Behind withering cornstalks, we waited for the flying saucer squadrons. Each year, the all-night hypersonic zipping and spinning and illuminations mesmerized us.
We’ve never taken pictures. We’ve never tried to get their attention.
For generations we’ve kept quiet; we don’t want anyone telling us that we haven’t been seeing UFOs.
Liz writes from Western Massachusetts. Find her at LizMayers.com.
After Momma died, the ring promised me disappeared.
When my sister died, I found it in a box with a note. “Momma thought I’d lose it. Pawn it. I had to prove I could care for it, like you would.”
I sighed, warmed she’d succeeded. Momma’s ring was hers. Forever.
Liz Mayers writes short fiction from Long Island’s North Shore. Find her at lizmayers.com
I asked Mama why he spent every holiday with us. He’d bring flowers and caramels, tell jokes, and do magic tricks. He didn’t mind Grandma’s poetry readings, my father’s pipe smoke, my annoying little brothers, or the burnt roasts. “Look around,” she said. “We were the only family he had.”
Liz recently discovered listening to mooing cows is very relaxing. Find her at lizmayers.com.
I knew the flowered china well. Every chip. Every crack. She accepted $25, pretended not to know me. Shuttling boxes to my car, I debated asking for forgiveness. For scramming and dumping responsibilities on her. I watched awhile as my sister haggled over our deceased parents’ chattel, then drove away.
Liz is inspired by the tiny fiction of other writers. Find her at LizMayers.com.
Sure, that night Tammy drove tipsy and too fast. But it wasn’t her fault the truck t-boned us.
I’ve been waiting for her since the wreck, watching her suffer from guilt. She doesn’t understand my signs telling her I’m okay, it’s peaceful here. She’ll find out today. When she arrives.
Liz is inspired by the tiny fiction of other writers. Find her at LizMayers.com.
I’d looked forward to catching up with my best and oldest friend at our longtime hangout. I’d imagined us jabbering over our favorites: margaritas without salt and piles of corn chips with cheese. But she brought along her new best friend. They drank lite beer. And I had nothing to say.
Liz writes from Long Island, NY. Find her at LizMayers.com.
Was my most successful rebellious teenage act. I’d covered it in flowers, curlicues, and glitter to protest having to play it in my family’s band. Of course, it attracted many admirers at my yard sale. But the girl who lifted it and grinned, she was the one who got it.
Liz writes from Long Island, NY. Find her at LizMayers.com.