Awaken despairing eyes
A new day dawns
Tragedy betrays beauty
In unbelievable dimensions
Lines are drawn
And heroes fall
Life goes on
But never as before.
The nights are long
Emotions run high
Love is born
And love dies
But we go on
Waiting for the day
Connell still writes a bit.
“Grandad,” I said one evening, sat across from him in front of the fire. “Could you tell us a war story?”
“No,” he replied without a moment’s thought. He then turned away from me and stared into the flames, looking for something like an answer, or maybe for a face.
Harris Coverley has fiction published or forthcoming in Curiosities, Planet Scumm, and The J.J. Outre Review. He is also a Rhysling-nominated poet, with verse in Star*Line, New Reader Magazine, Better Than Starbucks, and many others.
My grandmother’s china—
the set I used to save
for holidays: fine
rims of gold, delicate
patterns of green—I use it
don’t worry about chips, don’t
delay its offerings.
These days I need
porcelain teacups, warm
against my palms. My brother
the fine china.
Jennifer L Freed mostly writes poems, which have appeared in various journals and anthologies. See more on her website, jfreed.weebly.com.
Bobbing – I think of apples. Ups and downs.
Behaviour – Mine, yours – neither commendable.
Bitter – Adjective. I am ___. You made me ___.
Brazen – Wasn’t she?
Bayonet – Wounding instrument. Cold steel engulfing flesh.
Baby – Would you have left if it had happened? (See Barren)
Boomerang – I won’t go back.
Bruised – Imperfect, fragile, healing.
Jo Withers writes short fiction from her home in South Australia. Recent work appears in Ellipsis Zine, Milk Candy Review and Reflex Fiction. Jo’s work was also recently chosen for inclusion in Best Microfiction 2020.
The young father presses his hands flat against the window. Although the mask covers half his face, the baby knows him. New game. Laughing, she reaches for the father’s hands, cool glass between them.
She lifts her arms, “Up.” Old game.
The father’s learned the new rules: he turns away.
Miriam N. Kotzin teaches creative writing and literature at Drexel University. Her collection of short fiction, Country Music (Spuyten Duyvil Press 2017), joins a novel, The Real Deal (Brick House Press 2012), and a collection of flash fiction, Just Desserts (Star Cloud Press 2010). She is the author of five collections of poetry, most recently Debris Field (David Robert Books 2017).
I was six when my father left. I remember his hands, large and coarse, letting go of mine to hurl a battered suitcase into his rusting, coughing car.
Now his hands seem small and frail, shaking with fear for his next long journey.
I cannot bring myself to clasp them.
Charlie Swailes writes short and very short stories when not teaching English or looking after her two small boys.
I know this may be a shock, coming from me. But I regret it.
No, not loving you. LORD knows, that’s the best thing I’ll ever do.
The mistake was letting you fall for me—when I knew you’d be the only one to live with the consequences.
V. C. Slade is a writer and amateur adult in California. She can be found at vcslade.com.
To be sitting all alone,
collapsing in on myself,
and teasing at
a candle’s pale flame,
watching it tenderly
lick away the whorl
of my fingerprint.
left behind is
pink and raised
not a burn,
but something softer.
exploding stars know less pain.
Tina Privitera-Reynolds is a young, emerging writer, so be patient. She has had poems published on SpillWords with more publications upcoming. As a beginner in the daunting world of online publication, she is happy to receive any feedback (especially criticism) and helpful tips and tricks. Her biggest goal is to improve.
In a tree
And scrape a knee
To find myself bleeding
All over the place
But somehow the next amazing day
It heals completely
I look back at the big deal I made
Wishing that mistakes could go away
Like the one I made
Just the other day
Lillian, an 11-year-old-kid, really wishes that life could be perfect where no one made any mistakes.
My grandfather was odd, shell-shocked. I loved sitting on his knee, sniffing and staring as he managed to chew mints and puff a pipe in the same breath. He never spoke of the “Great War” but I wear a Poppy in honour because it is easier than remembering my son.
Dedicated to education and being a father, E. F. S. Byrne has finally found more time to devote to his writing and is currently working on everything from very short flash stories to full-length novels. Samples and links to over thirty published stories can be read at efsbyrne.wordpress.com or follow him on Twitter at @efsbyrne