My pillow greets me
My soft slumber
Recalls romantic memories
My soul whispers…
She finds my pillow
Entangles my dreams
We land eyes
walk within a summer’s breeze
Our hearts embrace
A moment held
Melt our reality
Will grace the earth
Fifty words is such a challenge. Patrick hopes to improve.
Mum came to stay the day after her funeral. She was waving from the doorstep when I returned with the groceries. I carried her suitcase into the hall then set a place for her at the dining table, beside the ghost of my father.
Neither of them enjoyed the meal.
Mark Farley was raised in Zimbabwe where he survived two dog maulings, a swarm of killer bees, and being run over by a horse. His story Knight of the Rocks has been published by Old Words Home.
Last night, Dad came round to introduce us to his latest bride to be. “There’s life in the old dog yet,” he said.
She said nothing.
This must be his third engagement since Mum died, or his fourth including Carol.
“Who’s counting, anyway?” he asked with a grin.
David is remarkably immature about these things. He finds that writing about it does help a bit.
Since my grandfather’s death
I’m convinced the clocks
have stopped working properly.
Hours are now arriving
equipped with extra minutes
that weren’t there before.
My throat burns from the scotch in my glass,
but it’s as impermanent
as the fuel trails of the planes above.
It won’t last. Nothing does.
EO is making a first attempt at a humorous fiction novelette called Id/entity, which, if it doesn’t suck, might actually see the light someday on Amazon Kindle. If not, EO will probably make some nice origami, or a LOT of paper footballs.
Sarah couldn’t bear to look out the back window. She hated the garden. Peter had been promising to remove the yard toys since January, but he didn’t have the heart to do it. They fought about that. They fought about everything.
Tina was only four. Perhaps heaven has yard toys.
Paul Laughsend is a previously unpublished writer, always looking for support and guidance.
The Crossing Guard stands her vigil in the rain. Sign held high, she shepherds the helpless ones against the harried, cell phone-obsessed masses.
She is always watching, but you will never see her. She was struck and killed last year, blood seeping into the crosswalk. Still, she watches.
A. Elizabeth Herting is an aspiring freelance writer and busy mother of three living in colorful Colorado. She has had stories featured in Dark Fire Fiction, Bewildering Stories, New Realm, Friday Fiction, Peacock Journal, Speculative 66, and Under the Bed. She recently completed a novel called Wet Birds Don’t Fly at Night that she is hoping to find a home for one day. See more at her website or Facebook page.
The tiny hand was lost within its father’s. Each gripped tightly, softly to the other. Within that touch, free from language or misinterpretation, resided the very essence of love.
The small hand slowly went limp; the larger paused, then released. One now free; the other chained eternally to that moment.
Adam Mitchell is a teacher, mostly, and a learner always. Current published work can be accessed in his dreams.
He left her a widow, alone… bereft.
Left no will… only debt.
The Repo men left only his urn.
He’d left her in the dark about his ‘little pad’ in the city. It boasted eight bedrooms, a mistress, and three children.
She left his ashes in the bin outside it.
Mary Sheehan lives in what’s known as the sunny south-east of Ireland. Her stories are getting shorter and shorter, probally due to lack of sunshine.
Newsflash: the plane has crashed; no survivors.
Gradually it dawned on her. Twenty years of tension, arguments, entrapment: over.
If he was dead, she was free!
Tears of relief welled up. Sweet release.
The front door opened. “Thank God I missed that plane!” he said, brushing away her tears.
Joan is an educator in Australia.
There was a huge crash as the shelves tore from the kitchen wall and the stored crockery and crystal smashed.
A twenty first birthday present; a wedding gift; a love token; items from times, places, people long gone.
I cried, not for the broken dishes but for the shattered memories.
This really did happen in Jan’s old-fashioned kitchen.