“Guess what?” Alice’s eyes sparkled. “I told Dad what I really think of him. No more holding back. And you’re right, I feel so much better.”
“Well done.” Her husband relaxed. “You going back next week?”
“Yeah.” She rubbed her scarred wrist. “My turn to put flowers on his grave.”
M.H. Thaung can’t decide between writing tiny stories or speculative fiction novels, so she has a go at both. Find out more at: mhthaung.com.
She walked the labyrinth slowly, absorbing the imagery of both the circle and the spiral. She was careful at the turns, at this turning point in her life.
Something loosened inside; then the tears came.
This meandering yet purposeful path spoke both of safety and the dawn of new openness.
Ellen Hansen is a writer and fiddle player living in Helvetia, Oregon. She recently retired from leading international tours.
A house now unencumbered by timepieces, but still, their chimes remain, haunting its hollow margins. My father, the timekeeper, has departed for somewhere where the past, present and future are as one.
Choices are now mine, so with mornings free from alarm, I roll over and go back to sleep.
Steven Lemprière, having once been punched by a time clock, would not be horology’s greatest fan and feels too many of his waking hours are spent in the fruitless pursuit of trying to find the time. Having gone cuckoo, he has decided to clock off and focus on a blank sheet of A4 where time is at his beck and call.
Cool grasses cradle my back. Fireflies flicker. I inhale the sweet, damp air, at peace for the first time in five years, three months, and nineteen days.
I could lay here beneath the black sky for eternity. Instead, I rise and kiss my husband’s tombstone before slipping into the shadows.
Mandie Hines writes in the Rocky Mountain region. She’s driven to create pieces of fiction that capture moments of human vulnerability. Visit mandiehines.com for more.
Sunday afternoons are the worst.
The stillness brings flashbacks of the tv dinner / hard eyes / swirling cig smoke combo. Suffocation.
I keep rolling. Stepping through the trees. Logging miles on the decades between me and that.
When I finish it’s dark and heading into Monday. I’m still here; escaped again.
Petra lives, works, and writes in the Philadelphia area. She is in the process of publishing her first book. Her days are spent selling Real Estate, planning jaw-dropping travel itineraries, and awaiting the birth of her first grandchild. She has (and always will have) a little white dog. The current one is named Bindi.