They take so many photos. Hold it up, down, wave it about! Nancy! Over here! Smile! A purple balloon, shiny as a sixpence, more beautiful than she has ever seen. She holds tight onto its string and the decades float away. She is six. She is happy. There is cake.
Marie writes poetry and flash fiction and plays with writing prompts on Twitter at @jamsaucer.
When he cannot sleep, he counts the cats chasing invisible grasshoppers across the ceiling. Some nights, one might pause, beryl eyes luminous, and leap down onto his bed. Tonight, a fine-boned grey, soft and silent as fog, lands lightly, curls against his hip. As Emily had for so many years.
Mary Rohrer-Dann writes narrative poetry and flash fiction and publishes in a variety of venues.
Every shelf, every drawer, every closet packed with precious trinkets and antique books and 50-year-old rulers, knitting needles, lace.
I find my father’s WW II dog tags, my mother’s middle school history notes. A box of radio tubes from before transistor radios.
Dense layers of things separating them from death.
Jennifer L Freed writes mostly poems, and sometimes very short stories. Find her at @jenniferfreed20 or jfreed.weebly.com.
It took three large men to move the piano. I never played; those ivory rectangles were the last thing you touched.
When the legs finally cleared the doorway, while the lid clanged onto that moving truck, a square of light poured from the window, pale snowflakes trilling above like possibility.
Jess Costello is a graduate student and writer based in Massachusetts. Her writing has appeared at Boston Hassle, Boston Accent, and The Blue Mountain Review. She is currently at work on another novel and drinking too much tea.
Before the last shovelful. Before the words spoken in the rain by the mound. Before the whispering ventilator. Before the cough that stole the taste of food from his tongue. Before the state of everything changed.
Long before. My father hugged me after a scraped knee. A minor comfort… everlasting.
Jonathan enjoys playing out of tune solos on his daughter’s ukulele while she demands he stop. He enjoys writing very short fiction and very long fiction. At this point in his life, he is beginning to suspect a thief is at work stealing his hair while he sleeps.
This bit is my favorite. Over the gate and up the side of the ridge to the top.
The wind hits my chest. I stagger and adjust my feet, surprised as always.
You used to say you were truly alive up here, and I’ll forever wish that was still true.
Ben lives in Dallas where he is viewed with tolerant amusement by his wife and two small boys. He wishes it was still Christmas.
Seen on the running trail: tall, beefy (beloved you, at the end, emaciated). Black hair under cap (you, at the end, bald). Muscular legs (you, at the end, wheelchair-bound). Blue eyes (you, at the end, blind). Trim beard (you, at the end, blotches). Gentle breathing (you, at the end, gasping).
Over 45 years, Paul Lamar’s poems and stories have appeared in The Southern Review, Prairie Schooner, Steam Ticket, Bryant Literary Review, etc.
I remember it well. Me and Neil and Buzz, loping along, kicking up moon dust like cowboys home, home on the range. Only we had no horses and we wore space helmets, not stetsons.
So many times I’ve watched that footage. Yet it’s always a surprise: I’m never in shot.
Thomas Malloch is a retired doctor from Scotland. Always a reader, he thought he might try his hand at writing. He completed a Masters in Creative Writing (Distinction) at theOpen University in 2018. His work has appeared in the barcelona review, Bath Flash Fiction, Reflex Fiction, and Gutter.
Thinking of you is like sipping my second cup of coffee of the day: not a yearning rush, just savoring the dreamy warmth and bittersweetness. My eyes will still moisten suddenly, fogged in the aroma of the past, when my fingers run across your old ring laced with green patina.
Lorna Ye writes flash fiction and poetry. She enjoys listening to soft jazz and trying new recipes.
A wide beam of sunlight slashed into the room. The window wasn’t where it should be and the doorway had been moved, and every piece of furniture had been transformed by age or substituted with an antique. Nothing was recognizable. Dust floated in the light. He breathed in the smell.
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.