The gum lost flavor an hour ago. It was the last piece, lost to the bottom of the bag. To spit it out is to end something, or to acknowledge its end. So I chew and dig through her purse to find what else is left. She’s nothing but receipts.
Haley (she/her) is a queer autistic writer with an MFA who has published some stuff and spends too much time on Instagram @QAWriterHaley.
I see her at the intersection up ahead, so I hurry.
When I get there, three signs face us: straight ahead is PAST; both left and right, FUTURE.
“Which way?” I ask.
She says nothing and goes left.
I should go right… but I just stay and watch her go.
Nowadays, Joey is more concerned with red light cameras at the intersection. His work can be found at joeytoey.com.au.
I thought I saw you, in a crowded train car, face wearing a scruff that is new, no? I pawed at the crowd to see, just a look, as you turned away. Maybe you saw me and decided, just then, that we are better apart. That you are better apart.
Susan Prause is a short story writer based in Minneapolis, MN. Her stories have appears in 53-Word Story Contest, Flash Fiction Magazine, Friday Flash Fiction and Spark Flash Fiction.
When Roshi says there are no accidents I nod, but my heart holds back. Tonight, washing dishes, I shatter a special beer glass. –Maybe there are no accidents, only transitions, migrations of spirit. I buy a handmade coffee cup knowing this clay, too, will find its own way to shatter.
Matthew grew up in Kentucky, joined the Air Force and was stationed in Crete. He still draws inspiration from Zorba, Odysseus and the wine-dark sea. Matthew lives in Maine.
Dear Forest,
Take me, this day. Be it thorn or splinter, poison leaf or needle, or by way that does not make a sound.
May we dance with broken limbs, bleed with rotting hearts, and burn with contagious crowns of fire.
Let’s be the wind upon our last falling bough.
Dan was covered in pollen when he wrote this story.
She barely reaches my waist in the first of our dance pictures—hair wild, giggling. Happy.
COVID paused our ritual.
One last chance this year.
***
I feel her behind me, standing 5’3”.
Solemnly she asks, “You mind if we skip it, Daddy?”
“No,” I say, careful not to turn around.
Adrian L Cook is a professor of drama, English, and humanities at Tarrant County College in Fort Worth, TX. He writes when he can—amongst all the grading and encouraging others to write. He is a proud husband and father whose daughter is now actually taller than he is.
I busy myself with dishes. With homework, solving tedious trigonometry equations. I listen to The Beatles croon. I read books with big words in them, words like ‘despondency’. When all else fails, I swim. The curls at the end of my damp hair betray me, whispering that they miss you.
Zoe M is a passionate cinephile and bibliophile. She spends most of her time writing, reading, or thinking about films.
My daughter’s face no longer reminds me of the little girl who ran to hug me every night. The bedtime stories I told her have been forgotten. Her world is full of complexity, and mine is missing something. She crosses the stage and walks the aisle, further away from me.
Colby Wrasse has worn many different hats in his life. None of them fit very well, but he has faked it well enough to get by alright. Through these years writing in some form has flitted in and out of his life, coming to rest just long enough to catch a glimpse.
On train rides to the province with my grandma, the wheels and tracks did most of the talking. I’d patiently wait for her to reach into the large pockets she’d sewn onto her dress. Together, we’d crack and peel hard boiled eggs and let the shells fly from our window.
Mari Kitina writes to find beauty in the mundane and to uncover the secrets that live within her. She is a self-published author of Back to Dance: How I Revived My Dance and My Spirit and How You Can Too, a personal memoir and self-help book born out of her passion to inspire the creative spark in others.
Fill the cardboard boxes with choices.
Promise you’ll find homes for her great aunt’s linens,
her father’s oak desk, the paired wingchairs
she’s had for forty years.
Listen to her memories.
Let her change her mind, keep
the blue quilt, donate
the green one.
Don’t mention the inevitable estate sale.
Jennifer L Freed is author of When Light Shifts, a memoir-in-poems on care-giving, aging, and family relationships, inspired by the aftermath of her mother’s stroke. Her parents still inspire her. Please visit jfreed.weebly.com to learn more.