Hidden away in the old metal box were memories, smiles, and tears. Photos sprang to life. Prom. Senior trip. My college sweetheart. Former roommates. Friends now residing in Heaven. Dreams. Achieved and forgotten. An indescribable ache, followed by renewed hope. And maybe, just maybe, another run at those unachieved dreams.
Alyce Clark enjoys getting lost in short stories. Occasionally, she writes a few herself.
The crossing bleeps.
“Lily! Hurry!”
Lily rushes; her flower falls. With infinite care, she stoops, small fingers scrabbling for the thin stem.
“Leave it Lily!”
She straightens, in resignation twenty years too old. Her face says: of course the world would do this to my one, perfect thing, again, again.
Fiona Kamal is in training to be a mad cat lady. She lives in North Vancouver with three cat-loving daughters and a husband who is feline-averse. Isn’t tension the source of all inspiration?
Barn swallows twitter-warble their declarations. From a darkened corner of the hayloft, I hear their bird-love songs, aching for my wife. I can almost feel her warm breath in that space between my neck and shoulder. My heart, kitten-tiny now, thumps rapidly.
I’d give anything to be a man again.
Margaret MacInnis lives, writes, and raises her daughter in Iowa City. Her work has been published widely, most recently in Brevity, Diagram, Ghost Parachute, The Rye Whiskey Review, and Thrush. She is working on a novel and a novella-in-flash, LIFE AS JAKE, MY WIFE’S THREE-LEGGED CAT.
It’s been years since I’ve seen you. Felt your touch. Seen your light. Brighter than the sun, to whom the tulips bow. You were their king; I their queen.
And now you’re gone. Gone with Spring, as Summer takes its breath. But someday I shall find you, my king.
Someday.
T.L. Beeding is a single mother from Kansas City. She is co-editor of Crow’s Feet Journal and Paramour Ink, and is a featured author for Black Ink Fiction. When she is not writing, T.L. works at a busy orthopedic hospital, mending broken bones. She can be found on Twitter at @tlbeeding.
Moonlight danced on silvery toes around our cozy cabin windowsill, dousing my new wedding ring with magic’s kiss. Kaleidoscopic butterflies born from reflective diamond fluttered across oaken walls. A warm paw draped over my shoulder—the same hand that stroked another lover’s swollen stomach yesterday. He didn’t know I knew.
Charlotte Kim is a poet and writer based in Los Angeles. She graduated from the University of Southern California with a BA in Communication, and you can find her dancing or singing during her free time.
And when, eons later, they ran out of energy, all those bits of junk, they surrendered by the thousands to their fate, brief flashes in the high atmosphere.
But by then, we had devolved to scratching on rocks, and, remembering nothing, cowered as our stars plunged from the night sky.
Chet Ensign watches the constellations in north New Jersey and sometimes writes what he sees.
My parents started our restaurant with family recipes they brought from their home country. Years later, my young daughter began working here with me, just as I had with my parents.
“It’s okay, Dad. It’s time,” my daughter explained through tears, as we locked the doors for the last time.
R.E. Schell works in the biomedical field in California. He enjoys writing and has been published over fifty times in both the biomedical field as well as in fictional genres and poetry. He enjoys photography, literature, and travel. He also volunteers in animal rescue.
Townsfolk named it Suicide Hill, a dirt road heading into the setting sun. It intersected train tracks near the bottom, with no warning lights or crossbars. My friend called it Memory Lane, and we rode our bikes in the midday, coasting toward make-shift crosses, feet off pedals, setting spirits free.
C. Jean Downer is a writer of creative words; here are fifty. She lives in Surrey, British Columbia. You can find her at cjeandowner.com and on Twitter at @cjeandowner.
You said you’d always love me. I said the same. Your hand touched me, soft, like swansdown. Unseeing, I folded my body inside the comfort of your embrace, nestling into your feathery warmth.
Too late I felt you move apart, your wings opening wide as you lifted upwards and away.
Pauline writes mostly crime, and has a novel published on Kindle in her pen name Paula K. Randall, Hangman’s Wood. She also enjoys writing in short bites. See more at wivenhoewritersblogspot.com.
It’s easier to love from afar… he types.
Two thousand one hundred and ninety days ahead. Fingers strike dirt covered keys. X’s marked across calendar squares. He sits facing the wall. A photograph of a woman hangs loose. A guard rattles a baton across steel bars.
…when all is lost.
Milton Swami Parraga is a writer and a visual artist from Mexico City. His work has been featured in Microfiction Monday Magazine and Defunkt Magazine. He currently resides in Houston, Texas.