“How much?” the hairdresser asked. Delilah remembered how Sam would run his fingers through her hair. Never cut it, he’d say.
When it was done, Delilah smiled at how strong she looked. As she walked outside, cool air caressed her nape. The world breathed as if for the first time.
Kristen VanBlargan lives in Queens, New York. Her fiction has appeared in Timeless Tales, and she blogs at kristenvanb.wordpress.com.
The girl said, “Ghosts of my memories haunt me.” Perhaps she hadn’t buried them well. They kept feeding on her beautiful mind.
The boy said, “Those are lovely memories.” Perhaps he didn’t remember them forever. They faded away.
The girl was confined to an asylum.
The boy lived happily on.
Paramita Ghosh is an ordinary lady who sometimes tries to write stories.
We’d spent a rare afternoon rummaging among leaves to find them, so it pained me to see my daughter throw the conkers from her window.
“Don’t you want them?” I asked.
“I want to let them grow,” she said. “When you love things, sometimes it’s best to leave them behind.”
Guy has no notable literary accolades, but once beat a retired Indonesian pirate at chess. This is his fifth 50-word story.
The picture on my timeline shows a victorious twenty-something in a designer wedding dress, studiously ignoring the besotted groom beside her.
I thought I had healed the wound carved by boyfriend-snatching ex-friends and wayward lovers months ago.
But Facebook is filled with daggers and I have no armor against them.
Monica Perez Nevarez is a sustainability professional by day and a writer by night.
My mother speeds down the dirt path. I watch out the back window as the bright orange fire flickers against the smoke, fading into the distance.
My mother sighs heavily. I know she is thinking what I am thinking: we feel relief.
Our past has finally gone up in flames.
Brooke Lund is a grade 11 student at Charlottetown Rural High school. She submitted this as part of her creative writing course.
While she watched her clock
tick past the stroke of
midnight and her fearful cat
run under her foot,
she knew she had another
year to find true love
and start anew as
she paused to hear the
song of cheers of the
new year ring throughout
her tiny town.
Nikki Carr lives and writes in California but New York was where she was exposed to poetry which ultimately helped influence her life and writing style. Nikki’s work was recently published by Prolific Press andEmerge Literary Journal. Nikki’s work shows a true passion for nature, mankind, and everyday experiences.
I haven’t cleaned (or done much of anything) since you left, and now I only have dust clouds to keep me company in my silent apartment.
I resolve to vacuum, knowing I can treat myself to a peek at your picture (which I’ll destroy, I swear!) in the storage closet.
Sheela Kamath is a copy editor based in the San Francisco Bay Area. When she’s not writing, she’s adding books — from literary fiction to sci-fi and fantasy — to her Goodreads list and playing with her dog Starbuck (named for “Battlestar Galactica,” naturally). You can follow her on Twitter @skamath3
“I don’t love you enough.” How can enough be measured?
Five short words have changed months of planning for a shared future. We are no longer we.
But ‘I am’ succeeds ‘we are’, as determination succeeds incomprehension. My eyes are dry.
The future is all mine. He cannot change that.
A little over a year ago Debb Bouch entered a short story into a Needle in the Hay contest. Regular contests since have provided encouragement and challenge. And writing is all about challenge.
I hibernated through January.
Not one for excursions in the first place, I preferred not to move about at all except to keep my daily appointments in front of the TV.
I’m indifferent to the counsel of others who say, “Get over it.” I’m too busy being lonely without you.
Recently retired, Marian Brooks has begun to write some short fiction. Her work has appeared in Word Riot, The Linnet’s Wings, The Story Shack, Bleed Anthology and others.
Loneliness had been an epidemic that left all of my body boarded up. You were supposed to be the cure.
But I’m still feeling sick. I hope you can forgive me; I am going to eat this whole sandwich alone.
Because I am hungry, and because you are not real.
Couri Johnson is a graduate student of the NEOMFA, focusing on fiction. She is currently the president of YSU’s Student Literary Arts Association, and editor of the Jenny.