The last notes of the organ fade away.
In the old church, shadows dance in the candleglow, echoes of people from times gone by, coming back to me. I feel their presence.
The living drive away the dead as their grandchildren and great grandchildren dispel the moment.
Merry Christmas, Grandma!
Jean lives in Bath in the UK. She likes to use some of her own experiences in her story telling. Merry Christmas!
The memories all came flooding back. The screams. Blood. Lots of blood.
Her dreams lingered… two black butterflies flitting about on a warm day, dancing just for her.
I awoke, resigned to their presence. Ours was an uneasy alliance, here in this darkness behind my eyes.
Dave James Ashton favours short fiction as he has a bad memory and poor attention span.
Silent, scaly and bold, they march in ranks through the walls of your home and gather at your bedside, lighting the room with their luminous skin. See yourself mirrored in their silver coin eyes. All the lives you could have known are reflected; all your mistakes are exposed.
Mark Farley (mumbletoes.blogspot.com
) writes novels, flash fiction and the occasional poem.
Others have forgotten, but I’ll always remember the good times – the tire swing, the treehouse.
I rub my hand over initials carved in its bark. They mark the spot of our first kiss, and the wedding that followed years later.
It pains me to remember, but my axe shows indifference.
Pontius Paiva got 99 problems, but a birch ain’t one. You can root through his collection of short stories and other written works at pontiuspaiva.com
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.
The memories ripple as you wade in, the concrete beneath your toes cushioned by abstract thought. Your fingers trail the surface, silver swirls of emotion patterning in your wake. Pause for a breath, then plunge down, losing yourself in memories even as they nibble away the edges of your mind.
Jenora Vaswani would like to think of herself as a lightfoot halfling, nimbly toeing the line between fantasy and reality. In actuality, you’re more likely to find her at her desk poring over various literary theories, surrounded by biscuit sandwiches and red velvet cookies. If you’d like to see more of her work, feel free to pop over to her website
He’d built it one summer, with determined hands and failing eyesight. A picnic table for two. Rough-hewn, sturdy—no curlicues or fancy woodworking.
“Silly man,” she said. “We’ll never use it.”
They didn’t; he died that winter.
The next spring, she sat there daily, remembering how much she’d loved him.
As a follow-up to her frivolous and fun career in broadcasting, Sally Basmajian is working on a variety of writing projects. She has won a few prizes for short fiction and creative non-fiction, and has recently completed a beach-worthy women’s novel.
This morning, we do the crossword puzzle on the floor, just like we did the day we moved in fiftysome years ago, before we had furniture or the children who will, today, help us move into assisted living. We’re rusty at the clues, but the coffee tastes just as hot.
Ingrid Jendrzejewski grew up in Vincennes, Indiana, and loves cryptic crosswords and the game of go. Recently, she won the Bath Flash Fiction Award. Links to Ingrid’s writing can be found at ingridj.com and she occasionally tweets @LunchOnTuesday.
When Dad lost the remote, he made a game. He’d call out numbers and, using the cable box, I’d change channels from black and white fuzz to sounds and spectrums of light.
The cable company never took it back, and I kept that disconnected box—long after Dad was gone.
Frederick Charles Melancon is a native of New Orleans. Currently, he lives in Mississippi with his wife and daughter. In his spare time, he watches cartoon movies with his family, and he enjoys every minute of it.
I asked my father what he’d miss most and he talked about the odors of men, and the fragrances of women, about the distinct aromas places held for the time you were in them — crowded rooms, vacant houses, city streets after a thunder shower, country roads during a heavy snow.
Over the years Bob Thurber’s work has received a long list of awards and prizes. His most recent book is a collection of brief stories titled “Nothing But Trouble.” His first novel, “Paperboy: A Dysfunctional Novel,” was recently rereleased. Visit BobThurber.net.