You opened my heart; you saw inside me; you understood what I needed.
You were the one that awoke me to a brand new day and helped me live again.
Without you I wouldn’t be here, I couldn’t be here. You are my one and only saviour.
My heart surgeon.
Connell was inspired to write this story by his father-in-law’s successful heart valve operation, which was originally misdiagnosed in another hospital. See more of his literary mishaps at paragraphplanet and home.wtd-magazine.com.
The walls were white.
Poor Sophie was alone in this room, aside from a gargantuan bookshelf filled with thousands of individually shrink-wrapped books. She never opened them, in fear of ruining the plastic. She never dared to even touch the white walls, lest she chip or smudge them.
Until today.
Ariana Abad is an aspiring cultural anthropologist and loves to write during whatever free time she can find. She collects definitions of Love and is a bike-enthusiast, a daydreamer, and a wish-maker.
Rain and wicked wind pelted me, inverted my umbrella into a baptismal basin. Not once but three times.
The accumulated water spilled out each time with the weight of my sins. Metal ribbing could not be reshaped and the umbrella had to be thrown out.
I wasn’t blessed that day.
Krystyna Fedosejevs writes poetry and short stories. She has had several of her poems published, and has recently had flash fiction published online at Flash Fiction World.
A lonely ache lives in your chest, shoving things out of the way to make room. It’s hard to breathe now. It grows. Gains teeth.
Soon, it begins to gnaw away at your heart. It is fortunate it chose that, for it is the thing you will miss the least.
Anna Piaia is a lover of both words and history. She lives in Philadelphia, where both are plentiful. You can see her ramblings at annadelphia.com.
I face a conundrum. It’s that old saying about taking life’s travails and making lemonade. Why? Lemons are bitter. Add water and sugar – the result is still bitter. So there you are alone with your problems trying to make something.
My solution: go out for ice cream. You’ll feel better.
Eileen McIntyre is a writer from Northern California working on her first mainstream fiction novel. One of her essays will be published in an anthology by the end of the year.
I sit high up a tree. Below, branches crackle and woodland creatures
crash frantically through the forest.
Love like a forest fire.
I calmly clutch my tinderbox though the flames have reached
my tree’s roots.
Because once you’d said you’d leap through fire for me.
So, little grasshopper. I’m waiting.
Lisa Falzon has been writing 50-word stories for over ten years now. Her website is micro-fiction.blogspot.ie.
Feeling down, he decided to go fishing. It wasn’t long before he caught a decent sized fish.
He looked down as it was dying and trying to take breaths, as if underwater.
He picked it up and threw it back. “No reason your fate should be as terrible as mine.”
Connell Wayne Regner had successfully avoided writing creatively since he wrote spontaneous lyrics to music many years ago. Although from a linguistic background, he has serendipitously succumbed to fiction after spontaneously creating bedtime stories for his children. His other dabblings can be found at paragraphplanet and wtdmagazine.wordpress.com.
He thought, This is it. I’m finally going up there, where all the great ones went before me. The vast, unexplored frontier that most only dream about was his.
“One more minute,” they said. His heart counted down the final seconds.
Then the doctor pulled the plug.
This is it.
Taylor Bryant is a 4th year student at Southeast Missouri State University. He is currently studying music composition, though he writes short stories in his free time.
I found your words, steeped in bourbon, as you were when you first uttered them.
I found them strewn gracelessly near the heart you tore from my being.
Sprawled on your throne, you look surprised to see me as I offer them to you on a platter.
“Your dinner, m’lord.”
Deepa is a full-time writer in India who occasionally gets to write for herself.
One never really knows when the urge to create will strike, only that when it does it is to be seized and held for as long as it may last.
So I put down the blood-slicked knife, ignoring the groaning, flayed mess before me, and waited for it to return.
Alan is an engineering student who doesn’t think he can write but likes to do so anyway.