I loved him from the moment we met. It all felt so exhilarating and new. I melted into his sweet blue eyes and a smile that would forever steal my heart.
He’s 25 now. Soon he will be singing praises of his own.
My first grandchild is due this week.
Lisa Chambers is a Texas girl and writer. Love always wins.
I gave my nephew a long piggyback ride. We chanted “It’s a new record!”
“Let’s tell the whole world,” I said.
He paused, then replied, “I don’t want to.”
He’s shy about his speech impediment. But I understand him perfectly.
“You’re right,” I said. “We already are the whole world.”
Nick van Osdol enjoys reading and writing prose and poetry. He is drawn to scenes of decay and rejuvenation. He also enjoys stick shift cars with no SIM cards. His writing is in Hobart Pulp, Citywide Lunch, Plague Circus Press, Dishsoap Quarterly, and several other places.
Last night I walked into the sea, not planning to return. Suspended deep in endless black, a stranger’s ashes whispered to me.
“You’re too early,” they said, shimmering in the warped moonlight. “Go home.”
I washed up onshore at sunrise, still breathing in spite of myself. And I walked on.
Alyson Floyd wrote this. Author’s note: for Beck.
She stares, bewildered by wailing toddlers. Perhaps the concept of shedding earthly ties—of having no family in heaven—was too abstract a Sunday-School lesson. Shhh, children. In the afterlife, we’ll dwell in holiness. Isn’t that enough? Agree! But their voices quiver, and she can’t unhear herself in each one.
Janessa Mulepati is a writer whose creations often include elements of fantasy and horror. You can find her work in Pif Magazine, Ghost Parachute, Luna Station Quarterly, and elsewhere. See more at https://substack.com/@jlmulepati.
Love is the toddler dancing in the theatre while the end credits roll. Love is you buying ink in my favourite colour, purple. Love is the countless terrible nicknames you give me, each syllable pronounced with careful affection. Love is holding your scarred hand, and knowing when to let go.
Zoe M is a passionate cinephile and bibliophile. She spends most of her time reading, writing, or thinking about films
“Pull, pull!” shout my grown sons, two at either end of a thick rope straining for victory.
They keep glancing at my husband who watches from his lawn chair in the shade.
Desperate to earn their father’s congratulatory grunt, they struggle despite bloody hands.
I’ll bandage them after the game.
Trish Fegan is a former corporate communications professional who is now focused on writing fiction, aided by her muse, a feisty rescue chihuahua.
We had good decades held together by children, purpose, and compatibility. Our love turned quieter, moving out of the foreground. Now, we find ourselves in a bounded endgame, wanting to evade stagnation and trying to love more once again—while we still have left some time and love to spend.
Lynn Kozlowski has appeared in The Citron Review, The Zodiac Review, Molecule, 50-Word Stories, Bright Flash Literary Review, Every Day Fiction, The Dribble Drabble Review, Friday Flash Fiction, and The Malahat Review. He has a volume of short pieces, Historical Markers.
I silently mourn the beheading of my neighbor’s flowers; my son doesn’t know why we can freely pick dandelions, but should leave the tulips alone. He sees a colorful thing suddenly growing from nothing, something magical, and thinks of me. He’ll forget this; I’ll never forget how his hair smelled.
Matilda Albright currently lives in Detroit, and is just trying her best.
My love is not like a red red rose
It’s like that dandelion – there, see it?
Of course you do, that small, stubborn spot of gold
grown through a crack in old suburban concrete
Not welcome, not wanted, maybe not even noticed
But bright, sunshine-bright
and refusing to die.
Lorraine Manton is currently studying creative writing and literature at Deakin University, Australia and has a great fondness for books, coffee and small slices of imaginary lives.
Fresh from Mount Olympus, the Gods’ new matchmakers dove straight into mêlée.
Hapless grasshoppers huddled in harmony. Rabbits hoarded their lucky feet. Lone wolves packed dens.
And humans? They shacked up, too, fleeing flexed claws and rustling feathers.
The switch from bow and Eros to falconry was swift and cruel.
Nicholas De Marino doesn’t trust pigeons, either.