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.
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