I dreamed we were still in my kitchen, laughing
at the dog, who kept trotting to the door, then not
going out, lest he miss a single scrap
of whatever we might offer.
When I woke, the dog comforted me.
It was you inside the door, poised
to go through.
Jennifer L Freed has a friend whose tumors keep outrunning the chemo. Her website is jfreed.weebly.com.
Sometimes I feel like you’re watching over me from wherever you are.
Sometimes I believe you love me still.
Sometimes the sun reminds me of your sweet caress,
And the moon of your deep, enduring passion.
Sometimes I realize it’s all an illusion and you are
Truly,
Completely,
Irrevocably,
Gone
Connie Taylor is an Operations Manager by day, a writer and reader by night. Her writing aspirations began in grade school with her heroine, Pantoulia, who leaped over football fields of fire. She’s contributed to the Journal of Integrated Studies and enjoys writing both fiction and non-fiction.
It’s so far up the beach, her first sandcastle. The bucket is too full. She stumbles. Water sloshes over the rim.
It’s scalding. Her leg blooms with pain.
A nurse prises the teacup from her knotted hand. He leads her slowly to a chair. It’s so far up the ward.
Tamsin wrote this story during quite a long walk.
I remember an Uncle
sitting on our swing
he was three axe handles
across the behind,
the swing only one.
It looked unpleasant
rope cutting into his skin like that.
He didn’t seem to notice
kept on talking, smoking
pushing his feet into the dirt
till mom called him in.
Marjorie is from Michigan, now living in Maine. She is a painter with a consuming passion to write.
He knew, often before she did, what was needed. His casual remark midweek, her nodded assent. Saturday morning: lunches packed, headed toward the rising sun and the smell of salt.
Now, when she stands alone by the edge of the sea, she thanks him even though he is not there.
Ellen Sinclair is from Belfast, Maine. She is a retired teacher, counselor, widow, mother, and grandmother, a lover of words and the sea.
Friends and family gathered around me on that cold rainy February night, waiting for the news.
“No brain activity,” the doctor said.
Walking in the house at midnight, I called out your name, by habit.
In the dark silence, your last words echoed through my mind: “I can hear you.”
Susan is a Curriculum Developer at a mortgage company. She is widowed with two grown daughters and two stepsons, and four awesome grandchildren, two boys and two girls.
Crisp
My pillow greets me
My soft slumber
Recalls romantic memories
My soul whispers…
She finds my pillow
Entangles my dreams
Capture…
We land eyes
walk within a summer’s breeze
Our hearts embrace
A moment held
Till sunbeams
Melt our reality
Tomorrow
Fresh flowers
Will grace the earth
Above you
Fifty words is such a challenge. Patrick hopes to improve.
On the first anniversary of Momma’s death, I prepared her casserole recipe to honor her memory. Setting the dish on the table, I held back tears.
“Gross. What’s this slop?”
“Shut up and eat!” I snapped, and then laughed until I was out of breath.
I sounded exactly like Momma.
L.L. Madrid likes to keep it short.
I smelled her perfume, that flowery muskiness she used to drown herself in. It tickled my nose just the same. I imagined her dancing past in her wispy skirt, as if she still couldn’t let go of childhood ballerina dreams.
Just the way I still can’t let go of her.
Laura Widener is a wife, mother, and coffee addict living in rural Georgia. She holds degrees in Sociology and Human Services, and completed her MFA in Writing at Lindenwood University. Her forthcoming work will be found in Riding Light and NoiseMedium, and her previous work can be found in TWJ Magazine, Morpheus Tales, and Life in 10 Minutes. Visit her blog at incessantpen.wordpress.com.
The front lawn was different now. Ten years had passed. Once neat and tidy, the years of neglect had not been kind.
The gate was open. An omen, perhaps.
I crossed through the high grass and weeds. I had come home and my heart was at rest.
Let it sleep.
Susan Gale Wickes spent many years in the newspaper industry, but is now devoting her time and energy to writing poetry and short stories. She recently had a poem published in Haiku Journal and has just discovered the challenge of creating 50-word stories.