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.
My pillow greets me
My soft slumber
Recalls romantic memories
My soul whispers…
She finds my pillow
Entangles my dreams
We land eyes
walk within a summer’s breeze
Our hearts embrace
A moment held
Melt our reality
Will grace the earth
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.
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