“I want to see it.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
She frowned at the sticky red placenta in the blue plastic pan.
Could the newborn see it? He eyed the afterbirth and sighed a breath of apathy towards his now-lifeless life-support.
She couldn’t know he’d eventually feel the same about her.
Liz Lambson is a Jane of all trades who might write you a song about painting with cross-stitched sheet music propped on a hand-carved wooden stand. She does things like this when she’s not watching her kids.
Mom said she married him because he had a mustache like Tom Selleck.
When I was younger, I had to explain to adults the blemishes on my cheeks were borne out of affection.
Now I stand at his service accepting whiskered condolences, future marks from strangers no one will question.
Rob Parrish grew up near the Mississippi River in western Illinois. He is an MA student at Mount Mary University with an emphasis in creative writing. He lives in Milwaukee, Wisconsin with his dog, Coltrane.
Do you want a girl this time? they all asked when the fourth grandchild was on the way.
It really doesn’t matter, and we know what to do with boys.
When she was born after a long labour, it was just relief.
But when we met, I was bowled over.
Ann Sangwin is a retired teacher, now a career grandmother. She has written all her life but until recently has not thought of submitting for publication. She lives in Kent, where she recently joined a writing group which has changed her life.
Dad, how many times have I let you down? The question goes unasked as I stand near you. No need for an answer. I know you’ve forgiven me.
Today, I bury the past. I’ve let you down for the last time.
I thank the funeral director for letting me help.
Crystal Moore doesn’t like to reveal much about herself, which is why she won’t be found working the pole at a strip club. However, she can be found dividing her time between the realm of her imagination and North Carolina’s Coastal Plain region. Her publication credits include humorous greeting card copy, children’s short stories, and flash fiction.
It must have been hard on you, Mother, when I grew
long and lanky and all legs, my waist no longer waif-like.
Gone was your living doll to dress and display, your frilly
designs now silly on gangly me. Such a cruel trick
my thickening, adolescent body played on you.
Deanna Morris is an MFA graduate of Butler University with multiple publishing credits.
An astronaut floats in a universe of untouchable splendor
as blue green auroras dance and flicker.
Pinwheels of clouds turn slowly
above an uncommon earth,
where fall leaves surrender gently to laws of gravity
and tides roll with thunder.
Thrusters to return still won’t fire.
Her son turns six tomorrow.
MJ is an aviator, author, and speaker on ways risk and fear can work to our advantage to dream and explore. She is preparing for suborbital space flight.
September raged outside, violent bursts of russet and gold. Her tiny hand made a fist around my finger. “We’re in this together,” she said without words.
Different hospital. Different decade. The ache is deep and I am sinking. Papery fingers entwined. “We’re in this together,” she says without words.
Always.
Alison has been writing since she was old enough to hold a pen. Her first story was a horrible island romance scribbled at the tender age of eight. She has recently been featured in Firewords Quarterly and Journeyman Magazine and hopes to one day remain seated long enough to produce a novel.
James opened the cabin door and let it slam behind him.
“What’s the matter, dear?”
“People need to leave their kids at home when they go on a cruise. Swimming in the pool was impossible!”
“You better learn more patience with children; we’ll have two little ones in six months…”
Aubrey is an idealist with a fondness for writing, and all things culture. She sporadically has vivid dreams about her unpublished books being on the New York Times best sellers list.
She literally stood on her head trying to impress Dad enough for one sincere compliment.
But he just smiled and said she was “gym-nasty,” so she jumped off the balance beam and tackled him and they both laughed, and he still didn’t seem to understand why she practiced so hard.
“Ooh, it says it’s recommended by four-of-five early childhood educators!” said the young mother, hefting a brightly decorated box. “Two for the kids, then?”
“Why?” grunted her husband, eyeing the Squeezy Huggables Parental Affection Replacement Device suspiciously.
“Between this and a nanny, we wouldn’t have to touch them at all!”