He was the only boy I ever loved.
We sat side-by-side on the beach, stealing kisses and pointing out funny-shaped clouds. His laugh was soft as sea foam, his hair as light as sand.
“Looking into your eyes is like searching for treasure,” he said.
Seems he never found it.
Guy found his treasure at the seaside. This is his twenty-third 50-word story.
Frigid weather was not a factor when we were young. We welcomed the challenge. It was raw, but so were we. The jostle of crowded streets and hiss of the library’s radiators frustrated the arctic air during Christmas season in the big city.
The bundles of memory warm us now.
Eddie Roth writes from St. Louis.
My earliest memory of using scissors was to mail in a coupon for a baking soda-powered submarine. The dotted lines looked easy, but it took me half the day. I clipped and clipped until each edge hugged the dots perfectly.
Now that I think of it, my psychiatrist is right.
Ronald Guell wrote this story.
Gentrification marched its silent footsteps to the oak door of Moore’s Tavern.
Old Man Henry smiled and licked his wrinkled lips. If he couldn’t have it, nobody could. He grabbed the gasoline and lighter.
The starry night seemed brighter to him that night.
The stone chimney was all that remained.
Anthony works with numbers by day, and words by night! Happily married in the heart of Kentucky.
They destroyed the house I grew up in just to build another gas station. Now there’s asphalt where I used to play in the yard; racks of candy where I used to read comics; a row of Coke machines where he used to hit her.
I like the new look.
Michael is a part-time lawyer and a full-time dad.
He recognized it immediately by the drip of paint hidden behind the wheel of the 1940 red and yellow workhorse, the long gone first tractor of his boyhood.
Half a century and a handshake later, it was his again. How proud his father would’ve been to see it come home.
Judy McKinnon lives in Toronto, Ontario with her husband and two sons, whose talents and creativity constantly inspire her. She has worked in business journalism for nearly 20 years.
What ever happened
To that little boy blue?
He grew up under the sun,
He could fly a kite high,
Skin his knees,
Feel the green grass.
A cool breeze,
Under the trees,
Under the stars.
Yes you, that’s the one.
What’s become of you
Little boy blue?
Patrick loves to climb trees and fly kites.
“Growing up I always had a bunk bed,” Frank said aloud. “Come to think of it, we had bunks at summer camp, too. Just the sight of them brings me back to happier times.” A big nostalgic grin bloomed across Fred’s face.
“All right, convicts. Lights out!” shouted the guard.
Craig writes in his free time for free. He’d listen to offers to change this.
They gathered around the stump, some eyes wet, some eyes hard.
“This tree,” said the eldest, “meant many different things to each of us. We all have reason to mourn it.”
There were some sniffles.
“Now,” said the eldest, “auction’s open! Who wants to bring this hunk o’ wood home?”
This story was based on the prompt “the stump” at TypeTrigger.