A week after my son moved out of our basement into his first solo digs, he called.
“It’s going great. Come for brunch on Sunday. I’ll make eggs!”
Sunday morning, I zapped: “Over for eleven. Can’t wait 2CU! Can I bring some juice?”
“Yes please!”
“Croissants?”
“Sure!”
“Anything else?”
“Eggs.”
Writing coach Joanna Norland loves family breakfasts and will happily bring the eggs, every time. Click here to read her recent blog post about 50WS.
I wheel Grandpa to the men’s restroom, but there’s no disabled stall. He struggles into a non-accessible one, clutching the doorframe, the toilet roll holder, reaching. I try to help, but he waves me away. I tell him I’ll wait outside. I tell him I’m here if he needs me.
Iain Grinbergs is an English professor and the author of Vanity Twist, a chapbook (Bottlecap Press).
My grandfather folded prayers into matchbooks. Lit cigarettes with them. Swore they tasted sweeter.
When he died, we found them tucked in jars: Surahs beside postage stamps, verses pressed into lottery tickets.
He left no will.
Only this:
“Keep burning what they want you to forget.”
L.F. Khouri is a writer who has studied in the U.S. and abroad. His work explores war, memory, and the inheritance of silence. His flash and short fiction have appeared or are forthcoming in literary journals such as SmokeLong Quarterly, miniMAG, and Literally Stories.
Quiet—not like a tomb, but a beginning.
Like a lock clicking in a latch
Like a key that only I have
Like breathing air without rules
I stuck my fingers between the blinds to see trees
I left the spoon in the sink after ice cream
Quiet—like mine.
Molly Zang has always loved the escape of a good story, especially with a cup of tea or coffee. She likes to write from real life and likes to read fantasy the best. She loves cozy days surrounded by blankets and cats and her favorite person in the world, her husband.
Like the others,
You were born in Spring.
My finest down lines your nest.
I caught every meal you’ve ever eaten.
Your body is lean.
Your wings, straight.
Spread them, little bird. Fly!
Sharp-toothed nightmares lurk below, but-
Don’t give up.
I won’t.
Even though you’re not
like the others.
Anthea lives in sunny Queensland, Australia. She’s always writing, even if it’s just in her head. Find her online at @WriterAnthea
There was no more honey.
She drove to the store, independently.
Parked and shuffled in.
There, on the bottom shelf.
The weight of gold, too heavy.
The check-out, too far away.
Impossible, she realized.
She turned and left.
Tap-tapping with her cane to the car.
Then home, to bitter tea.
Jennifer M. Smith is the author of the award-winning book Green Ghost, Blue Ocean. She is a geologist, a chartered accountant, an offshore sailor and a triathlete. Obviously, she can’t sit still. More information and links to other published work can be found on her website at jennifermsmith.com.
They want capers, cumin, garlic. Fresh basil
in their salad. Blue cheese.
They want their olives with the pits.
The whole chicken—skin and bone
and dark.
They want the carcass
for soup. They’ll risk
a few spills.
They need
to try,
to know what will happen
if
they try.
Jennifer L. Freed writes mostly poems and sometimes writes very short stories. Find her at jfreed.weebly.com.
She was always immaculately put together—linen suits, manicured nails, hair colour every six weeks—but a heart attack has you in her apartment discovering her unwashed undergarments and a cache of diet pills in a bathroom cabinet.
You can’t just shut that cabinet and walk away now, my friend.
Larissa Thomson is from British Columbia, Canada. She loves to write flash fiction and short stories, but this is her first foray into micro fiction. She is raising two humans and hopefully teaching them the importance of looking beyond the superficial.
He comes home late, breezes through and reminds me of that song. He smiles; this is how it’s done. How he’s always done it.
You are my trophy, that smile says. You are my possession.
I try to remember the day but I cannot. Time is endless. Back, forward. Now.
M. Blackmars is a writer in New England.
In the canoe, he always took the back to steer, so I was in the front. I couldn’t do anything right; he’d shout at me, Paddle harder! On the left! Left! Feather it!
When we switched to individual kayaks, our relationship improved immensely, moving together, each our own way.
Jackie Ascrizzi live in Montville, Maine, where she spends time observing beavers and cooking Indian food.