The young father presses his hands flat against the window. Although the mask covers half his face, the baby knows him. New game. Laughing, she reaches for the father’s hands, cool glass between them.
She lifts her arms, “Up.” Old game.
The father’s learned the new rules: he turns away.
Miriam N. Kotzin teaches creative writing and literature at Drexel University. Her collection of short fiction, Country Music (Spuyten Duyvil Press 2017), joins a novel, The Real Deal (Brick House Press 2012), and a collection of flash fiction, Just Desserts (Star Cloud Press 2010). She is the author of five collections of poetry, most recently Debris Field (David Robert Books 2017).
I fought the urge to wreck the place.
Tears streamed down my face, blurring the decorations I’d put up for Daddy. Presents taunted me from under the tree.
It’s late January now. There will be no welcome home from the hospital, no belated Christmas celebrations… Those gifts won’t be opened.
Alyce Clark was so awed and inspired by the stories of others, she decided to write them for herself.
Finally, the call came, after six months of mystery liquid
dripping from her nose–
a cerebral fluid leak originating from a hole at the base of her brain.
The enemy had been unmasked after not one, not two, but three lab samples.
No time for fear; she prepared for battle.
Vernae is a wife, mother, and grandmother who is getting off the sidelines and into the art of writing for better or for worse. Vernae is currently completing three books of poetry that reflect the joys, challenges, and hope throughout the human experience.
I would stutter if I spoke or vomit if I ate.
My kid’s getting an MRI.
“It could be nothing, or…” they tell me. Something unmentionable. Unthinkable.
The answer will either defrost my brain and untangle my guts or kill me dead.
I’m just not strong enough to bear it.
Seth Pilevsky lives in New York with his wife and five kids. His work has been published in the Long Island Literary Journal, Literally Stories, Memoir Magazine, Stinkwave’s Magazine and in the YA Anthology entitled What Doesn’t Kill You. See more at spilevsky.com.
I never had company until I got sick. Then people started showing up. Wondering how I was doing. How I was feeling. They were so sorry. On and on.
I had been alone for years. I liked it. I didn’t mind.
Why couldn’t they see me before I got sick?
Jody loves the mystery of the human mind and what makes a person tick. Sometimes she wishes that she didn’t know.
More than a tourist in the land of the Parkie where the governor
mumbles and shakes. I’m like a warrior trying to escape; PD has
a grip on my soul. A voting citizen, I fell off the floor and opened
the door to a new life that yells: watch out!
Michael Mogel is an out of work Fire Alarm Inspector due to Parkinson’s and has been writing poetry since college where he founded a literary
I loved her for 28 years, yet brain cancer won.
I loved her for 40 years, yet breast cancer won.
I loved me, but lost my mind losing my beloved, lifetime friends. I lost my job because I lost them and my mind.
Why is loss so sad and ugly?
Terri lives in Bucks County, PA where she’s healing her heart and looking forward to brighter days…
His illness couldn’t be seen, but he still needed a quiet place to heal.
I bought the lot of land farthest from potential neighbors and slowly coaxed his help with building a modest home, a small family, a place in our rural community.
He’s still quiet, but he smiles more.
Hillary can be found skating on ivory paper with her grandmother’s favorite pen every day of the week.
It was a ghastly picture of a girl who seemed my age, but pale-skinned her head shaved. “Whose picture is it, in my drawer, Ms. Bevins?” I asked the doctor.
A few minutes later I overheard Ms. Bevins instructing the nurse to take the mirror off of my drawer.
Divya is a story-teller, sorehead, whiner, occasionally a Pollyanna. (To sum it up – a personal/ lifestyle blogger!) She works for an IT company by day and blogs by night. Divya lives in India.
He was now a different man. Clothed in brittle skin, reduced to bones, he lay swallowed up by the bed. Drawing in air, his lungs choked.
Overwhelmed, I closed my eyes. Burning tears plunged down my cheeks.
Cancer had stolen my son, and turned him into a collector of time.
Chong Teck Sim is an aspiring writer from Singapore with a passion for art, travel, history, writing, literature, languages, and world cultures. In his free hours, he participates in volunteer work to gain life skills.