She’d sit looking at the perennials starting to bud. Spring was in the air, with the promise of warmer days ahead.
She loved new life springing forth from her planting efforts.
Today the backfilling was done quietly, without hope of life being renewed, as we said goodbye at her graveside.
Connell writes a bit.
Paper crinkles as she walks over a mosaic of manila and white envelopes in her hallway – bills, warnings and notices.
Outside, on the way to the bar, she is ambushed by moonlight and reflects that banks, bosses and former lovers will all be obliterated before Neil Armstrong’s bootprints. She smiles.
Andy Hedgecock lives and works in rural Nottinghamshire, UK, close to an Iron Age earthwork, the remains of a Roman fort, a decommissioned coalmine and a disused railway line. It’s a place of scars, erasures and stories.
My mother’s memory of the poems surprised me. I’d sit with her and listen to her recite, after years of never hinting that she knew any poetry. I wonder if she was reminded of the young farm girl she once was, standing in front of her father, practicing until perfect.
Janine lives and writes in Portland, Oregon where she can’t help but be influenced by the leafless trees shrouded in fog. Winter has its beauty.
First winter after Mother leaves, sister Nancy and I shovel snow, hands weighed down. Flakes fly, whirling seductresses. We clear faster. Flakes cover clearness. Nature takes. Gives people wanderlust, reveals darkness beneath starched smiles. We try to make everything perfect. Keep clearing. We trip. Keep trying. Keep tripping. Don’t surrender.
Yash Seyedbagheri is a graduate of Colorado State University’s MFA program in fiction. His work is forthcoming or has been published in journals such as 50 Word Stories, Silent Auctions, City. River. Tree., and Ariel Chart.
The bird that pecked holes below the bedroom window was back, drawn by the vibrations from the space heater. Ed rolled to face what had been Emily’s side. The cat, who purred as soon as you made eye contact, stared back. Wide-awake, they listened to the drumming of the bird.
Jon Fain has published frequently in literary, commercial, and online publications. More of his fiction can be found in the vaults of Menda City Review, Word Riot, DiddleDog, Verbsap, and Winning Writers.
You can do this, he told himself. He repeated three times the three sentences he would recite to himself while on patrol: I am a warrior of courage. I train in the middle of the fire. I go to the places that scare me.
Then he climbed out of bed.
Donald A. Ranard’s writing has appeared in The Atlantic, Flash Fiction Magazine, 100 Word Story, Byliner, The Washington Post, The Boston Globe, and elsewhere.
Stepping between moments black and sublime
He remembers the hours before the Design
How to bring this Magician back home?
How to say “Brother, your work is now done”?
Your skill unmatched we agree
But in travels so complex timeless and broad
You have never once
Been unloved or alone
Peter Li-ping sees the attraction of living outside the Law but he remembers the words of that other (somewhat romantic) master: “To live outside the law you must be honest…”
She walked the labyrinth slowly, absorbing the imagery of both the circle and the spiral. She was careful at the turns, at this turning point in her life.
Something loosened inside; then the tears came.
This meandering yet purposeful path spoke both of safety and the dawn of new openness.
Ellen Hansen is a writer and fiddle player living in Helvetia, Oregon. She recently retired from leading international tours.
Travel had been costly, the funeral a blur.
He couldn’t recall why they’d become estranged.
A tug on the lead prompted him to release the Yorkie to belt along the lane and off into the snow-trimmed shrubs.
Movement snatched his eyes to the starkly camouflaged magpie.
Its croak seemed commiserative.
Irish writer Perry McDaid lives in Derry under the brooding brows of Donegal hills which he occasionally hikes in search of druidic inspiration. He even finds it on occasion.
Their spouses’ corporations had merged.
Wow, she said, blinking.
How embarrassing is this, he said.
I’m having flashbacks, she whispered.
He smiled shyly.
Remember falling, she said, into one another’s embrace? Remember holding on for dear life?
Youthful mistakes, he sighed.
Perhaps it’s time we made them again, she said.
Bob Thurber is the author of “Paperboy: A Dysfunctional Novel” and two collections of stories. A celebrated master of Flash and Micro Fiction, his work has appeared in 60 anthologies, received dozens of awards, and been used in schools and colleges throughout the world. He resides in Massachusetts where, though legally blind, he continues to write every day. Visit his website at BobThurber.net.