I refuse to read the books I’ve bought, I only organize them.
They’re clenched tightly on my bookshelf: alphabetized and dusted daily. The spines are bound as one, like a row of incisors rotting with black titles.
When you’re bereaved, you can’t help preserving the past.
These books were Matthew’s.
Dustin holds a screenwriting degree from California State University Long Beach and currently works as a performer at Disneyland, Anaheim. This is his first submitted piece of flash fiction.
The house had been eerily quiet. She wanted to talk to someone other than her mind.
She found him seated in the rocking chair by the window. Sitting down on the floor beside him, she leaned her head gently against the chair.
The empty chair rocked slightly at her contact.
Divya is an IT nerd by day and a blogger by night. She’s also a coffee junkie and a Cancerian. She lives in India.
Everyone watched in silence as she placed her old, shaky hands on the piano for one last time. A tear rolled down her cheek as she tried to remember what she had once played.
I stay huddled in the corner, too young to understand.
Now she is dead.
Alessandra Merto is a 6th grade student. She likes reading, writing, dancing, and running.
Late night coffee is the only thing that helps me sleep, although most believe the opposite is true. Within the silence, nightmares of your dying rise in a silent shout and the happy buzz of caffeine deafens them.
Eventually, my mind quiets from exhaustion and your ghost releases me temporarily.
Jessica Andrews is an Event and Wedding Planner who lives in Sacramento. She also stays at home with her twin children. She was an early adopter of the E-reader and finding that such an item existed was a dream come true. If she had her druthers, she would read and write all day.
Her eyes water as she searches for her son among the wreckage. There are floating ashes. Smoke.
When she blinks she sees the meadow they wandered in yesterday. Floating pollen was airborne, but it was his wide-eyed wonderment that made her eyes water.
She’s found him. He’s in the meadow.
Jason Huynh finds himself not writing what he knows, for he has realized that he knows very little in the world of experience. Jason should prioritize better and finish his homework first…
I heard your old rocker creak, and for a moment I forgot.
It might have been a stray breeze, or maybe just the cat brushing against it, an old habit from all the years he rubbed contentedly against your legs.
But in my heart it was you, home once again.
Chris Fries is a still-developing writer, slowly working to hone his craft. He is an engineer by vocation, a guitarist by avocation, and a writer by compulsion. So far, his blog has been his primary outlet for his quasi-creative meanderings.
I visited the place of our first date. I stared at the back of a woman’s head, positive it was yours.
I remembered the back of your head well. I missed it.
She turned. It was you, and not. My image of you was different from the real you.
Chris Wilkensen is a wandering English instructor. He is trying to figure out what he wants in life, while being careful not to let life pass him by. He has trouble winning both battles simultaneously.
Days disappear into weeks. The weeks turn into months. Months become years.
Forgotten are the early mornings when I crawled into your bed. What was once yesterday, I breathed my secrets in your ear.
Dust has become of your bones. Flowers spring from your late beating heart. Here I wait.
Lynn Marie Lostumo spends her days doing dishes, laundry, and vacuuming. She’d rather be writing, knitting, and finishing her degree.
A drip from the ceiling splatters onto his forehead.
“His eyes… They open,” is heard in broken English.
A fuzzy recollection of the previous night arises.
A fight with burglars in the hotel room upstairs.
A knife flashed and bodies fell.
Another drip, blood… But whose, and why the handcuffs?
John B Sinclair is a much-travelled Scot who has now returned to Scotland, where he enjoys freelance writing on a variety of subjects.
Golden tresses swayed in an ocean breeze. Bright green eyes glowed beneath a red bandana.
Waves crashed against the rocks below the cliffs with the thunder of memory. My fingertips brushed the faded colors.
The wind whipped the photograph from my hand. One step and the ocean swallowed my pain.
Suzi Harris is a retired technical writer working on her first novel with the support of her crazy Canadian husband and two psychotic cats.