to complete his first novel by sharing stories, viewpoints, and his attempts at writing fiction.
In Mount Isa, miners train their savage dogs to attack Aboriginals that wander too closely to their houses.
I jogged through neighborhoods panting polluted air, my afro curls caked in lead dust. Chained beasts pulled their leashes tight while snapping teeth through low built fences.
I screamed, “I’m an American!”
Khalilah Okeke was raised in the Pacific Northwest and now resides in Sydney, Australia, with her husband and two children. Her work has been published in The Plum Tree Tavern, Down in the Dirt magazine, The Red Eft Review, The Orissa Society of the Americas Journal, and 50-Word Stories. She has work forthcoming in The Scarlet Leaf Review. You can follow her blog at khalilahokeke.wordpress.com.
I lost my face last night. No eyes so I looked by feel.
So many things feel like a face. A silk scarf, a mud puddle, a love letter, a string of kelp.
I found it and put it on. Then I saw it wasn’t mine.
I wore it anyway.
David Holloway lives, reads, and writes in northern Virginia. He’s had stories published in Gargoyle, The Mad River Review, and The Offbeat. His favorite invertebrate is the Nudibranch.
The man’s hair is grey and his face worn with much thought. With gravity and authority, he announces the only possible verdict. The other man looks back at him in fear.
The next day, one of the orderlies takes away the retired judge’s mirror and the doctor ups his meds.
Alice Lam moved to Australia from the UK with her partner and they share a house in Melbourne, along with a cheese-seeking, greying Boxer dog.
Alice’s website can be found at alicelambooks.com.
One of the brakes on my bike is broken. It doesn’t matter. It’s flat here.
Smiling white folks wave at me from golf carts. The weather is always warm. I married up.
I wonder if I’m as good as they are. Or as bad. Maybe I’m both. But hopefully neither.
Sarah Hausman likes to keep her bio shorter than her stories. Links and updates can be found at Facebook.com/sarahhausmanwrites
“No, they do not teach you in school. They don’t teach you how to find the art in your name, and how to speak of that art. No, they don’t teach you to love your beautiful warm, brown hands.
“They only teach you to love black on everything but yourself.”
Angelica is a Kenyan writer who seeks to educate the world about the New Afrika she grew up and lives in, through the stories she weaves.
It’s tough being queer when no one knows, and the closet only gets hotter during the summer.
I play dress up all I want—it is a closet, after all—but it’s stifling, uncomfortable.
When I peel away the lace, it’s soaked with sweat, and I peel away with it.
R.R. Bastek is a first-generation Polish-American writer interested in exploring life through the lens of literary fiction.
Gerald was in the unenviable position of having a pseudonym more popular than himself. He had submitted five stories and had none accepted. Mitchell Kent—Gerald’s middle name and favorite superhero—had been published twice. Gerald had to get rid of Mitchell. Murder or suicide? Either way it’d be messy.
Mark Konik is a writer from Newcastle, Australia. He writes short stories and plays.
The first time I jumped I was trying to impress some kids my age who seemed much older. The second time I was in college, and I led the way because I knew how. The third time I had something to prove to myself, but now I can’t remember what.
Justin Hook is a comedy writer and coder living in Los Angeles. Visit justinhook.com
Once upon a time I had a son, as familiar to me as my own hands.
For years, his sweet face betrayed nothing about his struggles.
One day he left unannounced and upon his return two years later, he was no longer my son.
Please smile. I gained a daughter.
Claire Polders is a Dutch author writing short prose in English. More of her work can be found at clairepolders.com
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