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.
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.
“Thanks for the story, Mummy,” Sally said, snuggling down into her blankets.
“Glad you liked it, sweetie. Sleep tight.”
“Night, Daddy!” Sally called.
“Don’t you want a story?” he called back.
“Mummy read it already.”
Still wearing his black suit from the funeral, he came in and stared at her.
Mark Farley is currently writing a fifty-word bio and needs only thirty-two more words after this sentence. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in Saturday Night Reader magazine, Flash: The International Short-Short Story Magazine, and of course the wonderful fiftywordstories.com. He blogs his rambling creative writing attempts at mumbletoes.blogspot.co.uk.
The house beside the vineyard sleeps.
And I am the child who tries so hard to remember her dreams,
becoming an adult who wakes up with the taste of grapes in her mouth.
There was a river, I murmur to the empty pillow,
missing the boy who flowed within it.
Magdalena is a graduate of the University of Toronto. She is a writer who lives to poet. She also likes to colour and poet. Sometimes she sleeps. Poke around her blog
After admiring the specimen, I forced a pin through its middle, then delicately bent back the wings. I used tweezers to gently manipulate each wing flat, because butterflies get pretty brittle after they’re dead.
My granddaughter was noticeably unimpressed. Her scream remains, pinned to my heart, framed in my brain.
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”. Visit BobThurber.net
His soft-spoken words made my mind reel with joy. Our phone calls lasted for hours and I couldn’t get off the line without telling him, “I love you.”
I constantly would post memes that were about him, ones only we could understand.
All I have now are voice messages.
Brittany has a dog named Blacky that constantly distracts her from her writing. She loves to write and listen to The Weeknd.
Mom said she married him because he had a mustache like Tom Selleck.
When I was younger, I had to explain to adults the blemishes on my cheeks were borne out of affection.
Now I stand at his service accepting whiskered condolences, future marks from strangers no one will question.
Rob Parrish grew up near the Mississippi River in western Illinois. He is an MA student at Mount Mary University with an emphasis in creative writing. He lives in Milwaukee, Wisconsin with his dog, Coltrane.
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.