Two rockers in the corners. One’s been empty for years.
Pictures line the walls, smiling faces from younger days. The kitchen echos memories. Remember when? Can you still smell those biscuits?
Clocks tick like my heart beats. Tick, tick, tick.
He’s moving out, but a part of me will stay.
Amanda is a writer and dreamer by day and a mother of four by night (when will they sleep?).
“It’s good to see you.”
“I hoped we could talk.”
Wished we didn’t have to.
“It’s been too long.”
Not long enough.
Leaning against the air-hockey table, shoes white against the slushy stain, she replies:
“It’s been two days, Tyler. And I only came to get my backpack.”
Kerry teaches English with the comfortable assuredness that he is almost often not wrong about it.
She told me that the cruelest part of it all, after it was over and she was finally allowed to leave the hospital and come home again, was that they had taken the crib away without even telling her.
They pretended like it had never been there to begin with.
Dave Novak works in a fairly serious office that sends him to strange and mysterious places throughout New Jersey. Whenever he feels like being more or less serious, he writes. You can check out his works and thoughts at dumbstupidfakestories.wordpress.com
Well heck I finally deleted you
from my phone,
from my conscious mind
and then you had the nerve to show up in a dream,
all friendly and conciliatory.
I leaned against your shoulder, into the feel of you.
Sure, we can be friends
Sweet (did you whisper back?)
Robin Lubatkin does circle time with the very young and what she calls “songhealing” with the very old.
Others have forgotten, but I’ll always remember the good times – the tire swing, the treehouse.
I rub my hand over initials carved in its bark. They mark the spot of our first kiss, and the wedding that followed years later.
It pains me to remember, but my axe shows indifference.
Pontius Paiva got 99 problems, but a birch ain’t one. You can root through his collection of short stories and other written works at pontiuspaiva.com
She listened to her phone message.
The familiar voice, “Please listen. I am so sorry. It won’t happen again. Just one more chance. You mean everything to me. It was thoughtless and stupid. I humiliated you.”
She reached for the phone to call him. Hesitated.
Instead, she deleted the message.
Rosanne Trost, RN MPH, is a retired registered nurse. She lives in Houston, Texas. She spent most of her career in oncology nursing research. Since retirement, she has realized her passion for creative writing.
I think about his freckles sometimes.
One under his eye, two on his cheek, and twenty-six on the bridge of his nose. I get hung up on the three on his lips. They were my freckles. I claimed them every day.
They’re still there. But they have a new owner.
Carly Huss lives with her boyfriend and dog in Lewisville, Texas.
A busy intersection; pouring rain. She must make a choice.
One direction offers comfort, everything she’s ever known. The other promises pain and more than a little adventure.
She steps off of the sidewalk, passing by her battered, bloody shoe, taking a turn away from the world and into eternity.
A. Elizabeth Herting is an aspiring freelance writer and busy mother of three living in colorful Colorado. She has had short stories featured in Bewildering Stories, Peacock Journal, Dark Fire Fiction, Friday Fiction, Under the Bed, and Fictive Dream. She has also published non-fiction work in Denver Pieces Magazine and bioStories. More info is available on her website and Facebook page.
“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.