“One barn cat’s enough,” Ma answered. “More, they’ll steal the chicks.”
Pa fetched an old grain sack.
At the pond, he paused a moment, still as stone, before turning away. Seeing I’d followed, he squatted, blocking my view, big hands wiping my cheeks.
Then he stood. “Best milk those cows.”
Jennifer L Freed writes mostly poetry, and sometimes micro-fiction. This story previously appeared in The Binnacle’s ultra-short edition, Fall, 2016. If you’d like to know more, please visit jfreed.weebly.com
I didn’t know what it meant—
my father washing dishes,
or carrying a heavy load
Dreaming of love
lit by candlelight
and roses, I didn’t see
that when my father told my mother,
“I’ll get that,”
he gave her sweet bouquets
gathered after work:
blanket flower, buttercup, honeysuckle.
Jennifer L. Freed usually writes poetry but likes the challenge of micro-fiction. She recently had a 100-word story, “The Lesser,” published in The Citron Review
. Her website is jfreed.weebly.com
He was never much for talking,
but he must have felt
our youthful lack of questions
as a wound: when
we asked him, later—
when we were old enough
he’d never told us
of who he was,
his answer flared
quick and sharp:
Jennifer L. Freed usually writes poetry but likes the challenge of micro-fiction. She recently had a 100-word story (“The Lesser”) published in The Citron Review
. Her website is jfreed.weebly.com
Her last moments haunted me.
Yes, she was a mean old
witch, but to think
how death washed over her
How she must have felt,
she had no
of her final words.
Toto sniffing the black pool
of her empty robes.
Jennifer L. Freed writes mostly poetry, and occasionally some short fiction. Her poetry chapbook was published in 2014. Other work can be seen at Jfreed.weebly.com
Our children away, we lie on the driveway,
side by side, and look for shooting stars
against the August sky.
(There – over there! And another!)
Too hot to touch, I feel for your hand,
hold a single finger,
bigger than the sky
for taking me outside to see.
Jennifer L Freed mostly writes poetry. The above poem, in longer form (63 words) appeared in The Christian Science Monitor in 2013. Upon revisiting it recently, she decided to revise. She is thankful for this site and its limit/goal of 50 Words. Visit jfreed.weebly.com
If she had known,
she might have answered her telephone,
let the dog out one more time,
refilled his bowl.
She would’ve worn a newer nightgown.
As it was,
she was just so
tired, so bone-heavy
She turned on the television,
crawled beneath her comforter, took
Jennifer L. Freed writes mostly poetry, and occasionally some micro fiction. Other work can be seen at jfreed.weebly.com.
“Please! Tell me!”
“It’ll be disturbing…”
“Look, I got you out of that place, hid you here, all to find out what you know about me. Not knowing is driving me crazy.”
“John… You’re the one hiding, inside yet another of your scenarios. You’ve lived in this facility twelve years.”
Jennifer L Freed has fun trying to meet the challenge of 50- and 100-word stories. Her poetry and flash have appeared in various on-line and print journals (including 50-Word Stories). Find more at jfreed.weebly.com.
“So when wood burns in a closed system,” said Ms. Gribbons, “it creates gas, liquid, and ash. Nothing’s ever truly lost; it just changes form.”
Michael raised his hand.
“My Dad says that, but I never believe him.”
“He says it when I miss my Mom.”
Jennifer L Freed usually writes poetry. She uses her middle initial in her bios because people have Googled her and landed on another writer with the same first and last names. For more, please visit jfreed.weebly.com
That there once lived a man
now called St. Nick, who secretly
helped children in need
That we light eight candles
did, and his people before,
a chain of light over 2,000 years
That we can’t wrap
but it’s love beyond boundaries
we’re meant to give
Jennifer L Freed grew up with Christmas and Chanukah. Now her children do the same. She writes mostly poetry and, sometimes, very short stories. To read more of her work, please visit her website, jfreed.weebly.com.
Flapping ducks carried
by their feet
in nets, rope burns
on protruding legs
Only we pale Westerners
gasp; to the bustling
crowds, the animals are simply
fresh as the lush scallions,
circling in barrels, chosen
by pointing shoppers
the way we
Jennifer L. Freed lived in China for one year as a college English teacher. She writes mostly poetry and, sometimes, very short stories. To read more of her work, please visit her website, jfreed.weebly.com.