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
I filled sacks with too-snug jeans and sweaters; my closet was finally getting uncluttered.
A fellow donor at the charity shop drivethrough extracted a train set and scooter from her van. I helped her with a dirt bike.
“They grow up so fast,” I commented.
“Tommy had leukemia,” she replied.
tried retiring, but it didn’t work.
Years later, on a strong day, they retrieved the grey shoebox from the back of the closet and arranged the pictures on the living room rug. They smoothed and flattened curls, mended tears with tape. Then they sat silently, back-to-back, lost in memories of the child who never grew up.
Mark Farley writes novels, flash fiction and the occasional poem. See more at mumbletoes.blogspot.com
He smiled while his baby was tapping something on his phone. Children are nearly born with it…
He still tried to sustain her, though she moved perfectly herself. He couldn’t get over it.
“I’ve fixed the connection,” his daughter said. “Incidentally, I got a promotion, so I can move out.”
Ksenia is a beginning Russian journalist with a sense of proportion.
Floorboards creak as the man steals towards the sleeping girl.
Standing over her peaceful form, heart pounding against his ribs, he leans and sticks his hand under her pillow to replace the hand-stitched bag containing her incisor with a dollar. She stirs but does not wake.
“Goodnight, pumpkin,” he whispers.
Tasie E. George is a twenty-year old, as-of-yet unpublished writer, born, raised, and residing in Nigeria.
Emily knitted dreams into every row on the socks she made for her son Frank. Thoughts far away on palm-laced shores, she knitted and purled from toe to heel, ribbed a cuff of tropical sunsets.
Frank complained they made his feet itch.
He runs a bar in the Bahamas now.
Karla Dearsley’s stories, flash fiction, and poetry have appeared online and in print on both sides of the Atlantic. Her fantasy novels are available on Amazon and Smashwords. Find out more at ksdearsley.com
“It won’t reach us up here, love. We’ll be fine. We just need to wait for it to pass, and then everything will go back to normal. You’ll see.”
But the water level continued to rise, and Annabel realized, perhaps for the first time, that her mother was absolutely wrong.
Karen lives in South West London, England, quite near the River Thames, which floods fairly often.
“You can be whatever you want to be.” my father said.
“Then I want to be a writer, Dad,” I told him.
“But you told me I can be whatever I want to be.”
“Sorry. What I meant was you can be whatever doctor you want to be.”
Mary Kaye Valdez has been fond of written words since the second she found out she couldn’t get along with spoken ones. She also loves storytelling, but frankly, she’s just a liar who wants an excuse. Her work has previously been published in Down in the Dirt.
She has to have her cigarettes. Buys them with the baby food money. Buys a six-pack, too. She lights up; first drag is always the best. She drops it in the sand, crushes it. She chugs the beer, staggers, falls into the moonlit surf.
She gave the baby up today.
poetry, prose, and photographs have appeared in Melancholy Hyperbole
, When Women Waken
, and Blotterature
. She travels the scenic route between St. Pete, Florida and the Off Campus Writers Workshop (OCWW) in Winnetka, Illinois. When she’s not writing, she’s listening, picking up slices of life or shells on a beach.
In the shallows of the gently lapping waves, the girl, dress tucked in knickers, had played.
The sun, low in the sky, casts an orange glow.
Shops long closed. Curlews, in flight, send out their cry.
A mother comes out to call her daughter home.
There’s no one to hear.
Jean lives in Bath in the UK and loves reading 50-word stories. She has a go whenever she gets the time.