When I am an old woman, I will be a milkweed seed pod drying in the sun, wrinkled and spotted.
You will pull me open on the seam until my silver-white floss pushes through, and you’ll blow my sweet, tender seed to the wind until I am an empty shell.
Laura J. Frantz is not yet an old woman. See more at laurafrantz.com.
We swim in a sea of words. That’s what language is. We swim at the surface, and in the depths. Ocean bed and water’s surface constrain us. But there are no islands: we must swim somewhere, always. It’s a wonder we don’t drown.
Still, not a bad way to go…
Peter Li-ping knows a lot of words but not always what to do with them.
Wilson is always left behind at the end.
Alone in the theater, he is waist deep in velvet chairs, all patrons discharged into the aortic pumping of a New York City evening.
Solitude.
The last systole of music ascends to the rafters and all conversation absorbs into the carpeted floor.
Molly Hill lives, writes, and runs a lot of trail miles in her home state of Minnesota, even in the winter.
Back at the prison, they are devouring their tasty dinner and cuddling on soft bedding, but I prefer eating from trash and sleeping in sewers.
Hairless skin and an ID ear tag make me look like a lab rat. But I’m not. Not anymore.
Now I am a free rat.
Olga Klezovitch is a scientist who lives in Seattle. Her previous work has appeared in 50-Word Stories, Necon E-Books, and A Story In 100 Words.
Jason flew across the pavement like a dancer, spiraling upward, around and around.
We got dizzy watching him. Then we started spinning hand-in-hand like a double helix in toe shoes.
Laughing, we all three gave into the wind as it lifted us skyward toward the soft allure of the clouds.
A scientist by trade and writer by nature, Laura searches for fiction that is truer than life, conjuring up stories that both draw and promise relief from years spent in a fact-filled, SciTech world.
A middle aged man climbed atop a stool and screamed, “This is my world, get used to it!”
Everyone stood around petrified. A small child walked over to the man standing on the stool. The boy pushed the man off.
“This is our world,” the boy said standing over him.
Brock Burns is a college dropout, who does freelance writing. Recently he has started writing stories for fun.
Grief is a cowgirl. She is beautiful. She rides me, pulling on the bridle, telling me when to kneel and weep. Her long fingers guide tears down my cheeks.
She was here all last month; she’s with me today. I’m afraid to ask how much longer she’s going to stay.
Dan Campbell wrote this story.
Melting; last of snow.
My flowerbeds spring into blossoms of ivory, rose, lemony yellow. When they fade, the blues of forget-me-nots. Stems I planted. From a bouquet you gave me.
See them rise under the warming sun, early rains of spring. I long to see you.
You have forgotten me.
Krystyna writes poetry, flash fiction, and short stories, and has been published both online and in print. She lives in Edmonton, Canada. Krystyna loves to travel the world and share her experiences through writing.
There was a collision at the intersection by our house, before you left. Your hands were above your head, making out the shape of a car.
“I could see the man as he split in two,” you said. “He was air and atoms and you and I were still alone.”
Ages ago, Gary Emmette Chandler attended college for Creative Writing. Now, he spends his spare time drinking too much, writing about failure, and generally trying to outpace a landslide of student loans. You can follow his hungover ramblings on Twitter, @TheWearyLuddite. Or not. That’s okay too.
Trekking through the snow, she makes her way down silent streets toward morning meditation. As her foot breaks through the ice into a puddle of slush, she’s reminded that there’s no such thing as solid ground, only the unforeseen opportunity to peel off her socks and practice in bare feet.
Kalyanii is a counselor and meditation instructor who enjoys wiling away her freetime manifesting her culinary inspirations and reveling amid the magnificence of nature.