My mother keeps secretly replacing my little sister’s dead goldfish.
My newly adopted sister keeps randomly telling strangers at the store, “My mommy died!” and “I’m going to the beach!” My mother–our mother–nods, tired.
Two things can be true: There is a dead goldfish. There is a replacement.
Rachel Hapanowicz is currently a teacher in Cincinnati public schools where she is an expert at making cool lingo very uncool to her students, being from Ohio, and finding the best karaoke spots in town.
After a rush to exfoliate and color away years of children and scour closets for outfits inappropriate for soccer practice, they crash into a Vegas hotel room, where, in a flash of giddy consensus, they dump their over-stuffed bags and non-sensible shoes, order room service, draw blackout curtains, and sleep.
Robin LaVoie is presently sweating in the suburbs of Phoenix, Arizona. She writes personal essay and creative nonfiction on her Substack publication, It’s Like This, and her work has appeared in print and online, including Monday Coffee and Other Stories of Mothering Children with Special Needs (Inwords Press, 2013), Pentimento Magazine, BarBar, and NonBinary Review.
“Go on,” chirped Mama. “You are ready to fly.”
“Who’s my brave fledgling?” she cooed, as he jumped.
“Try again,” she squawked, when he tumbled and thrashed.
“That’s it!” she trilled as he glided.
The chick caught the wind and soared out of sight.
Softly, Mama cooed, “Please come back.”
Joanna Alexandra Norland is a UK-based playwright and writing coach. She is a soon to be empty nester incubating dozens of writing projects.
She smashes things, my daughter. Her toy easel, recently. My electric mixer. The frame for our apartment’s only photo of her father.
She can’t help it.
However angry, I hug her each night, kiss her little forehead, and tell her to sleep. I pray that there, she might find peace.
Timbray loves birds and carousels. He is the author of Spare Mattress and The Rens series, and work found in ARCH and Every Day Fiction.
Tom was a very badly behaved lad. Dick was frankly a demon. Their parents were careful to keep quiet when they were in the cradle.
Harry’s parents were forever playing their Rod Stewart records. He was a very well-balanced child.
Perhaps if you spare the Rod you spoil the child.
Derek McMillan is a writer in Durringon in the UK. His editor is his wife, Angela. He has written for print and online publications in the UK, USA and Canada. His latest book is the audio-book Brevity which is available on eBay. Check it out.
Papa truly surprised me, said it all in his native Sicilian. Never once flinched or flushed.
“Egg waits, many sperm swim madly, battle for a single triumph. Ignition. Growth. Our beautiful Stella arrives.”
My papa, a poet. You would think such intimate conversation would have been with ma. Not so.
Deborah lives and writes in northwestern Montana. She is busy creating very short pieces in between assembling scenes for a forthcoming short story.
Her eyes downcast, fingers probing her phone for the latest news, texts, social.
She doesn’t hear me whisper, Put it away for sixteen years.
The child, already wiggling to escape his stroller, will soon be driving off to college, and that will be the most unanticipated announcement of her life.
Annette Gulati writes from Seattle, WA. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Five Minute Lit, Nunum, The Oregonian, Sasee, and elsewhere.
Like the others,
You were born in Spring.
My finest down lines your nest.
I caught every meal you’ve ever eaten.
Your body is lean.
Your wings, straight.
Spread them, little bird. Fly!
Sharp-toothed nightmares lurk below, but-
Don’t give up.
I won’t.
Even though you’re not
like the others.
Anthea lives in sunny Queensland, Australia. She’s always writing, even if it’s just in her head. Find her online at @WriterAnthea
We proclaim that we would do anything for our children. But would we? We’d give our lives, our health, all earthly possessions, take on their pain, maybe even their debt. But would we give our souls? Take on their responsibilities? Steal? Cheat? Lie? Murder? Most of you will never know.
Eileen uses retirement years to think and write about some of life’s perplexing questions.
Curled up on his lap, she’d tell stories about cities lit by fireflies and flying to the moon on pancakes.
He watched the sparkles in her eyes fade away in deep melancholy, her defiance repelling him. He wants his daughter back, but the teen in her has a firmer grip.
Chidi lives in Jos, Plateau State, Nigeria. He’s a teacher and a photographer who loves reading and writing short stories.