“You excited?” He smiled.
Her heart raced.
The doctor squeezed out the cold, clear goo.
She felt the wand wiggle around.
His smile hollowed.
She waited for the sound.
Another doctor came.
Minutes ticked by.
But the second heartbeat couldn’t be found.
Juliann Morris is an avid reader, writer, and tiny house dweller graduating from the University of Hawaii at Hilo this semester with a double Bachelor’s degree in English and Communication and a Creative Writing Certificate. She writes both fiction and nonfiction and bases most of her stories on her life experiences.
She told me that the cruelest part of it all, after it was over and she was finally allowed to leave the hospital and come home again, was that they had taken the crib away without even telling her.
They pretended like it had never been there to begin with.
Dave Novak works in a fairly serious office that sends him to strange and mysterious places throughout New Jersey. Whenever he feels like being more or less serious, he writes. You can check out his works and thoughts at dumbstupidfakestories.wordpress.com
I filled sacks with too-snug jeans and sweaters; my closet was finally getting uncluttered.
A fellow donor at the charity shop drivethrough extracted a train set and scooter from her van. I helped her with a dirt bike.
“They grow up so fast,” I commented.
“Tommy had leukemia,” she replied.
tried retiring, but it didn’t work.
I can’t turn my back on you, even though we’re now strangers.
Once you were brave and clever. Your body gave me pleasure, comfort and delight.
Now your limbs tremble. Your mind wanders. The strong man is a lost boy.
In sickness and in health. Until death do us part.
Lucia Saja wrote this story.
Years later, on a strong day, they retrieved the grey shoebox from the back of the closet and arranged the pictures on the living room rug. They smoothed and flattened curls, mended tears with tape. Then they sat silently, back-to-back, lost in memories of the child who never grew up.
Mark Farley writes novels, flash fiction and the occasional poem. See more at mumbletoes.blogspot.com
A hot wind beats against the coffee shop window where I stare at a foam smiley face. The Fires are coming. Recently evacuated, alone, and unsure of the future, I found solace, with many others, in a steamy cup of caffeine.
Admiring great Mother Nature, I sip as I cry.
Hayley has been an amateur writer her whole life. She has a degree in English and spends most of her free time diving into the realms of her imagination. Her stories touch the hearts of her friends and family. She lives in Southern California where wildfires are currently raging. She looks forward to many more years of creating memorable stories.
We gathered in small, always changing groups.
Strangers, family, and friends.
Uncounted words filled the room with copies of the same conversation.
Regrets mingled with the pebbles of ordinary life, to gave rise to our victory cry. Hand-in-hand, we proclaimed, “Life still goes on.”
Thus we denied death his victory.
John Fowler served twenty years in the US Air Force before retiring
and starting a second career in the IT field. He is also a Lay Pastor
serving a small church near his home in Texas. His hobbies include
reading, golfing, writing, and now oil painting.
“Goodbye Patrick.” Cindy moved in for a half-hug and cheek-peck, but he held her until she pulled away.
Patrick fit bulging duffel bags into her rusty Mazda, shut the hatchback, then stepped away as she reversed and turned.
The car crunched down the gravel driveway, red taillights glowing in accusation.
Susan Wackerbarth is enjoying her foray into flash fiction so much that she may never go back to writing novels.
Your estate, organized by spoons, sweaters, silver. I’ll finish the fusilli ($1) you planned on eating later. I’ll wear your motorcycle goggles ($10) while washing my new tea cups ($4), then hang a tile, painted with moon, stars, and love for you when I was six ($.50).
All good buys.
This is Alexandra’s tenth fifty-word story. She wishes death could always be preceded by goodbyes.
Grief, heavy like sticky syrup poured over pancakes, filled the room.
It coated the mourners, making it hard to move. Hard to speak. Hard to breathe.
I hardly knew him, but stopped to offer my condolences.
To hug and be hugged, as we remembered the days of this stranger’s life.
John Fowler served twenty years in the US Air Force before retiring and starting a second career in the IT field. He is also a Lay Pastor serving a small church near his home in Texas. His hobbies include reading, golfing, writing, and now oil painting.