Belinda gazed at the flickering tapestry of stars. She believed deceased family and friends were sending her messages via some kind of cosmic morse code. Her dad, her grandmother, her best friend, her next-door neighbor. Like she did every clear night, Belinda flashed back the following message:
.. / — .. … … / -.– — ..-
Giulietta Nardone lives in Massachusetts where she writes stories and creates paintings celebrating the nighttime sky.
Léon. My grandfather. King of the Jungle.
Pure fantasy, but his name, when expressed in his accented French drawl, seeded a child’s imagination; a belief further emboldened by me being his little tiger.
Now, stooped over a coffin, caressing his manicured mane, what wouldn’t I give for one last roar?
Inspired by his grandfather, Steven stalks vowels and consonants, rustles them into words, and when rounded up, takes pride in his lines.
You were our blessing, given when the first leaves changed colour. Autumn, such an appropriate name. As the last leaves fell, and before we could know you, you were snatched away. A single copper leaf held fast, the colour of your hair. Tenderly we took it, pressing it for eternity.
Writer of anything and everything. Microfiction, flash fiction and poetry are favourites. A desire to see her words published is increasing with age! See more at christinenedahl.wordpress.com.
Belly pressed against the warm sand.
Through half closed eyes, the golden hairs on my forearm bend like grass in the breeze.
The foamy ocean edge reaches up,
falls back,
tugging the sun burned memory of you out to sea.
We all swam here that day we got the call.
Dave lives in Sydney, Australia and works across various creative disciplines. Follow at instagram.com/davidnormanbonney
I had a dream, which didn’t seem like a dream, more like a vague reminiscence. Beyond the shadows of my darkened room stood a man. I knew him. He had charmed me once, long ago. Now half awake with perishing memories I try to unravel the enigma of past happiness.
Susan Hoffman is retired from careers in sales, design, and art consultation. A creative person with a keen sense of beauty and harmony, she reads, writes, and occasionally, when the muse beckons, she paints. Among her favorite pastimes in no particular order are: reading, writing, gardening, sewing, and cooking. She lives in Toronto with her husband. They have a daughter who currently lives in San Francisco.
You caught your first salmon in the Nome River. You were so proud. I glimpsed the man you were becoming when you spoiled your perfect fish to save my favorite lure.
We never dreamed it would be your last time… playing on a dredge, swimming in icy water, playing guitar.
Cate Covert hails from sunny Idaho, U.S.A. She has been telling stories since she could talk. She is a gardener and amateur herbalist, plays guitar and piano, and loves baking bread and making beaded jewelry. Most of all, Cate Covert loves to engage her reading and listening audiences. You can read her frequent inspirational writings, poetry, flash fiction, and humorous stories at Cate Covert on Chadashah.org or her Inspirational essays and bible studies at Pastora Cate’s Corner on Substack.
Each day’s first word, mumbled from habit, meant far more than its sleep-addled reply. Hearing each other’s voice was a welcome-back from our overnight travels, though our bodies had remained just inches apart.
She’s gone now, for eternity, but while making my side of the bed I still ask, “Howdjasleep?”
Stephen Tilden is retired and living in Brooklyn.
She didn’t hug, but her life embraced me in richness, like fertile soil nurturing zinnias. Like Earth’s dense nutrients nourishing blooms that flourish in early autumn fields.
Flowers pose grandly under a canopy sky of her favorite blue. Basket in hand, I stoop and pick her a medley of colors.
Jennifer Smith is a retired elementary school speech-language pathologist. She writes stories inspired by her small town southern life. Residing in Rock Spring, Georgia, Jennifer enjoys walking in beautiful places and listening to audiobooks.
Years after. He touched the pavement where it happened, hoping to feel something. Was it possible for a place to hold some fragment of an event? Might the wind have a whiff of her sandalwood perfume? Might the place where she stood be slightly warmer?
His hand felt only rain.
Jack writes true crime and crime fiction. He has a MFA in Creative Writing from Goddard College. His work has been featured previously in Grit City Magazine, The Pitkin Review, and other publications. He is also the creator of TacomaStories.com. His serial crime novel A Better Lie is being released weekly on Substack.
The pebble in his pocket had been given to him by a child who’d plucked it from a stream, formerly part of a fierce ancient river. Eons before the great flood, the pebble had been lodged in a hillside, and before that (the pebble still remembered) part of a mountain.
Bob Thurber is the author of six books. Regarded as a master of Flash and Micro Fiction, his work has appeared in Esquire and other magazines, been anthologized 60 times, received a long list of awards, and been utilized in schools and colleges throughout the world. He resides in Massachusetts. Visit his website at BobThurber.net.